Dark Descendant d-1 Read online

  “Why were you here to meet Emmitt?” Anderson prompted.

  I decided that no matter how weird my story was going to sound under the circumstances, I had no alternative but to start talking and hope for the best.

  Slowly, trying not to stammer, I told them a carefully edited version of how and why Emmitt had hired me, leaving out any mention of crazy cultists. Anderson’s face gave away nothing, but Blake made repeated little snorts of disbelief and rolled his eyes a couple of times.

  When I explained that Emmitt had asked me to meet him in front of the gates, and that I’d found the gates open and driven through, both men fell silent, the silence an oppressive weight that made me want to sink under the bed and disappear. I forced myself to keep talking, though I didn’t want to relive the nightmare of seeing Emmitt standing there in the road with that little smile.

  “So what you’re saying is that it was an accident?” Anderson asked when I finished talking.

  I blinked at him. “Of course it was an accident! At least on my part. Did you think I ran him down on purpose?”

  “What do you mean, at least on your part?”

  I was momentarily taken aback by the question. I thought I’d made it perfectly clear when I’d explained. But despite everything Emmitt had told me, I was now convinced these people were actually friends of his, and it must have been shocking for them to hear that he’d basically killed himself. Maybe they didn’t want to hear it and had subconsciously filtered that part out.

  “I mean he just stood there in the middle of the road, looking at me and smiling, waiting for me to hit him. I don’t know if he could have gotten out of the way if he’d tried, but he didn’t even try.”

  There was a howl of rage from just outside the room. The door slammed open with such force that Blake, who was standing in front of it, went flying. He hit the floor hard and came up cursing.

  Jamaal stormed into the cell in the same towering rage I’d seen by the side of the road. If he was suffering any ill effects from his tussle with Logan, I saw no sign of them.

  His eyes locked on me, and he came at me like a guided missile. Leader or not, Anderson scrambled out from between us, leaving me to fend for myself.

  If Anderson was the good cop, and Blake was the bad cop, Jamaal was the complete psycho cop. I’m physically fit and fairly athletic. I also know enough basic self-defense not to be completely useless in a fight. But I would have been no match for Jamaal even without my injuries. I couldn’t even manage to get to my feet before he was on me, grabbing me by the throat.

  I dropped the pillow and tried to loosen Jamaal’s grip, digging my fingernails into his hand as hard as I could. I’d have gone for his face, only his arms were longer than mine and I couldn’t reach. When clawing at him didn’t work, I tried to separate one of his fingers from the herd and throw all my strength into peeling it away, willing to break it if necessary. My efforts didn’t bother him in the least, and he hauled me off of the cot until my feet dangled.

  I stopped trying to loosen his fingers and merely held on to his arm, trying to pull myself up a bit so I didn’t strangle. It was a useless effort, and his hand squeezed hard enough to cut off my air completely.

  Still easily holding me off the floor, he stepped around the cot so he could slam me against the wall so hard I saw stars. Or maybe the stars were just because I couldn’t breathe. My struggles weakened as my brain starved for oxygen.

  Anderson came to stand beside Jamaal, his expression one of gentle concern. Concern for Jamaal, that is, not for me.

  “She can’t talk while you’re choking her.”

  Jamaal bared his teeth in a feral smile. “That’s a shame.” He pulled me forward then slammed me into the wall again to show how heartbroken he was. I could hardly believe I hadn’t passed out from lack of oxygen yet.

  “We need to get answers out of her,” Anderson said, still in that mild voice.

  “You can get answers out of her when I’m finished!” Jamaal snarled, and the look on Anderson’s face hardened.

  “I’m giving you an order, Jamaal. Let go. Now!”

  “Fuck you!”

  Across the room, Blake cursed again. The whole mild-mannered leader act Anderson had been putting on suddenly dissolved. His back straightened, his eyes flashed with anger, and his face took on an expression that said someone was about to die—or wish for death.

