Claimed Page 2

  If it wasn’t for the dream, he could almost forget his wife had disappeared on a night like this, hot and sticky and so black it was as if a veil covered the sky. Could almost forget he’d slipped up and lost everything he cared about.

  With that mistake, he’d been damned. He’d lost all that mattered to him. He had committed the unforgivable sin of drawing innocent blood and mortgaged his very soul.

  Creed stepped out of the tub and dried himself in front of the door that still had the holes from a full-length mirror. He’d busted the mirror one night when the agony in his soul had been too much to bear and never bothered replacing it. He knew what he looked like.

  Broad-shouldered and muscular, he had the kind of build that made people wonder if he used to be a pro football player, and if they ought to know him. Scars that served as souvenirs of his many assignments decorated his flesh, paralleling the wounds on his soul. Just under his shoulder blade was the tattoo of his calling, the flaming sword and skull, hiding the chip that would send out a signal when he eventually got killed.

  He was almost dry when he heard his cell phone through the closed door. His first response was to ignore it. No one called him to chat about the weather or ask if he was busy on Saturday night. He’d deliberately narrowed his life to work and sleep, and if he could get away without the latter, he would.

  Work he needed. Working as a free agent for Guardian Protective Services was perfect. No one told a free agent what to do. They told them when and where, and backed off until the job was done.

  He strode naked across the small living room, grabbing the phone on the fourth ring with a terse “Yo.” After that he listened.

  “You know where to send the money,” he finally said. “Half now, half after.”

  Creed’s days as a husband and father might be over, thanks to his carelessness, but he believed in living up to his responsibility. The money would go to a lawyer and on to a trust fund for his family, one that continued to draw interest and remained unclaimed. Someday, maybe, his wife or daughter would be desperate enough to take it.

  Shaking away thoughts of everything but what lay ahead, he quickly dressed. Color coordination was easy. Every piece of clothing he owned was black. The wife-beater he wore beneath his body armor, the tee he pulled on over it, the commando pants that had a place for his knife, his gun and the blowgun with specially tipped darts.

  Once dressed, he yanked his weapons bag from under the bed and began a mental inventory. Some of its contents were standard fare. A half-dozen guns, knives with a variety of blades, military-issue grenades, pepper spray, Tasers.

  Then there was the stuff the agency provided. The special bullets for use on demons and goblins. The half-dozen vials of holy water, stakes for vampires, chemical sprays to subdue a variety of imps and other hell rats. He might not need any of it. He might need all of it. He leaned toward being over prepared when he was walking in blind.

  Creed closed the bag and lifted it from the bed, appreciating its heft. It should be enough.

  Shoving a few days’ worth of clothes into a canvas duffel, he grabbed his phone and took one last look around the place. Two years here, and it still felt as impersonal as a motel room.

  It was all he wanted. Or deserved.

  Chapter Two

  The pain began in Chiana’s bones and radiated outward. This, she imagined, was what radioactive poisoning felt like, the sensation of muscles melting while the nerves strung across them sang a macabre opera of agony. Gasping as a new wave soared through her, she pulled the Mustang off the road in a spew of gravel, braking from sixty to nothing in seconds. The car perched at a right angle to the highway, its front end nearly in the ditch, the rear end bare inches from the white line that marked the shoulder. Lost in agony, Chiana was oblivious to the rain that started as a mist twenty miles ago and the curtain of squalling wind and pounding rain limiting visibility to mere yards.

  If Wil had been going any faster, he could have missed her. As it was, he was nearly past the Mustang before he realized the poorly parked car looked like Chiana’s. He braked and made a U in the road, pulling up behind her. Only a few yards separated the vehicles, yet he was completely soaked by the time he reached the Mustang.

  His expensive loafers sinking in the muddy gravel, he yelled her name and pounded on the window.

  Chiana didn’t respond. Wil yanked on the door handle, bracing himself when she tipped out toward him. His heart sank at the lines of pain and fear etched in her face and the sobs escaping from her on tiny breaths.

  Wil wasn’t a strong man. He feared he couldn’t support Chiana if he got her out of the car, let alone carry her to his sedan. He decided not to try.

  “I need you to move over,” he said, crooning the words. “You slide over, I’ll get in and we’ll go where I can take care of you.”

  She didn’t seem to understand. Again he said, “Move over, Chiana,” and this time she tried to slide sideways over the gearshift to the passenger side. Wil leaned in to help her, hoping his hands under her shoulders wouldn’t worsen the pain.

  An eternity later, she was in the other bucket seat. Wil slid behind the wheel, fastening his seat belt but not hers. In her condition, the pressure of the nylon band across her body would add to her agony. He was an excellent driver with no intention of killing himself, or her.

  She needed a particular form of help that only he could provide. But not here, along the side of a road where anyone could see. Even in a blinding rain, there was a chance a cruising trooper or concerned motorist might stop to make sure everything was okay. He eased the Mustang back onto the road and looked for a more private spot.

  Wil found one a couple of miles down the road. The wide spot that opened into a farm lane looked like the kind of place where someone afraid of driving in the storm would pull over. He fumbled along the steering column until he found the four-way flashers and started them blinking.

