Chapter One
Maybe a cigarette burn on your arm
would change your expression to one of alarm . . .
It was a bare bulb, swinging idly in the small room, but the glare it cast plus the constant movement was already giving John a headache. He tried to ignore it and the man pacing in front of him, and also the throbbing in his wrists. It wasn’t easy—there were too many things to ignore and not enough to focus on. He finally settled on his knees. They were quiet enough.
Keith was somewhere off to the side, just beyond the range of his peripheral vision. The drummer was being unusally—unnaturally—quiet, and that was worrying John much more than the situation at hand. Even more than Roger, still unconscious on the floor behind them. Best thing to do was wait. For what . . . well, that remained to be seen.
The door scraped open again, drawing John’s attention from his slacks-clad knees to the hole in the wall. A shoulder entered, followed by two huge hands holding firm to a thin arm. A body followed, backing in as a struggling, enraged tiger in the form of a tall, dark-haired young man was wrestled into the room. Another body followed, holding onto the young man’s other arm. Even held by two men considerably larger than he, the man was fighting like a fish caught on the end of a line. John couldn’t help but smile as Pete lunged and bucked, snarling out every curse word he knew as his body whipsawed back and forth.
The man standing under the swinging bulb took a step forward, his fist snapping up in a swift uppercut that drove into Pete’s abdomen. Pete folded, the breath leaving him in a mighty rush; his legs collapsed under him as he gasped for breath, looking as if he wanted to throw up. The men holding his arms dropped him into the chair next to John, swiftly binding his arms behind him.
“Better tie his legs, too,” the one who’d delivered the punch said. “He looks like a wiggler.”
“You’ve no idea,” one of the others said. “It was like boating a marlin.”
“Pete,” John hissed. “You all right?” The only reply was a long moan followed by another wheeze.
“Bastards,” John murmured. The same man who’d hit Pete turned from his inspection of Pete’s restraints, his movement ending in a blow that snapped John’s head around so hard he heard his neck crack. Pain flared in his cheek and eye socket, momentarily so bright and white-hot that John wondered if half his face had been taken clean off.
There was no time to dwell on the amusingly morbid implications of that, as a sudden commotion brought his attention and one good eye back around to Keith’s side of the room in time to see the drummer lunge, taking the chair to which he was bound with him as he rammed headfirst into John’s abuser. The man staggered back a step or two, his already ugly face twisting into a look of sadistic joy as he grabbed the chair. Keith, already off-balance and disadvantaged in the weight arena, couldn’t stop himself as he was wrenched around and slammed to the floor, the back of the chair pinning his head to the floor. The man leaned on the edge of the chair, driving it in harder.
“Stop! Just stop!” John shouted. “We’ll cooperate!”
“Damn right you will,” the man said, letting up fractionally.
“If you want money, you can piss off,” Pete gasped, finally finding his breath.
“We don’t want your money . . . yet,” the man said, taking a step back and giving the chair a swift kick, toppling Keith onto his side with a groan.
“Then what?”
“My employer will be along to explain that.”
“Great. Wonder how ugly HE’LL be.”
“She.” The word seemed to come from everywhere at once. A dark figure stepped out of the wall—though John would later remember that in the darkness, it was entirely possible that there was an alcove or doorway there—and approached them, revealing a woman who might have been pretty if her face hadn’t been so horribly cold.
She walked over to each of them, calmly scanning their features. She looked cool and composed as she none-too-gently nosed the toe of her boot into Keith’s side. “Sit him up.” The two men who had dragged Pete in seized the chair, jerking it upright. Keith moaned, his eyes going faintly cross-eyed as he was righted.
She moved to John, brushing his wounded eye socket with surprisingly gentle fingertips. “Try to open your eye,” she ordered. He did, clenching it shut immediately after. “You can see, then.” She petted his shoulder. “You are fortunate. Behave yourself and I might not issue the order for him to repeat the process on your other eye.” She straightened and turned to Roger. The blond was breathing slow and deep, his body lying on the floor in the same position in which it had been thrown.
“Pathetic.” She booted him in the side and turned to Pete.
The old saying about “if looks could kill” flitted through John’s mind. Pete’s head was lowered, his ice-blue eyes boring into the woman’s. He didn’t need to snarl or even say anything; his eyes conveyed his rage better than anything else could.
She smiled at him. Smirked might have been a better word, since it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve only seen one other man look at me the way you are. Someday I will get the chance to plant a knife between his ribs.”
“Pete, don’t do anything stupid,” John whispered. If one of her henchmen had nearly taken off his head for saying “bastards,” there was no telling what they’d do to Pete if he said what John knew he wanted to say.
“Such fire . . . ” She reached as if to touch his cheek. “Tame that fire and—” Pete lunged, his teeth snapping for her hand.
She pulled back a second and matched him glare for glare. Then she delivered a blow to his face—not the slap he expected, but a savage punch from a half-curled fist. His head whipped around, rage-filled eyes turning to shocked ones at the power of the blow.
Her hand tangled into his dark hair and jerked his neck back at a visibly painful angle. “You. Do NOT. Threaten me. EVER.”
“Please don’t,” John said, not sure what else to do. “He won’t do anything stupid again, I promise.”
She turned to face him. Her eyes slowly perused his form, head to toe and back again. He shuddered. He liked female attention just as much as Keith and Ro—well, maybe not that much—but this perusal left him feeling somehow dirty.
“And what will you give me in pledge? Your word isn’t good enough.”
