Lost Angeles (21 page)

“Ms. Chase?” Asher’s voice cuts into the scene, calling me back. “Are you okay?”

“What?” I say, blinking at his concerned face. “Uh, yeah… there was a guy with shark teeth and chains on his face. That’s all I remember, until I woke up at the local loony bin.”

He thinks it over for a second, then ventures, “You were missing for two months.”

I nod. “Yes, but I don’t know where I was. Flashes used to come to me when I was asleep, in nightmares, but since Benicio, it’s gotten worse.”

“Worse how?”

“It’s like he shook things loose.” Suddenly, it’s hard to swallow. “I’m getting stuff in little clips, even when I’m awake. All the things I convinced myself weren’t real are bubbling up from wherever I stuffed them.”

“Repressed memories?” Asher’s earnest face holds no censure, only curiosity.

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Maybe. I see tubes. Blood. Someone telling someone else to ‘do it again.’ There’s another guy, always demanding to know what’s happening. His is the only face I ever remember clearly.”

“Can you describe the face?”

“Xaine knows him,” I tell Asher. “Says he’s famous. He was at Scion tonight, right before the lockdown. Sandy hair, wavy, not quite to his shoulders. Tall, and lean, and he’s got these eyes. Yellow eyes, like a cat.”

Frowning, Asher slowly reaches over toward Fatty’s desk, picking up the latest issue of People magazine half-buried beneath all the other papers. Xaine is on the cover, Sexiest Man Alive again, but Asher flips past that, searching for something. Eventually he licks his thumb, pushes back a sheet of paper, then folds the magazine back on itself so that he can hold up a picture.

“
This
him?”

Then it’s my turn to look confused as I take the glossy dossier from his hands. I’ve walked past this issue a hundred times in the supermarket and the streetside news stands. Hell, Jess has a copy of it sitting on the kitchen table at home. I never once flipped it open and looked inside.

Apparently, I should have.

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?”

“She’s alive…”

In the magazine, he’s smiling, wearing an expensive suit, and has one hand tucked into a perfectly tailored pocket. His dark blond hair is artfully mussed; he looks flawless, aristocratic,
commanding
. And it’s the same man I saw standing on the opposite side of the Scion lockdown glass. A face I believed I’d hallucinated yet again.

“Caspian Declan.” I read the name next to the caption. Billionaire, businessman, philanthropist, and humanitarian.
So then why…?
“I don’t understand any of this.”

“Mr. Declan owns one of the foremost vampire research facilities in the country, possibly the world. It’s as closed-to-the-public-slash-media as a place could possibly be, so nobody really knows what goes on inside.” Asher’s thinking hard, trying to untangle it all. “You said there were tubes and blood. Do you remember anything else?”

I stare at the picture, memorizing every nuance of Caspian Declan’s
I own the world
grin. “A lot of blood. I think I was bleeding. They kept changing the sheets because it was seeping out of my skin. They seemed mad about that.”

“Did you recognize anyone else there?”

I can only shake my head, close the magazine, and set it carefully upon Fatty’s desk. “No. It’s like I’m in a dream. All the faces are smudges that I can’t ever seem to remember.”

“Except his?”

“Except his,” I confirm. “He always walks in, demanding to know what’s happening but…”

When I don’t immediately continue, Asher prompts, “But?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “It’s all a blur of people’s voices, bright lights, darkness, and—”
Pain
. “Everything else.”

“And you think that’s what happened in the two months you were missing?” When I nod, Asher shifts so that the chair creaks under his weight. One thumb flicks at the paper edge of the notepad.

Eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me. “So, what are you thinking?”

He exhales slowly through his nose, not sounding at all happy about the interrogation shoe being on the other foot. “I think someone tried to vamp you.”

The snort that escapes me is wholly inelegant. “I’m about as not-a-vampire as they come.”

“Trust me,” Asher says, “it’s blowing my mind, too. But what you described sounds exactly like a forced turn. Involuntary vamping is illegal and very underground, but it’s a growing problem. My question is… why you? The fangers aren’t exactly rocket scientists, but most of them have figured out if they want a baby vamp, they have to pick a male victim.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know the science behind it, exactly,” he tells me, “but women are far less likely to survive the change. One in a thousand,
maybe
. Most of them die on the table. It’s why you rarely see them, and the ones that make it? They’re like the vampire Holy Grail.”

“Has anyone ever
not
turned?”

The way he looks at me is enough of an answer, but he adds, “Apparently,
yes
,” just to seal the deal. “But there’s good news. I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“That’s… somehow, not as vindicating as I thought it would be.” And I shudder. Instead of starting over in LA, I landed myself in a city where a serial killer with a face I can’t remember is trying to eat the memories of Caspian Declan peering at me through the glass of a medcenter window.

“Back to Benicio, though.” Asher taps a finger against his notepad. “Shot in the dark?”

I nod. “Go ahead, lay it on me.”

“You’re the only girl who’s lived through more than one encounter with this guy.” His face is serious, grim even. “I think Benny figured out he could mine your memories hard and deep, something he can’t normally do. He figured out he could—and excuse my French, here—mindfuck you six ways to Sunday and come back for more later. Other humans wouldn’t survive…
haven’t
survived what he’s been doing to you. It’s like an addiction, and every time he doesn’t get his fix, he throws a temper tantrum and settles for the next best thing. Probably ends up shredding their brains from the inside out… because you’re the anomaly. Survived a vamping and kept on tramping—” Asher cuts himself off and then tries to amend, “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t try to rhyme things,” I say, smiling at his ten-shades-of-mortified expression.” When he only clears his throat, I draw in a deep breath and say, “Okay, well, hooray for me.” Sardonic
and
cynical. “As far as superpowers go, this is sorta shitty.”

