Blood Deep (Blackthorn Book 4) (2 page)

Eden shook the tension from his shoulders, rolled his head left and right, nimbled up, ignoring his waning energy before taking a defensive stance.

Unfairly fresh to the fight, the leader eventually took advantage. Several poundings later, he’d weakened Eden enough for number three to get a grip on him. Wrenching Eden’s arms back, number three exposed Eden’s torso for the leader to make several more dangerously impactful blows.

Eden knew he had no choice but to sag, the move allowing him to regain a few inches between him and his captor, the latter loosening his grip just a fraction as he’d hoped.

Not wasting any time, Eden used the leader as a walk-up, kicking him hard in the jaw and simultaneously slamming him against the brick wall in the process. He concluded the manoeuvre by pivoting over the one who held him and taking him to ground with the force, his opponent’s head cracking on the floor beneath him as he used him to soften his own fall.

Stumbling back to his feet, Eden spat out another mouthful of blood as he looked across at the leader, now also upright again, his slitty eyes filled with rage.

This time Eden was out of patience. A full-on fight in under three hours was not what he had planned for. And he most certainly hadn’t accounted for dying. This time the leader was going down.

But another con emerged from around the corner. One who clearly wasn’t expecting to walk in on the floorshow but, from the way he smirked as he discarded his cigarette, was all for interaction.

The newbie and the leader fought together and they fought dirty, Eden taking several more blows for the many more he defended. He struck them both hard enough to draw blood several times, but not enough to floor either of them for long.

His body ached, his eyes blurred as he took a smack to the nose. But as the newbie wrapped his arm around his neck, jammed his other arm behind his back, Eden hadn’t expected the leader to play
that
dirty.

He rammed the blade into Eden’s side. And twisted.

‘Fucking do it again,’ the one holding Eden hissed.

Eden felt the blade leaving his numbing body, before the leader rammed it in again.

When he felt it withdrawn once more, Eden knew the next one was going to be fatal.

He took a steady inhale to build up the last of his strength, ready to shove back against his captor with all his force.

A split second later, the leader’s head was twisted sharply to the side, his limp body slumping to the floor. He heard further crack of bones from the newbie, his hold loosening.

Eden fell to his knees on the floor. He clutched his side as he squinted up through blurry, bloodied eyes, barely able to make anything out but a girl stood above him – a tall and shapely female with dark, waist-length ringlets.

That distinctive feature along with the fact that, whoever she was, she clearly wasn’t human, told him he might have found what he’d come for.

If
he lived long enough to see it through.

J
essie removed
the padlock from the iron-mesh door and shoved it in her back pocket. After a wary glance left and right along the dark alley, she re-entered the abandoned storage area, quietly closing the door behind her.

From what she could see, he hadn’t moved. The stranger still lay on his back where she’d left him unconscious the night before, tucked into a blind spot beyond the crates. But since she’d checked on him late that morning, his left booted foot was now under his right calf as if he had stirred a little at some point. Both his arms were still lax by his sides though, his left bent upwards towards the crates behind. His jacket, which she’d removed and placed over him for warmth, was still in position.

Once convinced the rhythm of his breathing wasn’t fake, and his lack of swallowing proof enough that his sleep was genuine, she placed the spare T-shirt on the crates and approached him. Ballet pumps silent against the concrete floor, she unscrewed the lid on the water bottle as she stepped up alongside him.

Head tilted to the right towards where she stood, his eyes remained closed, sealed by unflinching dark lashes that, almost feminine in their thickness, were a contradiction to his otherwise masculine features. But handsome though he undeniably was, the numbers on his exposed right forearm betrayed anything but beauty beneath his exterior.

Tilting the bottle forty-five degrees, she quarter-emptied the contents down onto his face, the water flattening his short-back-and-sides dark hair and splashing on his strong, stubble-shadowed jaw.

‘Fuck,’ he hissed, his voice gruff and irritated enough to make her take a couple of steps back. He wiped his face before squinting up at her in the shadows.

The fine hairs on her arms prickled, heat flushing through her body as soon as his startled brown eyes met hers – compelling dark eyes that quickly narrowed.

He eased himself into a seated position, his jacket sliding off. But he instantly flinched, his hand clutching his side when reminded of the double stab wound that had nearly cost his life. He’d been lucky – a couple of inches to the left and he would have been dead, as Grayson had no doubt intended.

In fact, he’d been
very
lucky. Grayson was always precise, indicating that the stranger had flustered the brutal killer. That was a feat in itself. As proficient a fighter as the stranger had been, though, Grayson would have finished the job had she not intervened.

She’d only looked out of the landing window because she’d heard the unfamiliar rumble of a van’s engine down the back lane. At the same time, she’d caught sight of a male figure ascending the fire escape onto the flat roof opposite.

