Blood Mate: The Project Rebellion, Book 2 (4 page)

The hand didn’t make contact. Instead, the Blood female turned and fixed the human soldier with a look which would have frozen lava. The human stiffened, his shoulders tight and he withdrew the hand slowly. Darce grinned, not bothering to hide his amusement. His Blood didn’t like casual touching. Good. He didn’t want
anyone
touching her but him.

She carried on glaring and the human scuttled away. The rest kept their distance, watching the small group of vehicles. She stood by the last bag in line. Set a little apart from the others, the violent orange was a raw, open wound in the pre-dawn light. A visual warning that what was contained within was dangerous. Even when dead.

Darce forgot all about the discomfort in his wrists when she knelt down and reached out to pull the zipper. The hackles rose on the back of his neck, every protective instinct within him coming to the fore. His lip curled back, a snarl rumbling in the back of his throat.

Jealousy joined the party. Who was he? Who was in the bag? Then he caught the slump of her shoulders, the despair written in the lines of her body. It was a slight movement, almost imperceptible, and one the humans around her would have missed. But Darce wasn’t human. He noticed. The set of her frame screamed misery and the puzzle deepened, gnawing at him.

Darce was no idiot, despite the joking attitude he showed the rest of the world. He’d seen the interplay between his female and the RA before the attack on the hospital. Had seen the conversation—a conversation a mindless zombie shouldn’t be capable of—and the look on his woman’s face when she’d shot the creature dead.

Double tap between the eyes. Cool, calm, professional. He narrowed his eyes, the frown pulling at his brow. She was a career soldier, all right. From what he’d seen of her in action—and ignoring the abilities granted by her Blood infection—she had to have been commando, if not special forces originally. No way had she been a ground-pounder. She was too slick in action.

Who had the guy in the bag been?

Whoever he was, he’d been important to her. A lover perhaps? The wolf within snapped and snarled, torn between the need to protect her and rage at the possibility she belonged to another. Even if that other was dead now, it made no difference. His wolf wanted her, wanted to howl its claim to the moonlit sky above and warn all others off. He yanked on his bonds again, blood running down his arms. Possessiveness, the need to mark her and have her carry his scent, surged hotly through his veins.

Thanks to the silver, the cuffs held him securely. Each struggle caused them to bite deeper, bathing his arms in his own blood. He ignored the pain, watching as his woman set about gathering wood from the side of the road. Armful after armful, branches torn from the lower reaches of trees and bundles of twigs and undergrowth scooped up with sharp movements filled with anger.

Intrigued, he stopped struggling when she started to pile the wood up. What the hell was she doing? Making some sort of weird-ass nest? He’d never heard of Bloods building nests. Did bats build nests? No, that was ridiculous. Trying to ascribe the traits from creatures of myth and legend to the creatures of the Project was like trying to plait jam. In other words, fucking pointless. They only likened the BDs to vampires and the LYs to Lycans because they shared some similarities, not all. If they did, then a good lasagna would have dealt with the Bloods long before, because the base mess put enough garlic into the stuff even a human could smell it three days later.

His brow unfurrowed as she formed the pile into a man-shaped mound next to the orange body bag. A funeral pyre—had to be. She planned to burn the body. But why? Why not take it back to the Project…where they would poke and prod at it. No, he knew why. She’d shed a tear when she’d shot him so this guy obviously meant a lot to her. A person who meant enough that she’d rather burn his body out here and give him a proper send off instead of letting the Project desecrate his corpse with their damn tests.

He didn’t blame her. Now he knew what really went on behind the closed doors, he wouldn’t trust the Project with even a lawyer’s corpse. God alone knew what they would manage to achieve with a base subject like that…

The pyre prepared, she bent down and grabbed the handles of the orange bag to manhandle the body on top. The humans carried on watching her from the safety of their group. It was obvious no one planned to stop her, or even question. Darce had no doubt when asked later none of them would remember seeing a thing, or even admit the team had stopped for so long. Fitzgerald and his core group of sycophants might form the powers that be on base, but no one wanted a Blood pissed off at them. Given that they could move faster than any guard could see, were physically strong enough to break through most doors, and could smooth-talk any lock, having one pissed off at you tended to have one outcome: a short life expectancy.

