“Why are we here?” she asked.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just tucked the edges of the sheet under the blanket in an almost-reverent manner. “This is where my daughter sleeps. Every four nights. The rest of the time, she lives with me.” He didn’t look up, and for that Eden was glad. Because she didn’t want to see his face.
“And these”—he reached under the side of the bed and yanked on something—“are what she gets strapped into once she transforms.” He stood back, exposing the shackles at both ends of the bed. His lips were tight, made even tighter each time a whimper threatened to crest them. His strong chest jerked as he held back his emotion.
“Your daughter. She’s”—she cleared her throat—“like me?”
His eyebrows came together as he shook his head. “No, not like you. Not exactly. I mean, she’s a Jekyll. But, like the others, she’s only half. My wife,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“Does your wife sleep here too?”
“My wife is dead.”
“Oh. I’m…sorry.” What a lame response, but what else could she say? The man was obviously grieving something. Maybe his wife’s death, maybe his daughter’s transformations, who knew? “Why don’t they give your daughter the serum?”
“Because it’s imperfect. It takes a huge toll on the body.”
“Wow, I’m so glad they told me about possible side-effects before they started giving it to me.” She opened her eyes and mouth as wide as they would go. “Oh wait, they didn’t even tell me they were giving it to me. Oops.”
His eyes narrowed briefly. “It doesn’t work on most of you. Alicia would have to take ten times what you used to, and it still wouldn’t work consistently. That’s why you got to live a normal life while they were giving it to you.”
“That doesn’t make me lucky, Fields. That makes me an unwilling participant in their drug trial.”
“They’ve made mistakes, done things I don’t agree with. But everything they do will help my daughter. And now, they think you have the answer. The cure.” His stare made Eden take a step backwards with its intensity. “In your blood or your DNA. They think something inside of you can stop it all from happening. To everyone. To my little girl.”
“There’s nothing special about me, Fields.” It wasn’t a lie. ‘Special’ wasn’t a word she’d use. And until she understood just what Chastity had taken away from her, she didn’t know what word to use. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help you, but I’m not any different than any other…Jekyll.” God, she hated that word. Hated being part of a group of monsters even more than she hated being a monster. Knowing there were others, at least four more who were still living, made her want to weep along with her guard.
“You’re wrong, Eden. You are different. Did you know there’s only been one case of someone born of two...”
She saw him stumble over the word. Abnormals. He couldn’t call a group that his daughter was part of ‘Abnormals’. She understood—being part of that group wasn’t fun either.
He swallowed before continuing his thought. “That The Clinic has found.”
“Sucks for them.” She rubbed her arms briskly as the cold air of the room started to get to her. “But what does that have to do with me?” Please don’t answer. Please don’t answer. Please don’t answer. Not with what I think you’re going to.
“Because both your parents were...you know,” he said, confused.
“Dead?” she spat. “Junkies? Both? What?” Don’t answer!
“You really don’t know about your parents?” he asked, surprise mixing with the sadness in his eyes.
She felt her anger overwhelm her fear. “Not sure about my father, but yeah, I’m well aware of the life my mom had. Thanks a lot.”
“Eden, you’re the offspring of a Jekyll and a Hyde.”
No. A shiver slid like a snake up her body, wrapping itself around her chest until she had to fight for air. No. “Sorry, Fields, but you’re wrong. My mom was an addict. She had mental issues, she didn’t transform.” That you know of. But you were only a kid.
“And no one knows who my father was,” she continued. “My mom barely even remembered his name.” She laughed, the sound weak and false. Wrong again, Eden. Her mother had loved him so much that she didn’t want to repeat his name, only saying it when she was so drunk or high she didn’t know what she was doing. Not knowing that her little girl hung on every word because she wanted so much to know about her father.
“Shit,” she said. “I don’t even remember it.”
“Ian,” he said aloud at the same moment she said it silently. Ian.