Keeping out of sight, she’d kept a wary eye on him whilst watching the van being unloaded below. Crate after crate had been removed and taken inside – nine in total. She would have investigated the latter further already had the night not taken the turn it had. Because it had taken that turn the minute something else had snagged her attention: a small, blonde figure ducking around the front of the van and also heading to the steps.

Mya. And where there was Mya, there was trouble. Mya was the best honeytrap the cons used. An appearance of vulnerability with an iron heart inside, she was willing bait in most of Grayson’s sick games.

So after the van had pulled away, when she saw Mya appear on the flat roof too, she’d lingered a moment longer.

She should have walked away. She should have left them to it. Keeping herself to herself was the way it worked – the way Pummel insisted it worked. And she nearly did. But the stranger’s apparent nonchalance towards Mya, despite her blatant come-on, had sustained Jessie’s curiosity. More so, seeing Grayson and the others ducking out of sight against the wall below in wait for their next outnumbered victim was all the provocation she’d needed not to turn a blind eye.

She’d headed back down the stairs, through the knocked-through archway into the neighbouring terraced house. She’d squeezed through the usual night crowd as she’d passed through the next arch. Those who’d noticed her had quickly parted, as they always did. It was the policy that had surrounded her for decades: no one touched, no one spoke to her, no one even looked at her other than by accident – no one outside of Pummel’s exclusive circle.

Reaching the under-stairs door, she’d turned her skeleton key in the lock and descended the wooden steps into the abandoned room. She’d crossed to the window and pushed the slatted boards aside. Easing out into the courtyard, she’d doubled back on herself, lifting herself up over the low, crumbling dividing wall as she headed in the direction of the alley.

Peering through the deep V of missing bricks on the far side, she’d arrived in time to hear the stranger mention Pummel. It shouldn’t have surprised her – everyone in the south had heard of Pummel. Or at least everyone who was anyone. With logic dictating the stranger was yet another in a long line looking to make a deal or get in with reputably the most powerful con in Blackthorn, she should have walked away.

Instead, she’d pressed her fist against the broken brick wall that hid her and clenched her jaw at the injustice of the four-on-one fight that had almost instantly broken out. She’d expected it to take only minutes before they’d beaten him to a pulp, but the stranger could fight, and impressively so, taking two out with swift and brutal ease as well as holding his own with the others. Whoever he was, he was most definitely
someone
. She’d watched in fascination and partly in awe, not just at how adept a fighter he was but the intelligence in his tactics too – an advantageous combination in a sub-society lording the principle of the survival of the fittest.

He almost hadn’t needed her help, until Grayson had fought dirty. Seeing the brutal con take the blade from the holster at the back of his jeans, she’d snapped. Consequences or not, she couldn’t stand by and watch the stranger be gutted.

She’d kept it swift and painless, though neither con deserved either. The stranger had subsequently collapsed to his knees amidst his heavy and pained breathing. From his half-beaten state though, he’d squinted up her.

It had sealed his fate.

Finally having seen his face as clearly as if sunlight had descended on it, she’d nearly forgotten to breathe; a face she’d recognised, sending shooting sensations up her spine as a result.

He’d passed out within seconds, whereas she’d stood staring down at him like she’d stepped into wet concrete – just like she was now.

But he still showed no recognition of her, confirming they hadn’t met; subsequently confirming there was far more to this con.

She handed him the remaining contents of the bottle more civilly, which, as he finally managed to recline against the crates despite his obvious discomfort, he accepted. As she backed up against the crates between him and the exit, he gave her another swift assessment before doing the same to the dark, dank storage room.

‘You know how to fight,’ she said, trying not to let any sense of admiration slip into her tone.

‘Comes with practice,’ he said, still with the same rasp of an inevitably dry throat. He adjusted his position with a minor wince, albeit it with a fluidity of moves as enticing as the body that governed them.

He certainly had the scar tissue to back up his claim: one on his left hip, another on his right side not far from his now rapidly healing stab wound. And he had that look – one that warned people not to get too close despite the mildness of his dark-brown eyes. Mild eyes that she knew from the evidence tattooed on his arm were painfully deceptive – numbers that betrayed acts as dark as the black ink used to engrave them on his skin. Acts that were committed both outside of and, more worryingly, inside the penitentiary.

‘Your penitentiary number isn’t from Lowtown,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t they send you to the core in your own locale?’

Transferring a convict from a penitentiary to the core was the last resort, saved for those who committed crimes so heinous or were so defiant on the inside that they were extradited to fend for themselves amongst the third species. Most cons banded together for survival, usually with bonds they had formed inside, so to be transferred to another locale was rare – as inhumane as sending established enemies into Blackthorn without security guards to protect the weaker. Because once you were in, you never got out. In all cases, an irretrievable chip was injected into each con’s brain on transfer – a chip that would implode if they tried to cross the border. Once in, they either survived or died, a fact that prompted her to again question if she would have been kinder to leave him to his inevitable fate sooner.

