Enslaved by the Others (17 page)

During a drum solo, Kumiho shouted conversationally at me over the music. “That fucker better not hit my car. Bad enough I’ll probably need a new paint job after this.”

I just gaped at her.

We burst out of the trees and into a small clearing. There must have been a frozen pond or something under the snow, because Kumiho had to wrestle with the steering wheel and my heart crept up into my throat as we started drifting into a sideways slide. Just as I thought we were going to slam into a looming oak, the tires got traction and hurtled us through a gap in the trees, back into the forest.

Behind us, the car fishtailed, sailed into a spin, and careened into a huge snowdrift. Even over the music, I heard a sickening crunch and the shriek of twisting metal.

Kumiho smiled, her eyes narrowing to thin slivers, but she didn’t let up on the gas. We rocketed through the woods at alarming speed, putting more distance between us and our pursuers.

In the span of two more songs, we were beyond the wooded barely-there path and back on a paved road. I don’t know how she found it, or how we managed to get through that mess without hitting any trees, but I was grateful for it nonetheless.

My fingers hurt with strain from clinging to the handle as I flexed them open and let go. Under the gloves, I was sure my knuckles must have gone white.

Once through the shortcut, she took a lot of back roads and winding streets until we reached a dirt road that ran through an empty field blanketed in snow. Visibility behind us was good, so we could see if anyone else had followed us, with plenty of time to get back in the car and take off.

She was a lot more solicitous now that we didn’t have Max or any of his men within spitting distance. Of course it hurt like hell to move around. On the bright side, she said the chip was on the back of my right hand, so I didn’t have to get out of the car while she removed it.

After handing me a wad of tissues from the dash and giving me a purse strap to bite down on—the best she could do under the circumstances—she came around to my side of the car. Standing on the step on my side, she felt around the back of my hand and then between the webbing of my thumb while I huddled in the cab, shivering. She found what she was looking for and used a razor-sharp nail to make an incision. It didn’t hurt nearly as badly as I was braced for, probably because everything else hurt much worse already.

As she squeezed around the cut, a small object about the size of a grain of rice popped out. Like a splinter I didn’t know I had. I caught it in my other hand before it could slip away and disappear in the snow. Rubbing the blood off, it looked like a tiny red-and-black computer chip encased in glass. Not very ominous on its own, but the implications of having it inside me chilled me to the core. I wondered if Max had put the chip in me back when I first met him in New York, or if he had waited until I was in his clutches here in Illinois.

As a P.I., I had done quite a lot of investigation into the technology of tracking missing persons. A GPS chip that could broadcast a signal through human skin wasn’t supposed to be possible. Yet, here I was, looking at what amounted to a human LoJack system. I supposed money really could buy anything when you were as rich as Max Carlyle. That, or, when you had as much time on your hands as a vampire, you could spend decades or centuries studying a technology to twist and perfect it for your own uses.

Kumiho extended her hand for it. Once I gave it to her, she snapped the tiny device between her fingers and then tossed it to the ground. “Good riddance. You ready to rock and roll?”

At my nod, she got back behind the wheel and started driving again. Though I had no clue where she was taking us, she must have been familiar with the area since she turned off the plowed trails to angle into what seemed to me like a minor depression in the woods. These always turned out to be side roads, some of which led onto other private properties, others into villages or towns.

Unable to do much else, I stared out the window, trying not to think too hard about what Max must have done to Dustin and what he would do to the people left behind who still needed to be saved. A cold, empty place in my heart filled with dread at the thought of how he might take out his frustrations on Sara since I had escaped his clutches.

As we ate up the miles, the towns and other traffic on the road became more frequent. The one- and two-story buildings we were encountering were soon scattered with a few taller ones. There were modern office buildings and fast-food chains I recognized. There was a muted glow on the horizon that Kumiho told me was Chicago proper, though she was headed somewhere else.

It was very late by the time she pulled into a gated community somewhere out in the wilderness beyond the greater city limits. After she punched a code into the monitor beside a darkened security guard station, the gates swung open on silent hinges to grant us entrance into the walled estate.