The name hung in the air between them. The only thing she knew about her biological father, other than that he was a bastard who had left her mom right after he’d knocked her up.
Ian. Not a particularly common name, certainly not the name one would just throw out as a guess in a situation like this. If there were situations like this. For normal people.
“About a month ago,” Fields said, “my daughter almost died. They saved her, but there’s no guarantee it won’t happen again. If you help them, maybe someday there will be a guarantee.”
“They think I can help just because I got royally screwed-over in the genetics department?” Thanks, mom and dad. What did that make her? A double freak? A cross-breed between two Abnormals? A mutt?
“You’re different than any other. That’s why you have to stay. Or, at least, come back regularly so they can figure out what’s going on—how you’ve been able to mesh your Jekyll with your human side.”
“How do they know that?”
“Well, your eyes for one. And from the little I know of how you used to be, I can’t imagine you’d have been so difficult to subdue a few weeks ago. The speed of your healing. That’s all part of being a Jekyll. But you’re smart, emotional, not as single-minded as a true Jekyll is.” He glanced at the bed.
“I’m no different than she is, Fields.”
“You’re wrong. Please, give them some time to figure it out. I know they don’t want to force you, but you have to agree. Think of all the people you’ll save.” His steps were fast as he crossed the room. “You have to help us.”
She backed away, knocking one of the machines over. The sound of glass shattering, metal hitting tile, stopped him. Broke him out of his trance. He blinked, shaking his head to wake himself up, blood rushing to his cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Eden. I didn’t mean to— I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I take it back, Fields. I don’t trust anyone in this place.” As she walked by him, she slugged him in the arm. He could blame it on her abnormal-side or whatever-the-hell-else he wanted to blame it on. She knew what had caused the reaction. And knew just how human it was.
CHAPTER V
It took two men to pull Mitch off the other guy. His vision didn’t clear until they threw him against the cinderblock wall. He shook himself off and picked a piece of cement out of a bleeding gash on his shoulder.
That hurt.
The man he’d just beaten was lying motionless in the middle of the chalk-outlined square, while a couple people took turns checking to see if he was still breathing.
Mitch knew the men who’d pulled him off were screaming at him. But it was as if he were in a tunnel about a half a mile away. He saw their jaws moving, fists clenched or angrily thrown up occasionally, but he could barely hear them.
He didn’t want to hurt anyone…too badly. But this was the only way he could feel peace. The only way to quiet Hyde. Shit, it was the only way Mitch could shut his mind off from thinking about her. For him, fighting was like a brief visit to nirvana, like some kind of fucked-up Zen garden. Every punch he threw, every kick he felt make contact, numbed him. Like meditation. And he’d been meditating a hell of a lot lately. First at the gym, but that was short-lived. They wore gloves there. Fucking pussies.
No, he’d had to find underground fights—no rules, no gloves, no chit-chat, no bullshit. They move
d from location to location, to avoid gawkers and cops. If these guys had any idea Landon used to be a detective and still had connections—albeit useless ones—at the station, they would’ve all pounced. Huh. One against, maybe, ten? That might be a good thing. Mitch would be bleeding and in pain for weeks. It’d be worth it. Too bad Landon hadn’t come with him this time. For some reason, the cop didn’t enjoy watching Mitch get the shit kicked out of him. Or it could’ve been that he didn’t like what the other guy looked like once Mitch was done fighting.
The only thing that worked to blind him was to be blinded. Literally sometimes, when he went up against an opponent who was fast enough to nail him in the face a few times. But it was getting harder and harder to find someone who would fight him. In fact, with all of the bad Fight Club jokes he kept making, it was getting harder to find someone who would tell him where the next meet-up would be. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He needed to try being a gracious winner.
“Thank you for the lovely evening, gentlemen.” He saluted awkwardly, wondering how many of his bones were broken this time. He pushed past the men, still not knowing—or caring—what they were saying. The crowd around his opponent looked at him menacingly as he approached. They had no idea what menacing looked like. What Mitch saw in the mirror every day. Just under his skin.