So brews and smokes got broken out. The human soldiers studiously ignored the Blood as she arranged the body bag across the top of the hastily erected pyre. Darce sat motionless, enraptured by the grace of her movements. When finally she had the body arranged to her satisfaction, she put her hand in her pocket. The fabric pulled tight across her curvy ass and interest—purely male and carnal—flared brightly. She pulled a lighter from her pocket, then flicked the lid open and closed between long fingers. He recognized the rapid fire movement. It was exactly the same one he used when deep in thought, his own lighter normally in his left pant pocket. Probably in some guard’s pocket now. Bastards had taken it when they’d put him and the rest of the pack in the nuthouse.

She’d been a smoker before her infection of course—things like that didn’t survive the transition. But he’d lay good odds she had been.

With a flick of her fingers, she snapped the lighter open again, then struck it. A small flame erupted before she threw the lighter onto the body. It landed on the orange bag and held for a second, then started to slide. The seconds stretched out as the small metal case slipped down the curve of the plastic-wrapped body and into the wood below. Nothing happened for long moments—the tiny flame lost in the tangled knot of wood until it re-emerged to creep up onto one branch, and then another and another. Soon it raced outward, reaching eager fingers over the plastic, seeking the flammable treat contained within. Like someone had turned up the gas, the fire roared to life, the flames going from small, tentative licks to an inferno which engulfed the body.

The blaze cracked and popped. The plastic melted away, the core of the fire white hot as it greedily consumed the corrupt corpse. The wind changed and the flames leaped, carrying the fetid, hot smell to the back of the truck. With no way to escape its rancid reach, Darce slammed his shoulders against the metal behind him, every instinct he had recoiling from the sheer wrongness.

He shoved his nose hard against his own arm to block out the smell and tried to breathe through his ears while he watched over his arm. Even though her sense of smell had to be equal to his, she stood motionless. Watched the fire burn brightly. A lone sentinel paying last respects for the dead.

Melancholy washed over him. Would anyone care enough to stand over his body? Would she?

Fire. The great cleanser. Like water, it was unmatched in its ability to destroy and wipe the slate clean. Heat beat at Toni’s face. She watched the flames devour Garry’s body until it was reduced to nothing but glowing embers. It didn’t take long. RA bodies burned quickly, like lighting a fuse, until there was nothing left—not even bone. The whole body was consumed by the flame like nature herself sought to correct the mistake wrought by man.

The fire had all but died, but she still saw it in her mind’s eye, where the flames blazed brightly. Stripped the plastic from the body within to eat at the altered flesh. The inferno still burned brightly in her thoughts, as though it had transferred from the embers in front of her to blaze within her soul, fuelled by her rage.

Burning white hot and without mercy.

The Project had killed Garry. They’d lied to him. Killed him as surely as if they’d pulled the trigger instead of her. But, ultimately,
she’d
killed him. She’d actually fired the bullets that ended his life and killed an RA who was supposed to be dead already. Killed him because they’d turned him into his worst nightmare. Her jaw worked, her teeth grinding so hard they ached.

Oh, she knew Garry hadn’t been a saint. He worked for the Project after all, so there had to be some skeletons in his closet, but the punishment should fit the crime. He’d been a med-tech, not one of the scientists. To her knowledge, he’d never personally infected anyone, just been part of the team that dealt with the aftereffects. He hadn’t deserved to be killed and turned into his worst nightmare.

No one deserved that.

But there was no way to complain. No superior officer or chain of command to report the bastards who’d strapped him to that trolley to. A complaint to Fitzgerald would be counterproductive. More than. Any hint of dissent on base was dealt with swiftly, usually by the application of a bullet to the back of the head. She wasn’t going to complain though, just make the Project pay. Make that asshole Fitzgerald pay. After she’d gotten the cure from him, of course. When she had it, she’d tear him apart with her bare hands.

