Last Kiss Goodnight

one will be allowed to touch you, but if you fail to do as you’re told . . .”

Yeah, he remembered: a bullet to the brain. His skin darkened, and his teeth and claws elongated. The fire burned ever hotter, singeing everything in its path.

“Don’t give him pointers,” the Bree Lian called. “Let him learn firsthand like the rest of us.”

Solo already had a beef with him. That just sealed the deal.

“Let him take the burden for a while,” the Mec added.

Yeah, Solo had a beef with him, too.

Several others murmured their agreement. Meaning, they all wanted Solo to occupy Jecis’s mind, so that they could act out without fear. Nice. But fine, whatever. He understood survival.

He also never forgot a slight.

Criss waved away their commands, saying, “Little Miss Mouse won’t feed us until after the circus, and then only if we’ve behaved.” She air-quoted the last word, the motion stiff with barely leashed rage.

That rage would soon tear free, he was sure, and it would make her reckless, willing to do anything to die. Not just throw rocks, but more. A whole lot more. And Little Miss Mouse—Vika, beautiful Vika, with the wounded eyes and the bruised face and the siren’s body and the angel’s kiss—would bear the brunt of it.

He’d been so careful not to think about her last night. Now . . . there was no stopping the mental tug-of-war that followed.

She’s mine. I want her.

Are you stupid? She’s not yours. She belongs to Jecis—you don’t want her.

I deserve her. After everything I’ve suffered here, she will be my reward.

She’s not a prize.

He was as bad as X and Dr. E.

“Uh-oh. I recognize that look,” Criss said with a moan.

He forced the muscles in his face to relax, revealing nothing more. “What look?”

A derisive snort. “Please. Vika’s the big guy’s daughter, you know, and nothing but trouble.”

See? Vika is a bad apple from a poisoned tree.

“Besides, I thought you were interested in our sweet little Pussycat,” Criss said with a tilt of her chin.

His gaze darted to Kitten, who still sprawled on the floor of her cage.

“Vika does what Daddy says, when he says, and even if you were handsome . . . uh . . . well, anyway, she wouldn’t help you,” Criss said. “I don’t mean to be cruel, just honest.”

“Enough with the honesty,” the Targon called. “Let’s go for amusement! I’d love to see you try to charm our little Vika, Mr. Fugly.”

All but Kitten and Criss snickered.

As if on cue, Dr. E arrived on the scene, settling atop Solo’s shoulder like a bird on a perch. He was paler than usual, a little wobbly on his feet. Why? “They dare tease you? Well, it’s time to teach them better, don’t you think? If you tell Jecis you’re willing to do a little cage fighting free of charge, you can rip these creatures into a thousand pieces without earning a punishment. It’s win/win.”

“They are as frustrated and angry as he is,” X said, appearing on his right shoulder. He was tanner than usual, for once steady on his feet. “They are lashing out at their circumstances, not Solo.”

“Enough!” he growled, suddenly sick of the captives, of X, of Dr. E, and all of his many recent failures. He wanted out. He needed out. Drugged or not, there had to be a way.

Each of the otherworlders peered over at him with differing shades of emotion. Some with terror, some with glee. But no one castigated him, and Dr. E—laughing and suddenly alive with color—and X—sighing with regret and suddenly pallid—once again vanished.

Solo wrapped his fingers around the bars and shook, shook, shook. Of course, they held steady, causing frustration to rise and eat at what little remained of his control.

“Uh, I wouldn’t do that, either,” Criss said. “You’ll regret it.”

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. I’m strong enough for anything, even this. Another shake. But again, the bars held steady. Anger blazed into rage, and the frustration formed jagged edges that sliced through him, making him bleed.

Now, now, now. Another shake, a harder shake. Shake, shake, shake.

Rage . . . melding with a sudden burst of weakness . . .

Frustration . . . blending with a sudden spring of icy water . . .

The drugs, he realized as his mind hazed. The drugs must activate with stronger emotions, because with every moment that passed, the weakness grew and the icy water flooded another part of him, until he no longer had the strength to grip the bars.

His arms fell heavily to his sides, and his head lolled forward, his chin hitting his sternum. He lost track of his surroundings and just sort of tipped over. Right before landing, he thought he heard Criss say, “I told you so.”

Nine

Break up your fallow ground, and do not sow among thorns.

—JEREMIAH 4:3

VIKA PACED INSIDE HER trailer, the second biggest vehicle in the lot. (Her father’s was number one, of course.) The walls were covered with pink lace and draped with several jewel-toned tapestries. Every piece of furniture was plush, white, and expensive. The coffee table was Victorian and the legs carved to resemble dragons. The side tables were topped with crystal vases and ornate bowls.

A fairy-tale home fit for a fairy-tale princess, her father often said.

Fine fabrics were strewn about. Velvets, satins, silks, and even the highly expensive cotton. She knew how to sew, and was supposed to design herself “a wardrobe fit for the daughter of a king.” She hadn’t. And she wouldn’t.

To go along with her clothing, she had jade necklaces, ruby bracelets, and sapphire pendants, plus a set of diamond fingernails with rings of gold that wound all the way to her knuckles, and a brooch in the shape of a lion head, its fur made of amber, its eyes of ebony. Each piece sparkled as the overhead light cast out soft, golden rays. So pretty. So useless. They were items she was currently unable to sell, because her father would miss them.

“Why don’t you wear the things I give you?” Jecis demanded at least once a week.

“They’re not my style,” she would say. And so he would try again, giving her something else, something bigger, not understanding she had no desire to wear his guilt offerings—which was exactly what they were.

But last night at dinner, all that had changed. She had worn one of the necklaces, as planned, and he’d ruffled her hair, quite pleased with her, never noticing the slight bulge of the bandage under her shirt.

Oh, what a life I lead.

Her mother would have loved the trailer and the clothes and the jewels. She would have sewn as many gowns as possible, and danced across the entire home, laughing and twirling, and making Vika giggle.

A sudden lance of sadness pierced her. Her beautiful mother, who had claimed to love her more than anything, but had left her only child to run away with her lover.

Within a few days, Jecis had found her and dragged her back. Then, the next morning, he had summoned all the performers in one place and announced that his wife had died of a black, rotting heart. And that was true. Jecis had a black, rotting heart, and he’d killed her.

Vika had no idea what had happened to the lover.

Anyway, she wasn’t going to ponder the past, she reminded herself. She would think about today: opening day for the circus in New Atlanta.

She was to stay inside her trailer until her father finished with all of his duties and performances. She was to relax, eat her many chocolates, and enjoy herself, as if hours and hours with nothing to do but count her savings (for the three thousandth time) was fun, while everyone else within their circus “family” worked for their food and lodging, not just by helping with clothing, tents, games and vehicles, but through performing.