His beauty truly was only skin deep. Except now. No, right now even your skin is probably pretty fucking ugly, asshole.
When he looked down at the man he’d defeated, he saw drops of his own blood land on the guy’s shoulder. Now, not only was that highly non-hygienic, but it was also very disrespectful. He wiped his mouth, thinking the blood was probably coming from there. Then he wiped his forehead just in case. “Fuck,” he yelled as the sting hit. That one might even need stitches. Until Hyde’s good, good healing kicked in and forced Mitch back in the ring.
“You okay, dude?” he asked, bending down. “You need some help?”
The guy grunted and shoved Mitch’s leg. “I don’t need your fucking help.”
“Everyone needs help once in a while. There’s no shame in it.” Mitch stuck out his hand. “You fought the good fight, my man. Thank you.”
Through eyes almost swollen shut, the guy glared for a moment and then slapped his hand into Mitch’s. “You fight like the devil’s chasing you.”
Shaking his head, Mitch hauled the guy up to his feet. “The devil caught me a long time ago. Now I’m just his bitch.” When the guy smiled, Mitch winced. “I see many unpleasant dental bills in your future, my friend.”
The guy nodded, reached into his mouth, and yanked on one of his teeth. It popped out like he’d just flicked-on a light switch. “Give this to your keeper. Tell him it’s payment for the next hard fucking he gives you.”
If Mitch was a better man, he would’ve laughed at the joke, left the guy with a little bit of pride. But Mitch wasn’t a better man. Nor did he want to be a better man. Not now. So he slammed his fist into the guy’s jaw, hearing a crunch followed by a communal groan from the crowd. At least his ears were working properly.
“Watch your mouth,” Mitch said. “The Devil’s actually a hell of a guy. And he lets me be the little spoon.”
Limping out of the warehouse towards his car, Mitch was numb to everything—his thoughts were simple, easy, and frankly, barely coherent. Just the way he liked it. But once his adrenaline died down, he’d feel the physical pain. And it would almost be enough to cover the emotional shit. Almost.
When he got back to his house, he paused on the doorstep. Every time he came home, he imagined he would find her there, dumped off by Chastity, waiting to be woken up. Every time he walked up to the door, his gut would clench, knowing he wouldn’t find her there. Knowing what an asshole he’d been and how much time he’d wasted pushing her away. And now it was too late.
Shit. The only thing he ever found was Landon’s ass, drinking all of his booze and sharing his miserable existence. “Hi, honey. I’m home,” he called out before heading into the living—dying—room to check in with his babysitter.
“Damn, Turner! What the hell did you do?”
“I cut in front of an old lady at the grocery store.” He turned his face to the side. “Think it’s going to bruise?”
“I wish.” Landon’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t seem surprised at the mess of a face Mitch was showing off.
Something that would leave a normal man limping or bleeding or whining for weeks only bothered Mitch for about a day. A bonus of not getting his daily dose of Jolie’s poison perhaps. Like a fucking athlete, Hyde took good care of the body he constantly wanted to consume. And in return, Mitch did whatever he could to make it harder for the bastard, hoping that the healing would diminish. It never worked. Already his wounds were itching as the blood vessels and skin got reacquainted, the bones started building themselves back up, and the bruises started to fade.
“Please tell me the other guy could walk away,” Landon said.
Mitch walked around him and headed into the kitchen for some ice. “Of course he can walk. I barely even touched his legs.”
“You need another hobby. Or, hell, why not go back to your job?”
“Too dangerous.” For his former clients. “Plus, I haven’t found a suitable replacement for my assistant-slash-betrayer.”
“You hiring?”
“You applying for the job?” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Landon. You’re good with the whole keys-and-cage thing, but how fast can you type?”