“Not what you’re thinking about,” he said, suppressing a shudder.
“A pity,” she said with that smirk. “You’d have made a fine match. Tie them securely.”
“We only got three chairs. There’s four of them.”
“Then tie him to the radiator!” She smirked again. “And turn it on.”
“I don’t think it works. How about we just make him uncomfortable?”
An incline of her blonde head was her only answer. They dragged Roger upright, the pair shoving his lolling head back and forth as they tightly bound him to the rusted pipe. The third went to Pete, Keith, and John in turn, making sure their hands and legs were firmly immobile.
“Leave this one’s legs unbound,” the woman said when he reached John. “Perhaps his squirms will be amusing.” The man nodded and obeyed.
“Squirms?” John ventured. He didn’t like the sound of that.
“Squirms,” she repeated with that evil smirk again. She turned to the most agile of the flunkies. “Bring it.”
He left, returning from somewhere with four vials of dark liquid. “Think it’s had time to cook by now . . . ”
“Good. You pour this one down that one’s throat.” She shot a full grin toward Pete. “With that nose, you should have a good grip.”
She headed for Keith, who looked up at her with his best defense—his dark eyes opened wide and upturned in an innocent face that made him look like a forlorn child.
She blinked, paused for a mere instant—then threw back her head and rich laughter rang into the room. “Very GOOD, Moon. VERY good. Were I a normal woman, I’d be falling all over to mother you! As it is . . . ” She jerked his head backward and forced his mouth open, uncapping the vial and upending its contents down his throat in one quick motion. Though no stranger to drugs and drink of all kinds in usually superhuman amounts, the teaspoon of liquid burned its way down his throat, leaving him gagging and gasping for breath.
She handed a third vial to the same henchman, then uncapped the fourth and moved to John. “You, I will tend to personally.”
Deciding to take the path of least resistance, he tilted his head back and opened his mouth, letting her know with his eyes that it certainly wasn’t his choice to do so.
She poured it gingerly down his throat, sealing her mouth over his for a moment before she pulled back. She stood. “Now. We wait.” As soon as her back was turned, John spat repeatedly onto the ground.
She crouched beside Keith. “Now, Mister Eyes, let’s see how you feel.”
“Oh, I feel just fine, luv—nice place you’ve got here innit . . . could use some curtains though . . . “ His eyes were unfocused, lolling in time with his head, which was trying to roll completely off his shoulders. She felt his cheeks, smiling in satisfaction at the heat rolling from them. She moved to Pete to check him out.
His pupils had contracted to pinpricks, making the blue all the more vivid. He gasped as if fighting for air, his prominent adam’s apple bobbing.
“Perfect.” She glared at the still-unconscious Roger, then moved back to John.
He fought the haze of heat, disorientation, and rising nausea, trying to focus on her. It was hard—it was as if he was at the bottom of a dark pool of water, straining to see clearly through the distortion. “What . . . ?” he tried to clear his throat, but it was like trying to breathe around a throat full of cotton.
“What are you feeling?”
His lips moved, releasing no sound. The room was beginning to spin now, and he was vaguely aware of a groaning sound coming from somewhere in the next room until he realized the low growl was coming from his own chest.
“Good . . . GOOD!” She smiled as she examined them all. “Sit him up,” she barked at the one hovering near Roger. “Don’t want him to choke!”
Roger’s eyes fluttered as he was yanked up, his cheeks already flushed and his curly hair in damp ringlets on his forehead.
“Finally, he wakes.” She slapped him. “Revive!”
He blinked up at her. “Come for a good time, then, luv?”
“More than you know.” She caressed where she’d slapped. “Just let this take full effect and we’ll talk about a good time.”
“I like a good time,” he slurred. “But can you turn down the ‘eat? It’s a bit stuffy in this ‘otel room . . . “
Keith muttered something very ugly under his breath, then raised his voice. “She’s doped you UP, Goldilocks!”
“Dope? Naw . . . she’s too pretty,” Roger said, a goofy grin nearly splitting his face. “Just one kiss, eh?”
“You’re not my type,” she purred as she split the skin over his collarbone with a fingernail. “And your friend is precisely correct.”
“I don’t take dope . . . “ Roger replied, his words slurring into near incoherence. “Not my bag.”
“You didn’t TAKE it, she GAVE it to you!” Keith managed to roll his eyes before a coughing fit overtook him. “Asshole . . . ” he managed to gag out.
Another sound started up in the room. John had tilted his head backward, looking up at the ceiling. Somehow, even in this state, the bickering had amused him and he was laughing helplessly. Next to him, Pete let out a breathless howl and turned, retching. Tendrils of spit trailed from his lips as he leaned back, his body starting to writhe.
“And it begins!” she crowed triumpantly.
Within moments all four were in various stage of distress—twisting, kicking, panting, and all four were quickly sweating themselves into exhaustion. When they were half-conscious, she began to talk in a low, soothing voice. Almost hypnotic. Telling them who she was, who they were, what they were to do.
Pete’s chin rested on his chest, his gaping mouth, long nose, and staring eyes giving him more than a passing resemblance to a barely-conscious mule. Roger was leaning his full weight on the radiator, curled up as if asleep.
Struggling wasn’t an option any more, even if John had wanted to struggle. His limbs were deadweight, and it took every bit of his dwindling strength to hold his head up. The woman’s voice pulled at him, wrapping him in soft tones as they pulled him into blackness.
On to Chapter Two
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