We passed a huge clubhouse overlooking a pond that had not frozen over except at the edges, water spraying from a fountain in its center, and a couple of tennis courts. I studied the houses. Most were single-story, sprawling over decently sized lawns. They weren’t built right on top of each other like most communities of this type that I had seen. A few of the homes had swing sets in their front yards. I guessed the majority of the homes were two and three bedrooms, and it looked like this was a community for upper-middle-class families with children.

Kumiho navigated the well-lit streets with familiarity, pulling into the driveway of one of the bigger houses. I caught a glimpse of a lake in the backyard, and the Tudor-style home was tucked into the end of a dead-end street, giving the place a vibe of security and privacy.

The place was designed like a miniature castle, complete with a rounded turret on one side. A weathervane topped the cone-like slate roof, which tapered to a point higher than the rest of the house.

It looked warm and inviting and mostly I was grateful that we were stopped so I could finally lie down and sleep. Now that the worst of the danger was behind me and no one had followed us to the gates, I didn’t feel too awful tucking away my worries about Sara so I could get some rest. Despite my concern for her, we wouldn’t accomplish anything else today, and I would be pretty useless to make plans or describe anything about Max’s hideout until I was better rested.

I hadn’t been given any opportunity to sleep off my shock or my hurts. As badly as I wanted to help Sara, Iana, Dustin, and everyone else I had left behind, I could barely string two thoughts together, let alone figure out how I was going to get them to safety.

Kumiho killed the engine, then turned to look at me. Though I could feel her gaze on me, sensed her scrutiny like a physical touch, I just stared ahead. Reacting was a bit too beyond me just then.

“Are you going to be able to walk? Or do you need help?”

It took me longer than it probably should have to process her question. Even then, my answer was hoarse and wavering. “Help, I think.”

Getting from the car to the house was a bit of a blur. Mostly I remember cold, seeping right through my shoes and pants and gloves, more than it should have over such a short distance. Pain ate at my vision, darkening the edges a little more with every step. Her strength was all that kept me on my feet. Not normal. Not human. I still had enough cognizance to be able to tell.

It felt like forever until she set me down, leaving me to sink into a pile of soft cushions. Spent from the combined exhaustion and pain, I barely managed to note that there were indeed four walls around the couch that was now the center of my universe.

I closed my eyes and was gone.

Chapter Sixteen

The distant jangle of a phone jarred me out of sleep. I woke up to watery sunshine on my face, the rest of me cocooned like a blanket burrito. I was filled with warmth and a thousand tiny aches all over my body. Oh, and one hot, dull throb from my hip.

“Good morning. Or afternoon, technically.”

Kumiho was far too cheerful. But I smelled coffee, and that lured me out of my burrito-shaped hideout.

“Where are we?” My voice sounded like I had swallowed about a pound of wet sand followed by a gravel chaser.

I had to squint against the sunlight streaming in from some rather large picture windows overlooking an ice-rimmed lake and snow-dusted trees. The room was a strange conglomeration of Eastern-influenced furniture and artwork depicting some fox-like creature with many tails, mixed with a couple of custom neon signs and what I thought might be framed K-pop band posters on the pale yellow walls. Kumiho was visible beyond the breakfast bar, puttering around in a large kitchen full of new-but-made-to-look-old appliances, apparently content to ignore the phone ringing in another room. It cut off before long, probably going to voicemail.

“Welcome to my humble abode. You’re lucky Mr. Royce sent me to be your hostess, tour guide, and guardian for your stay in my little slice of paradise.” She grinned, saluting me with a mug. “Here’s to rich benefactors, eh? Come on, up and at ’em. Get some food in you and then I’ll show you to the shower. We need to get you cleaned up and into some new clothes because, girl, I hate to tell you, but white is
so
not your color.”

That startled a laugh out of me, followed by a brief coughing fit. Once I got my breath back, I rearranged the fuzzy—need I say it?—hot pink blanket, swinging my legs around. Though the pull and burn was sharp, and my muscles protested every step of the way, I managed to get to my feet under my own power and pad across the heated tile floor to the breakfast bar. Getting up on one of the stools was a little much for me to manage, so I stood there, blistered feet aching, leaning heavily against the counter.