Although, the guy definitely needed something to do. He was a disaster—jobless, basically squatting at Mitch’s, and drinking anything he could get his hands on. And the house’s maximum depression and total loser-dom limit was already over capacity. Any minute, Mitch imagined alarm bells would start ringing and both of them would be ejected out of a skylight.
As Mitch shoved an empty pizza box over, he thought he probably should hire someone, at least to clean up. “Clean up this shithole and I’ll pay you in booze. But you’re so far in the red already, it may take a while to work off.”
“So are you going back to work or not?”
“Sure. Just as soon as I find someone who will slip a let’s-fuck-Mitch-over cocktail into my morning java. Jolie was so good at that.”
“It’s probably a bad idea. With a face like that, who the hell would want to be in a room with you?”
“A face like what?” He reached up, running a hand over his chin, wincing only slightly whenever he reached a bruise or cut.
“Like you got mugged. Every day. For the past couple weeks. By four assailants trained in Krav Maga.”
Mitch put his index finger along his nose, trying to judge how badly-offset tonight’s break had left it. “It’s not that bad.” And it would be better tomorrow. Damn it.
“Why do you let them beat the crap out of you?” Landon asked. “I know you’re holding back. I know you could drop them in the first few minutes. So why do you drag it out?”
“For the pain.” He went to the sink to wash off his face.
“I should’ve known.” Landon rolled his eyes. “I’m living with a sadist.”
“No, not their pain. My pain. Fighting, letting someone beat the shit out of me, numbs out the rest.” The bruises were reminders that distracted him from what was happening inside. And as soon as they disappeared, he had to think about that shit again. So he spent a lot of time in the ring.
“That’s frigging deep—deeply disturbing.”
“It satisfies him. Makes him easier to control.” He watched the blood-water mixture swirl at the bottom of the sink until it gurgled down the drain. “But it’s only temporary. He always wants more.”
“So you keep fighting.”
“If you’ve got another option, I’d love to hear it.”
“Then why fight back? Why not just let them hammer on you until they call the fight?”
Mitch shrugged but didn’t answer. Saying it out loud would make it real, and he’d never be able
to take it back. Never be able to make it untrue. But the fact was that he had to fight back. He had to win.
Because Hyde always wins.
“Fine,” Landon said, wiggling his cell phone in his hand. “Maybe you’ll feel more like talking when you hear my good news.”
“You made the Olympic team for the javelin? No wait! The tests came back, and it really is just a rash.”
Landon had obviously lost his sense of humor along with his sense of pride.
“So tell me the goddamned good news!”
“It’s not just good, it’s great. A buddy from the station.”
Mitch stopped in his tracks. Frozen. His heart pounding a rhythm unmatched even while he was in the ring. He took a deep breath. “If your news involves anything other than Eden or The Clinic, after I’m done with you, you may not be able to walk away.”
“No beating necessary. The intel’s from an off-the-record but in-the-precinct source. And it’s about Carter.”
“Hallelujah.” Mitch closed his eyes, silently thanking the saints, all the little people, and the Academy. It’s about fucking time. “What has the little boy scout been up to?”
“A friend of mine, who I’m Ivory-soap-percent sure isn’t working for The Clinic, thinks he saw the kid.”
“Not getting the Ivory soap reference, but don’t really give a shit either.” He stopped before he got to the kitchen, flipped around and headed back to the door. Shaking his keys angrily. “When, where, and why aren’t we already in the car?”
Landon’s steps matched his. “He was seen coming out of a liquor store.”
“The Clinic snuck him out of the hospital so he could get wasted? Well, that was thoughtful. And unlikely—considering the doctor seemed to think he was weeks away from being able to take a piss standing up. Did your friend say anything about a wheelchair?” He shook his head. “Screw it, let’s go. If it’s really him, I’ll make sure he’s in a wheelchair for a long, long time.”
Landon grabbed his arm. “Look, my buddy thinks he saw him. But he could’ve been wrong. Florida is filled with guys who look like Carter. And I can’t have you freak if it turns out to be nothing.”