The only problem was, she didn’t know whether that fate was for good or bad. And she had no way of knowing. Not yet. All she knew was that, based on her recognition, he was integral somehow.

‘This
is
my locale,’ he said. Adjusting his position again to sit completely upright, he drew Jessie’s attention to the thick, black leather band that encompassed his left wrist as he lifted the bottle of water back to his lips. ‘They sent me to a penitentiary in another.’

He seemed surprisingly at ease, but his scrutiny as he rested his head back against the crate, as he dragged his gaze from her feet to her eyes, made her stomach clench. No one dared linger on her except for Pummel – and he
never
looked at her like that.

‘They don’t do that unless you’re serious trouble,’ she said.

‘Is there any other kind?’ he asked with a glint of a smile before he took another mouthful of water, the flexion in his bicep straining against his T-shirt sleeve with the motion.

She tried not to be distracted by the lips that wrapped themselves around the bottle’s rim – lips she had lingered on while she’d bit into her own as he’d lain unconscious beneath her. Firm lips she had gently touched with the very tips of her fingers, knowing there was no risk of him waking with the sedative she had embedded in his system to ensure he stayed unconscious long enough for her to get back to him. Lips she had been tempted to graze with her own just to experience how they would feel.

‘You don’t want to be boasting of any kind of reputation around here,’ she said. ‘This place is more territorial than you can imagine.’

‘So I’ve seen.’

‘Believe me, there are plenty more where Grayson came from.’

He glanced to her left to where moonlight spilled through the mesh door behind her, creating a woven pattern on the concrete floor. ‘How long have I been unconscious?’

‘All day. I gave you a mild sedative to ease the pain.’

He scanned the room again.
‘
Where am I?’

‘Only twenty feet from where you were attacked last night – in a storage lock-up below the old shop roof you were stood on. No one comes in here.’

He looked back at her, raked her swiftly again. ‘You had some swift moves of your own out there.’

‘He would have stabbed you again and finished the job.’

‘What do you care?’

‘I don’t. But Grayson was out of line.’

‘You knew him?’

‘I know everyone around here.’

He glanced at where the sleeves of her loose-fitting sweater cusped the backs of her hands. ‘Are you a con too?’

She folded her arms. ‘No.’

She expected him to persist, but he didn’t. Instead he lifted his bloodied T-shirt and pulled back the dressing to examine the stitches she’d used to patch him up. Stitches that she knew were for effect only, her attempt to mask the true nature of his healing. She tried not to linger on the fraction of the hard body he’d exposed and could only hope he wouldn’t notice
how
rapidly he was healing – that his memory was hazy enough to question what really happened.

‘Did you do this?’ he asked, looking back at her.

She nodded and cast the clean T-shirt at him.

He caught it one-handed, seemingly having no further question of the small miracle happening beneath his skin. Knocking back another mouthful before leaving the bottle on the floor, he finally eased to his feet, clutching his side again.

She stood upright from her semi hip-recline against the crates and braced herself despite knowing taking him down would be easy – his proficiency in combat irrelevant to what was inherent in her.

But instead of stepping closer, he removed his T-shirt, allowing her to finally fully appreciate his sculpted torso in the shadows. She glanced at the extent of the tattoo that engulfed his left shoulder like armour, the tip of the lifelike flames caressing his pec and almost licking his neck before disappearing over his back. Another sat to the left of his stomach – some kind of emblem. There was another indistinguishable one further up his side. Many cons wore tattoos to define their crimes, their turf, their gangs or their beliefs, but as her gaze wandered down over his firm flesh to the waist of his low-slung jeans – jeans that were held up loosely by a worn, soft, brown leather belt – she didn’t recognise any of his.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked as his fresh T-shirt dropped into place.

She snapped her gaze back to his. ‘What’s yours?’

He gave her a hint of a sideways smile, clearly wanting to give away about as much as she did. Worse, she was struggling to read him as he stood there scrutinising her, when it was supposed to be the
other
way around.

‘I prefer disclosure to be two-way,’ he said.

‘Then tell me why you were asking after Pummel.’

‘You know him?’

‘Everyone around here knows him.’

‘Because he runs this place, right?’

‘He’s one of the ones who thinks he does. And he won’t like you.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘When was the last time you looked in a mirror? Males who look as good as you do don’t last long around here. You evoke too much attention; create too much competition. Unless you
want
another Grayson to finish the job next time. Like I said, there are plenty ready and willing.’

‘Like Pummel?’

‘Just like Pummel. Clearly you know how to look after yourself – you’d be better going it alone than initiating yourself into this row.’