  “Wrong answer,” Anderson said, his voice dropping about an octave and filled with a power that made my teeth ache.

  My vision was beginning to fade around the edges, but I saw Anderson reach out and clap his hand on Jamaal’s shoulder, right at the base of his neck. The hatred faded from Jamaal’s face as his eyes widened in what looked like alarm, though I couldn’t see why. Then suddenly, he let go of me and screamed.

  My feet hit the floor. I crumpled to my knees, gagging and coughing as I tried to draw air into my lungs.

  Jamaal collapsed, too, trying to pull away from Anderson’s grip as he did. Anderson must have been stronger than he looked, maintaining his grip as he lowered himself into a crouch so he could keep his hand on Jamaal’s shoulder. Anderson’s face had turned to stone, all expression bleeding away as Jamaal continued to scream in obvious pain. In that moment, Anderson looked almost inhuman, an ice-cold predator who could kill without hesitation or remorse.

  Blake appeared in the periphery of my vision. He moved with caution, but he didn’t look scared or surprised by whatever Anderson was doing. “Go easy on him, boss,” he said with a wince of sympathy. “He just lost his best friend.”

  The expression on Anderson’s face thawed, a hint of humanity returning to his eyes, but he didn’t let go. Jamaal’s screams were weakening. What the hell was Anderson doing that caused such intense pain? His grip didn’t even look all that tight.

  “He’ll pass out soon enough,” Anderson said, and moments later Jamaal’s whole body went limp. Anderson let go of his shoulder, and even on Jamaal’s coffee-colored skin, I could see the bright red hand mark where Anderson had been touching him.

  “Sorry, my friend,” Anderson said so softly I barely heard him. The stone-cold killer was gone, and the mild-mannered human being was back. He stood up and looked at Blake. “Put him next door,” he said. “Then gather the troops in my study.”

  Blake didn’t look happy with the order, but he complied, gently picking up Jamaal’s limp body and carrying him out of the room. Anderson looked down his nose at me. I was still coughing, but the gagging seemed to have stopped, and my vision had cleared.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he told me. “Think carefully about your story and whether you’d like to amend it. Unless you’re a very skilled actress, I’m pretty sure you were not familiar with the power I just used against Jamaal. If I come back later and don’t like your answers, I’ll let you experience it firsthand.”

  I swallowed hard. So much for the “good cop” act.

  Without a backward glance, he marched out the door, slamming it behind him. Once again, the locks clicked shut.

  No doubt about it. I was in deep shit.

  FOUR

  My throat hurt every time I swallowed, but other than that, I didn’t feel as bad as I expected after nearly being choked to death. Especially considering that beforehand I’d been seriously injured in a car accident, then been kicked in the face, then nearly perished from exposure.

  Do you still think you need an ambulance? Anderson’s voice echoed in my head.

  Rubbing my bruised throat, I sat down on the edge of the cot and tried to absorb everything I’d seen and heard tonight.

  Emmitt, appearing in front of my car from out of nowhere.

  Logan, lifting Jamaal off his feet and flinging him all the way across the road and into the trees beyond.

  My wound sealing itself with invisible stitches.

  Anderson’s fire-red handprint on Jamaal’s shoulder.

  I’ve never been much into all that woo-woo stuff, but either I was havin
g the longest, weirdest dream in the history of mankind, or something decidedly woowoo was going on.

  I hoped for the former, but suspected the latter.

  I looked down at the gash in my side and was only dully surprised to see the entire line scabbed over. I imagined the Twilight Zone music playing in the background, then shook off the thought before I made myself hysterical.

  I decided to make a cursory examination of my cell. I tried the door, of course, but the sound of those locks clicking shut had been no illusion. I tried the sink and discovered that yes, blessedly, I could get hot water. I picked up my bloody, ruined sweater, rinsed out as much of the blood as possible, then used the sleeve like a washcloth to clean myself up.