“Yeah, turbo-healing is totally boring,” Asher scoffs. “We’ll have to get you some adamantium claws or something to make it cooler.”

“Oh,
now
you’re funny.” But the humor fades quickly. “Why me? Why can I get ‘mindfucked’ by this guy and live to tell the tale?”

But whatever Asher would have said is lost when the elevator at the end of the hallway opens and Xaine emerges, muttering up a storm.

He comes to a dead halt when he gets a good look at me and my new friend. “You saved me a phone call, Reece.” His gaze flicks back and forth, like he’s watching a tennis match. “G.I. Joe, I see you’ve met DJ Lore.”

“Cut the shit,” Asher says, standing as Xaine approaches. “I know about the lockdown at Scion. I was headed there next.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll be interested to hear that your sister triggered it. Cas Declan dragged her out of the club, shoved her into a limo, and bit her in the parking lot. If she hadn’t set off the emergency systems, I’d almost think she was into that sort of thing.”

Asher…
Reece
. Another puzzle piece drops into place, and no wonder it took so long. There’s absolutely nothing about Asher Reece that reads like Reille. Patient instead of restless, brown hair instead of red, dark eyes instead of green. He’s got at least eight inches on her in height, too, and a hundred pounds of lean muscle.

I’m expecting him to be surprised by the news of the not-quite-a-kidnapping, but all Asher gives Xaine is one cynical eyebrow. “You sure this wasn’t some bullshit roleplaying game?”

“You’re her brother.” Xaine gives Asher the stare-down, but when that elicits precisely nothing from the other man, he affects a disappointed expression. “Maybe you should err on the side of caution here.”

“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe I’d just be chasing my tail again,” Asher says. “Call me callous if you want, but I’ve spent enough years picking Reille up after she’s fallen down to have developed a pretty solid baseline. If it’s not booze, it’s boys.” He thinks about it a moment, then amends. “Well, it used to be boys. Now it’s vampires.”

“Look, asshole, all I know is that they climbed into a limo together and drove off. Reille’s on her own as far as I’m concerned, and right now I’m looking out for Number One. The last thing I need is you showing up on my doorstep a week from now, shooting first and asking questions later.”

“Oh, no worries,” Asher hastens to reassure Xaine. “I’m still counting the days until I can put a UV bullet right in the middle of your rock-hard head. Or maybe I’ll put a couple regular ones through your dick.” There’s an abrupt change in demeanor and tone when he turns toward me. “Listen, Ms. Chase, you need to take extra precautions when going about your daily routine—”

“Fuck her daily routine,” Xaine interjects. “She’s staying with me until further notice.”

“Perfect solution,” Asher fires back. “Shack her up with someone who thinks of her as
food
until Benicio is off the streets.”

“Hey, you do your job and that’ll happen within the week, right?”

Asher opens his mouth to reply, but there’s a commotion at the front door as a large group gets corralled inside. First in is a girl so tiny that she might well still be in high school and so
redheaded
that it had to come out of a bottle. She’s wearing a hotel bathrobe that barely covers her bum, and I have more than a little sympathy for her spaced-out expression. Nothing good happened to her tonight. Behind her is Trick St. John, who apparently traded in his skanky bookends for a pair of double-reinforced handcuffs, and judging by the ear-blistering slew of curse words spilling out of him, he’s none too happy to be here right now.

“It’s all right,” I murmur, distracted by the noise. “I’ll be fine with Xaine.”

Asher scowls, digs a card out of his pocket, and slaps it into my palm. “That’s my business line and my cell phone number.”

“Heya, Lo!” calls out a familiar voice, and I hardly spare Asher a second to thank him for the card because behind Blond, Blue-Eyed, Fangy, and Pissed is Tamsyn. And behind
her—

“Lourdes already has
my
card,” Jax Trace says, apparently oblivious to the fact that the entire group he came in with is smeared with blood, like they went to a Blade-style rave and someone forgot to turn off the sprinkler system. “If she needs a ride anywhere, she can call me.”

“Eat a dick, Trace,” Xaine says cheerfully, heaving me out of the plastic chair with very little effort. “By the looks of your fancy silver bracelets, you’re not going to be available to play taxi for anyone for a while.” His gaze flickers to Trick and catches sight of something that prompts the fangiest grin I’ve seen out of him yet. “Hey, St. John, whatever happened to ‘don’t get attached’?”

Trick raises his hand to flip Xaine off, but since he’s handcuffed
to
the tiny redhead, he about jerks her off her feet in the attempt. “Shut your bloody fucking mouth, X, before I stuff my fist so far down your throat your shit starts speaking sign language.”

“British or American?” Xaine asks, dragging me away from the small chain gang. “I just want to know whether or not I should lube up for the extra ‘u’ in
colour, flavour,
and
go fuck yourself
.”

I jab an elbow into Xaine’s ribs, and he grunts before turning his face toward me and raising an eyebrow.

“Quit gloating,” I say. “I really don’t think now’s the time to be antagonizing them.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I spot Jackson Trace watching me from across the room. He smiles at me, an ironic twist to his lips despite the fact that he looks like hell. There’s a long rend in the leg of his expensive pants. His dress shirt is unbuttoned, bloodied, and fluttering around his waist. There’s blood smeared across his skin, too, tracing the edges of wounds that have already healed over. Tiny beads of what have to be glass are tangled in the dark, gelled waves of his hair. A quick jerk on the arm from the officer in charge dislodges a few of the glittering pieces, and they plink to the floor like diamonds.