  The red flashes against the rain outlined the surrealism of the moment as he prepared to undertake an experiment in the very worst of conditions. He wished they were in the sterile environment of his lab, with an array of equipment to fix whatever went wrong and easy access to his records. The leather interior of the car would have to do.

  Even so, he could attempt to follow medical procedures. He felt Chiana’s sweat-slicked forehead, attempting to guess her body temperature. Really hot, which wasn’t a scientific description but would have to do. He moved his fingers to the side of her neck to catch her pulse and was startled at how fast and thready it was.

  He pulled the sheathed syringe from his pocket and studied its yellow contents in the gray light. Untested and perhaps dangerous, it might be her only hope.

  Offering the standard doctor’s fib, “This might sting a little,” he slid Chiana’s pants down her hip far enough to rub a place with an alcohol swab and plunge the long needle in.

  She reacted with a sharp cry and, thirty seconds later, a string of curse words that would have impressed a sailor.

  “Damn, Doc, you trying to kill me or cure me?”

  Chiana’s slurred words were the first she’d spoken since Wil had climbed into the car. He took that for a good sign. Warning her so she wouldn’t go on the offense, he slipped his hand beneath her shirt to touch her heated skin.

  “Gonna cost you to feel me up.”

  Her words were stronger, much to Wil’s relief. Her labored breathing gradually returned to normal, and her skin cooled to a more normal temperature. The storm had passed while he waited for her to recover. As if in celebration, the sun came out.

  Chiana straightened in her seat.

  “What was that stuff?” she asked, rubbing the injection site. “I thought you were sticking a garden hose all the way to my hip bone.

  “Plan B.” Wil started the engine and pulled onto the highway.

  “Be careful with my baby,” Chiana cautioned. “I don’t ordinarily let men touch her, you know.”

  Wil offered a small smile. “I d
on’t ordinarily get a chance to drive a car like this. I’m more of a small import man.”

  “Whatever turns you on.”

  She studied the scientist as they rolled toward whatever destination he had in mind. People talked about trusting someone with their life, but she did with Wil. She’d met him at age thirteen. He’d been just starting the research that would plunge him into a world few people knew existed. He looked much the same now as then, with a little graying at the temples and a few crow’s feet, as much the result of worry as age.

  She still didn’t know how her mother found Wil. She hadn’t known for a long time what the “hormone” shots were that he developed especially for her. She did know that without him, her life would have come crashing down long ago.

  “Uh, mind telling me where we’re headed?” she asked as he slowed and turned the Mustang onto a pair of ruts. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t the back way to your house.”

  “We’re going somewhere safer.”

  “Wow.” Chiana looked at him in surprise. She didn’t think any safer place existed than Wil’s lab on the third floor of his house, with its state of the art security system, video monitoring system and network of motion detectors. He was so paranoid she sometimes joked he had poison gas jets built into the woodwork. If he didn’t think that was secure enough, she was in a whole lot more trouble than she thought.

  She was brimming with questions which remained unasked as they jolted down the narrow lane. Wil gripped the steering wheel like a Sunday driver in freeway traffic, leaning forward to peer through the windshield. Chiana kept her eyes on the woody overgrowth on both sides of them. She didn’t want to see what dangers to the Mustang’s undercarriage lay ahead.

  “We’re here.” Relief was palpable in Wil’s voice as he slowed the Mustang and parked beside a weather-beaten building. The recent rain had added a sheen to the worn wood siding, and accented the remaining letters on a sign hanging haphazardly in front of it. Chiana squinted, trying to make out what it once said.

  “Refuse of the Internal Oil?” she guessed.

  “Refuge of the Eternal Soul,” Wil corrected.

  “It’s a church?”

  “Used to be. It’s a safe house now.”

  Chiana studied the building. “You always take me to the finest places.”

  Wil gave her a small smile as he swung the car door open.

  “Only the best for you, my dear.”

  By the time she got out, he was walking through the high grass toward the back of the building. Chiana followed and found Wil studying a back door. He reached out and tried the knob below the grimy glass window. It was locked.

  “Look around,” he said. “Maybe there’s a key hidden somewhere.”

  “And maybe monkeys will fly out of my…”

  She stopped as the door opened, seemingly of its own accord. Her stomach tightened as it swung inward, and it was all she could do to make herself keep moving forward. This whole set-up was like something from a cheapie horror flick. Waiting inside were zombies, or vampires, or some old book of spells that would send them straight to the bowels of hell.

  A gentle push from Wil got her in the door, which closed behind them. She jumped at the snick of the lock, clutching his arm in a death grip.

  “I thought you were tough as steel, that you’d spit in the devil’s eye and laugh about it,” Wil said, prying her fingers from his forearm.

  “Yeah, well, I lied,” Chiana hissed, ducking back to let Wil lead the way. There was no place to go but down a short hallway to where another closed door waited. She held her breath as Wil reached out and turned the handle, waiting for an ominous squeak of the hinges that never came.

  The same dim lights that had glowed in the hall illuminated a set of stairs beyond the door. Again, Chiana let Wil take point.

  “Too chicken to lead?” Wil’s question reverberated in the narrow enclosure.