  I was painfully aware that Anderson was planning to come back and question me later. The kid gloves were going to come off, but I couldn’t figure out what he wanted to hear. If I thought about how our next interview was going to go, all I would do was send myself into a panic. Instead I stripped the sheets off the cot and rinsed them in the sink. Then I flipped the mattress over and was relieved to find I hadn’t soaked it through. With nothing left to do, I reluctantly lay down, terrified of being alone with my thoughts.

  I hadn’t been lying down for more than five minutes when I heard footsteps out in the hall again, and I was struck with a far more virulent terror. I shot to my feet, heart pounding and adrenaline flooding my system as I waited in dread for Anderson to finally carry out his threat.

  But when the door opened, it wasn’t Anderson after all.

  The word that had first come to my mind when Emmitt had shown me a picture of Maggie Burnham was statuesque. I guessed her height at about five-eleven, and she was built like an athlete. She had absolutely gorgeous curly auburn hair, and a pretty, heart-shaped face.

  She wasn’t looking her best tonight, though. Not with those red-rimmed eyes and the sorrowful droop of her shoulders. I had no clue what her real relationship with Emmitt had been, but it was clear she was grieving.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling weakly. “I’m Maggie.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said automatically, though I mentally grimaced at the empty pleasantry. “I’m Nikki Glass.”

  She nodded. “I thought maybe you could use this.” She held out a plush terrycloth robe, and I was so happy I could have hugged her. Considering that she was mourning Emmitt and that I’d been the instrument of his death, I wouldn’t have been surprised if her first move had been to slap me.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the robe from her outstretched hand. My voice came out a little scratchy. I told myself that it was an aftereffect of Jamaal’s attempt to choke me to death, not a sign that I was about to burst into tears at the first hint of kindness. Cynically, I couldn’t help wondering if she’d taken up the mantle of “good cop” now that Anderson had dispensed with it.

  Maggie considerately turned her back as I removed my undies and slipped into the robe. I wouldn’t have died of embarrassment if she hadn’t, but under the circumstances, I was feeling vulnerable enough to appreciate the gesture. I had to take a deep breath to keep control of my emotions before I told her it was okay to turn around.

  She took in the stripped bed and the wet, still-stained sheets that I’d draped over the sink to dry, and frowned.

  “I see the boys are in major hard-ass mode,” she commented in obvious disapproval. As far as I’d been able to determine, she was the only woman living here.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, pulling the warm, soft robe close around me. “Yeah, well, they seem to think I killed Emmitt on purpose.” The last word came out in something almost like a sob as the full weight of what had happened hit me.

  I’d killed someone.

  No, of course I hadn’t meant to. And from where I was standing, it sure looked like he’d deliberately put himself in harm’s way. But still … He was dead, and it was my fault.

  To my surprise, Maggie stepped forward and gave my shoulder a warm squeeze. “It’s all right,” she said, though her own eyes shone with unshed tears. “Anderson told us your story. The boys are all huffing and puffing with conspiracy theories, but I believe you.”

  I had to swallow hard a couple of times before I found my voice. “You do? Why?”

  She smiled sadly and gestured at the cot. “Why don’t we sit down? This might take a few minutes.”

  We both sat, backs to the wall. I gathered the robe around my legs and wrapped my arms around my knees.

  “You told Anderson that Emmitt hired you to investigate me,” Maggie said.

  I shook my head. “Not exactly. He originally hired me to find you, then he asked me to try to learn more about … um …” I’d kind of glossed over the whole cult thing when I’d explained to Anderson, and I didn’t want to blurt out anything tactless now, either.

  Maggie grinned at me, a surprisingly genuine expression, considering her obvious sorrow. “I can only guess what he might have told you. He claimed that I’d fallen in with a bunch of loonies. Is that the gist of it?”

  I couldn’t help returning her grin. “Yeah, basically.”

  “And then tonight …?”