“I’m not really the Betty Homemaker type, so I hope you don’t mind a simple dish. I was making
hoeddeok
. It’s a little like pancakes.”

I nodded, taking the cup of coffee she offered me as she turned back to prepare me a plate.

“That sounds great. Thanks for the coffee and everything.” I sipped, closing my eyes in bliss as the rich, sweet taste rolled over my tongue. “And thank you for coming to my rescue,” I belatedly remembered to add.

“Hey, anytime. This is a drop in the bucket compared to what I owe your master.”

That gave me a start. “Whoa, now. He’s not—”

“Oh, sorry. Slip of the tongue,” she said, though I got the impression from the light in her eyes and the sly twist of her lips that she had meant exactly what she said. “I forget what the PC term is for it these days. What is that ridiculous word ... Your host?”

My cheeks warmed, but I met and held her challenging stare as she pulled the plastic wrap off of a bowl and reached inside to roll a handful of some kind of dough in her hands. “I’m not a blood donor, if that’s what you’re implying.” Not really. I hoped. Maybe just that once—but that didn’t make the title stick. Did it?

“Funny, that’s not what the newshounds say. And he is awfully fond of you, if the number of phone calls I’ve received from him since last night are any indication.”

That filled me with an altogether different kind of warmth. Was it possible the vampire had deeper feelings for me than my bruised and battered ego dared hope? When he sent me to stay with Clyde in Los Angeles, I had done my best to make myself believe that he was doing it for my own safety. Royce must have had a good reason for sending me away, and that reason couldn’t have had anything to do with being dissatisfied with my performance in the sack after I finally grew a pair and admitted I wanted him to do every dirty thing to me I had ever read about in those romance novels I hid from my mom as a teen.

Don’t judge me.

The guy had done everything I had hoped and more, fulfilling fantasies I hadn’t even known I’d had. Things that made me flush just to recall. To be sent away on the heels of experiencing the kind of afterglow that Chaz, my alpha werewolf cheating scumbag of an ex-boyfriend, had never been able to give me, may have made me a bit paranoid that Royce was not as enamored of me as I now was of him. My many worries about Royce’s motives and what he really wanted from me took a backseat after the night we had shared.

Kumiho’s sly, knowing smile made it hard for me to come up with a way of explaining my relationship with Royce that didn’t make me feel like I was giving up a state secret. After my awkward silence extended a bit too long, she laughed and placed the ball of dough on the flour-dusted counter.

“It’s all over your face, sweetie. I know what it’s like to fall under his spell. I’m just surprised you managed to snare him, that’s all.”

Somehow I managed to keep my tone neutral. “Oh? Why is that?”

She didn’t miss a beat, rolling out more circles of dough while her gaze and widening smile were focused intently on me. “He’s always been a regular Don Juan. Using his looks and his money and everything else to get what he wants, only to leave his lovers once he’s had what he was after. Don’t look so shocked. It’s the nature of the beast when dealing with vampires. I just find it fascinating that you’re the one who melted one of the coldest, most jaded hearts I’ve ever encountered.”

I fiddled with my coffee mug, staring down at the contents so I wouldn’t have to look her in the eye anymore. Though I hardly expected him to be a saint, I didn’t want to think about Royce’s “conquests” before I came along, either. Considering how he oozed sex appeal like the world’s most effective cologne, I shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Hey,” she said, tapping the back of my hand with a flour-coated finger. “Sometimes I let my mouth run. Don’t worry about any of that. He’s a damned fine catch, and word on the grapevine says he’s a wonder in the sack. A walking, talking wet dream, as one of my friends put it. Ride it while the riding’s good!”

My mouth dropped open, and I’m pretty sure my cheeks matched the color of my fire engine red curls.

Humming some jaunty tune under her breath, Kumiho focused on whatever she was making, driving her thumbs into the center of each ball, using a spoon to dump a mixture of what looked like brown sugar and some kind of crushed nut in the center before rolling them back shut.