Vengeance.

An ember spat and rolled from the remains of the impromptu pyre and came to rest at the side of her boot. She watched it for a long moment, unblinking, then took a deep breath and turned. Left the glowing embers behind without a backward glance, and strode toward the transporter with the Lycan inside.

“We’re done here. Pack it up and let’s move out,” she ordered, her voice pitched to carry to her men. As one, they scuttled to do her bidding. Mugs were emptied onto the ground. Cigarettes dropped and stamped out. She shook her head and stalked toward the truck. Thankfully, they weren’t trying to conceal their tracks—wouldn’t take much intelligence for anyone to work out they’d been here. Just the remains of a fire, which—thanks to the fact that RA bodies burnt cleanly—no one could identify as a pyre.

Wilson appeared as she clambered into the back of the truck. He moved before she could ask, helping her to close the tailgate and barking orders to the milling soldiers. She nodded to herself in approval. Despite the idiot moment around the Lycan earlier that could have ended up with him having his throat torn out, he wasn’t a bad soldier. He had the kind of smarts she’d normally look for in someone to recommend for promotion. Pity he wouldn’t survive long with the Project.
 

“Straight through to the base.” She latched the last loop into place. “No more stops. Fitz’ll be fit to bursting anyway, no reason to give him more of an excuse to have a damn hissy fit. When we get in, offload the Lycan and I’ll deal with the debrief. You get the lads clear of the square and in their racks, okay?”

Wilson grinned, the prospect of not having to go through a debrief with the General an obvious relief. “Yes, ma’am. With some luck we might just get in before the breakfast rush.”

A small smile curved her lips as he tapped the top of the tailgate and disappeared to the front of the truck. Soldiers, always thinking of their stomachs. Typical.

The front door slammed shut and she bit back a moan. The scent of blood, rich and decadent wrapped around her, chasing the stench of burning RA flesh from her nostrils in an instant. Relief surged through her. She’d smelled RAs burning before but knowing the flesh burning had once belonged to a friend, a person she knew, was somehow worse. It was easy to forget the RAs had all been someone—albeit a someone who had been condemned to death usually—but a person all the same.

Taking a deep breath, she focused on the blood. Rolled the delicious scent along her tongue to taste it, holding the breath deep in her lungs until she’d chased away unsavory thoughts of barbecue and regained her control. Only just.

The sickening hunger dissipated, leaving an altogether different type of hunger racing through her veins. She ignored it, opening her eyes to look at the prisoner. He sat still, arms above his head and skin bathed in blood—the source of the smell. Her stomach rolled again as her gaze latched onto the scarlet stains, the need for blood and more assaulting her.

Grimly she fought the need back and looked at him levelly. She was just low on blood—that was all. Once she got back to base and had her fill from the chemically-controlled, chilled baggies of o-positive they kept especially for her, this strange need to wrap herself around him and sink her fangs into his throat would disappear. It had to—there was no way she was getting fang-happy with a mutt.

Still, she shot a concerned glance at his wrists. The last thing she needed was a bleed out. Full-bird Fitz would use any excuse not to give her the cure, if he had it at all. She needed the Lycan alive, if not exactly fighting fit. Leaning forward, she lifted his arm. The cuts were deep but already healing.

“You’re an idiot,” she told him, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of the engine. “Those cuffs have held bigger and meaner than you with no problems.”

He shrugged, watching her through human-dark eyes. At least he was calm now, his movements sluggish as he lifted his arms and rattled the chains against the side of the cabin. Sweat beaded over his skin, and every movement seemed an effort. Good. He was still under the control of the drugs. She wouldn’t have to shoot him up again.

“Who was he? Your lover?” he demanded, amber leeching into his eyes again and betraying the wolf hidden beneath the surface.