  “Tonight he said you’d called him and were ready to leave. I was supposed to meet him here as an extra witness.” I frowned as I realized how flimsy Emmitt’s story had been. There was a reason my gut had been telling me to say no, but my desire to escape from my bad date had overridden my common sense. It would have been so much better if I’d told Jim I had to meet a client and then driven straight home. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “Then he surprised you on a dark, icy road when you had no time to stop or swerve.”

  I nodded, but couldn’t find the voice to speak.

  “The goddamn selfish bastard,” Maggie said thickly, shaking her head as a single tear snaked down her cheek. She reached up and dashed it away angrily.

  “Do you … Do you know why he did it?” I asked softly, wondering if it was any of my business.

  She let out a heavy sigh. “He was getting old. Old and tired. I knew that, but he was too much of a tough guy to admit how bad it was.”

  “Old?” I cried, totally confused. “The guy couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, tops.” Truthfully, I thought he was closer to twenty-two.

  Her lips twisted into a wry smile. “He was more than twenty-five. Trust me.”

  I gaped. “Even if I’m off by a bit, there’s no way in hell he qualified as ‘old.’”

  “What if you’re off by an order of magnitude?”

  “I don’t believe in woo-woo,” I said, without great conviction.

  Another wry smile. “You might want to start. I’m afraid right now you’re neck-deep in woo-woo and still sinking.”

  I grimaced. Yeah, that was kind of what I was afraid of. “Where’s a life vest when you need it?” I joked feebly.

  Maggie reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a slim compact. “There’s something I think you should see,” she said, thumbing the compact open and then handing it to me.

  Hesitantly, I took the compact from her hand. The makeup inside looked ordinary enough, so I guessed that the something I needed to see would be in the mirror. Holding my breath, I opened the compact all the way and looked at my reflection.

  I looked awful. There was a big lump on my temple, and my right eye was thoroughly blackened. The entire left side of my face was one big bruise from where Jamaal had kicked me—though the bruise looked like it was about three days old. But clearly, that wasn’t what Maggie had wanted me to see.

  No, what Maggie wanted me to see was the iridescent mark on my forehead. It vaguely resembled a half moon with an arrow through its middle. My mouth dropped open and my eyes widened as I reached up to touch the mark that quite obviously was not a tattoo.

  “What the fuck is that?” I whispered.

  “It’s a glyph,” Maggie explained, holding out her hand so I could see the mark on the back of it. Hers looked like stylized circular lightning bolt. �
��It represents whose line you’re descended from.”

  “Line?” My voice sounded hollow, and I stared intently at the mirror. The glyph wouldn’t go away, no matter how many times I blinked or how I rubbed it.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maggie run a finger over the glyph on her hand. “Mine represents Zeus,” she said. “I’ve never seen one like yours before, but Anderson says it’s Artemis. I didn’t think she had any descendants—she was supposed to be a virgin goddess—but I’ll take his word for it.”

  “Artemis.” I sounded like a mentally challenged myna bird, but none of this was quite sinking in. My rational mind threw in the towel, deciding to go hide somewhere safe until the world returned to order.

  “Emmitt was from Hades’ line. Jamaal’s a descendant of Kali, and he and Emmitt bonded like brothers because both of them possessed death magic. Emmitt was mentoring him, teaching him control, but Jamaal still had a long way to go. Without Emmitt to balance him, it’s hard to know if he’ll be able to hold it together.

  “You also met Logan, right?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “He’s Tyr.” She cocked her head at me. “Are you familiar with Tyr?”

  Totally numb—and not comprehending a word of what I was hearing—I shook my head.

  “He was an old Germanic war god. Descendants of war gods tend to be kind of cranky, but Logan is one of the most easygoing people I know. Oh, and I almost forgot Blake.” She made a face, making it clear Blake was not her favorite person. “He’s a descendant of Eros. Despite that cutesy Cupid tattoo he’s got, there’s nothing even remotely cherubic about him. He’s easily as deadly as Jamaal. He’s just not as in-your-face about it.”

  I remembered the way Blake had looked at me while he was playing bad cop. That was plenty in-your-face for me.