He raises a shoulder in a half shrug. “Guess he didn’t see her as a Dreg, just as a woman he loved. Still fucking stupid, though.”
“No kidding.”
“It’s hard to kill someone you love.” Jesse squeezes my shoulder as he passes. “Even when you know it’s the kindest damned thing you can do for them.”
I chew my bottom lip. “Hey, Jesse?”
He turns, thick eyebrows slanting. “Yeah?”
“If I ever get bitten, promise you’ll be kind?”
“Promise.” He tugs a lock of my short blond hair. “Same for me. I don’t want to be one of those fucking things. Not ever.”
“Deal.”
I linger in the bedroom only a moment longer, then join my team in the other room. Time to report it and get the mess cleaned up. I don’t know whose Triad Bradford belonged to, and I don’t envy them the pain of discovering what he’d done. Or of his grisly demise. Horrifying as it is, it’s also an object lesson for every single Hunter policing the city.
Don’t trust a Dreg, and don’t ever fall in love with one—they’ll only stab you in the back.
Chapter Eleven
Friday, 5:45 P.M.
I don’t remember passing out, but waking up proved an unforgettably disgusting experience. Smells hit me first: odors of food long since spoiled and left to rot in the oven-temp heat of some container. Too many to identify and nearly joined by my own vomit. Close by and almost as stomach-churning as the restaurant waste was the distinct stench of blood. Too strong and too much to be just mine.
Twisted uncomfortably and lying on solid corners, damp plastic, and any number of squishy things, I tried to move with little effect. Blinking didn’t help matters much. I wasn’t blind, just in the dark. More plastic and rot pressed down on me from above, pinning arms and legs and torso in place. My stomach burned. My limbs ached. I wasn’t convinced that I was facing up.
Motherfucker. Phineas stabbed me and dumped me in a trash bin.
“Fuck!” The shout barely echoed in the close quarters of my rotting tomb.
I tested toes and fingers—check. Flexed muscles everywhere I could manage, and aside from bumps and scrapes from being tossed into the damned trash, only my abdomen was seriously injured. Couldn’t have been in there long if I could still feel the small wounds. That was the good news.
The bad news: I hadn’t a clue how far down I’d been buried or if I could dig my way out. Death by Dumpster-induced heatstroke was not what I wanted on my tombstone. Not that I’d get a tombstone. Hunters never did. Anonymous cremation for anonymous lives. No way in hell was I going out like that.
Cell phone. I wiggled my ass as best I could. Felt the familiar lump. Elation was immediately tempered by logic. Okay, fine, I had the phone on me, but both arms were currently pinned beneath an unknown poundage of used napkins, plastic cups, and yesterday’s lunch special.
Sweat trickled down my forehead and stung my left eye. My right arm had more mobility than the left, so I finger-creeped it closer to my body. More plastic, more oozy mess. From the stretch of my shoulder, I guessed it was at a forty-five-degree angle from my body. My elbow snagged on something hard and sharp. Shit.
The air I had was quickly growing stale, heavy. Teleporting from an unknown starting point to an unknown exterior was beginning to seem like an acceptable risk. Better than smothering beneath a mountain of trash. Dying now meant I’d miss out on grinding Phin’s face into the pavement.
His earlier words came back:
Unless he helped them take us out first. The voice of my Boot Camp instructor rang clearly in the back of my mind, reminding me that it was foolish to trust Phin. No matter how handsome he was, no matter how well he could spin words into gold, he was still a Dreg, still unworthy of my complete trust. He could easily lead Kismet, Baylor, and the others into a trap. Kill the rest of the Triad forces in one fell swoop.
My stomach twisted; my heart jackhammered. Fuck no.
I jerked my right arm toward my body. Flesh ripped with scorching agony. Tears stung my eyes. My hand found a small pocket of space near my hips. I shifted a little, angled my arm, and pushed. The trash lifted a bit, but not enough. I tried again—same deal. I screamed in frustration.
Muffled voices made it through my tomb. I screamed again, no longer caring who found me. I needed out. Out of the heat, the stink, and the ever-crushing pile of refuse bearing down on my chest and legs.
The side of the bin thundered. Metal squealed, punctuated by a crash-bang! Pinpricks of light appeared above. The lid was off. They’d heard me, whoever they were. I shouted again.
“Down there,” someone said.
Bit by bit, the trash was removed and weight lifted. The pinpricks became shafts. Cooler, fresh air wafted down, making the odor of spoilage much, much worse. I retched but didn’t vomit. The garbage bag above my head finally lifted away. Sunlight glared, blinding me. I slammed my eyelids down, a soft whimper catching in my throat.
“There,” another someone said. “She is wounded.”
“You doubted it?” the first someone asked. “The scent of blood permeates this place.”
I knew that voice. No longer muffled, the familiar tone and cadence was the most beautiful thing I’d heard all day. I forced one eye open and squinted past the glare. A shadow fell as she moved sideways, blocking the offending light.
Dressed in black from head to toe, white hair pulled back in a tight braid, Isleen gazed down at me. She and two other female Bloods stood around me in a half circle, actually inside among the garbage. Her glimmering purple eyes took stock of my now-exposed body before looking right at me. “It pleases me that you are not dead,” she said.
Laughter bubbled out of my throat, as much from relief as shock. “Pleases me, too. Now get me out of here.”
Her two helpers looped steel-strong arms beneath me and lifted. My stomach wound shrieked at me, but I focused on my legs. Getting them to move, supporting my weight, and ultimately climbing over the lip of the sunbaked Dumpster. Two male Bloods waited in the alley, arms extended to help. I vaguely recalled losing my balance and falling. Being caught and lowered to the ground.
I rolled sideways and dry-heaved until my chest ached. Spat out what little liquid was still in my mouth. Good thing I’d skipped lunch.
“… another body,” one of the male Bloods said.
Alarm bells clanged in my head. “Who?” I gasped.
“Unknown male,” Isleen said. “Early twenties. His throat has been slashed.”
I tried to remember something about the puppy-man that the female Blood had kept near her. “Long-sleeved shirt?”
“Yes. Arlen, take her to the van. We must not linger here.”
It occurred to me to protest. One of her men scooped me up, and I fell against his chest, exhausted. Didn’t recognize the alley or the back of the building connected to it. A black van was parked at the end, back doors open, windows tinted. They were going to love having me inside, smelling up the place.
Tiny hammers thudded against my temples, announcing an impending headache. I closed my eyes for a minute, intending only to ward it off. The gentle sway of the van woke me again, sometime later.
I was lying on a soft blanket, covered by another. The gentle pressure of a bandage covered my shredded elbow. More pressed against my abdomen. I blinked through the dimness. Isleen sat on the floor by my side. She