  “Hey, some of us are born followers. Besides, if there’s someone waiting down there with a chainsaw, you ought to get it for bringing me here.”

  Wil chuckled and started down the stairs. Chiana took a deep breath and followed, her spine tingling and her heart racing. Despite the coolness of the concrete surrounding them, she began to sweat. Wound tight with dread, she wanted nothing more than to pound back up the stairs and into the bright sunshine outside. Forcing herself onward until they reached the bottom, she held her breath as Wil turned the knob on yet another door.

  Light erupted when it swung open, so bright she turned her head to allow her eyes to adjust. Wil didn’t seem to notice as he stepped into the long concrete room. Chiana entered more cautiously, her natural fight-or-flight instinct engaged, aware of every detail.

  “I hate this place already.” She struggled to keep her tone flippant. Wil had a reason for bringing her here, even if this place did give her the creeps.

  “Don’t tell me why, let me guess,” Wil said. “The lack of windows and the sterility of those long lights overhead? Or is it the complete functionality of the furniture? You know, its striking resemblance to a prison.”

  “Oh, wow, you’re trying to be funny.” Chiana offered a slight but real smile. In her once-over, she’d spotted the refrigerator, and she was starving. Whatever Wil had stuck in her, it had given her the appetite of a bear.

  The refrigerator’s contents were a distinct disappointment. Two shelves were empty, and the third held cans of cola, some diet, some regular. Chiana grabbed the full-sugar one, popping the top. She took a long drink. The calories might be empty, but they’d provide quick energy.

  “Here.” Wil grabbed a handful of candy bars from inside the messenger bag he carried and tossed them on the metal dining table. Chiana peeled the wrapper off one and began to eat, taking huge bites of the chocolate bar and washing it down with swallows of cola.

  She paced the room as she ate, consumed by restlessness. The windowless walls already seemed to be closing in.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Hungry.” Chiana snagged another candy bar from the table where Wil sat, a journal open in front of him.

  “Like you need a snack or ferociously hungry?”

  “I could eat a horse, hide and all.”

  Wil nodded and wrote something.

  “Interesting reaction,” he said, flipping back a few pages and jotting a few words in a margin.

  Chiana swallowed the last of the candy bar and reached for another. Usually she was take it or leave it with chocolate. Today she couldn’t get enough. She corrected herself. She couldn’t get enough of it since Wil had given her that last shot.

  “What did you do to me?”

  Wil’s pen stopped scratching across the page. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the faint buzz of a fluorescent light going bad. Chiana watched as Wil leaned back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head. She could tell he didn’t want to answer. She also knew he remembered a promise made years ago, to be straight with her, no matter what.

  “Let’s go back to the beginning,” he said. “Do you remember when your mother first brought you to see me?”

  Chiana nodded.

  “We had decided, Cryssa and I, to protect you as long as we could. Growth shots were in the news, so that’s the story we used.”

  “Before my mother died, she told me the truth. You confirmed it. Are you telling me that was a lie, too?”

  Wil shook his head rapidly. “No, no, no. The daily shots do change the composition of your blood. They, uh, hide certain traits. That last injection should have the same effect on your bones and soft tissues and help make you much harder to trace.”

  “And make me normal?”

  Those four words held such poignancy and longing that Wil was tempted to lie. He knew how badly she wanted that, and he longed to give it to her. There was only so much he could do, and completely changing her DNA was far beyond his capabilities. He fished for the right way to tell her she’d always be different, that his efforts may have
done nothing but delay the inevitable.

  When Chiana’s eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened, he knew something in his face or demeanor had given her the answer. He could also tell she wasn’t pleased. She blew out an angry breath and began to pace. He eased his journal over, glanced at his watch and noted the time and her change in temperament.

  “Couldn’t you have taken me to a place with some fucking food?”

  Chiana swept the candy bars from the table to the floor, kicking one toward Wil. He rose and went to the cabinet behind him, wondering what kind of a safe house was so poorly stocked.

  He opened one cabinet door after another, but found only paper towels, plates, cups and other household items. As he closed the last one, he spotted a narrow door and turned the knob. It was part pantry, part office, and cans and boxes of food staples lined one wall. Among them was a variety of self-heating meals. He grabbed a couple and studied the instructions on the back.

  Chiana was grinding a candy bar beneath the toe of her boot when he came back to the table. She ignored him, and he tried his best to ignore her as he set about fixing what would have to pass as a meal.

  The anger and restlessness were unexpected side effects. With any luck, they’d stay mild. If they didn’t, he would probably regret having brought her here alone. He mentally calculated the dosage of the new serum he’d given her, trying to project the length of time it might take to pass through her system.

  In the enclosed basement, preoccupied with his thoughts, Wil didn’t realize the storm had begun again until a crash of thunder made him jump. Chiana swore, and he realized how jumpy she was.

  “Eat,” he said, pushing a meal across the table to her. “There’s plenty.”

  Before she took the first bite, there came another crash, but not of thunder. It was the sound of wood splintering, and it came from above them.

  “What the hell?” Chiana reached for the gun she always wore, belatedly realizing it was still in the Mustang.