Strangers of the Night: Touched by Passion / Passion in Disguise / Unexpected Passion

Eleven years later, and the daily testing had stopped. His sessions with Dr. Ransom had gone from five days a week to twice, each session only lasting thirty or so minutes, since there never seemed to be much to say anymore. It couldn’t be much longer, now, Jed thought. Until they either killed him, or let him go.

“Jed?”

“I was tired, I guess. Had a bad headache.” That part was true enough, though it wasn’t like his head didn’t always throb with the effort of holding himself back from giving them what they’d been after since he was five.

“Your medicine should prevent that. Your vitals haven’t changed. Your blood pressure is fine.”

Jed had learned to control that, too.

“Maybe it’s seasonal allergies,” Jed said, deadpan.

Dr. Ransom didn’t smile. He did, however, lift up the pen again to scratch a few notes on the pad in front of him. “I’m going to prescribe you something new. For anxiety.”

“No! I mean,” Jed said in a calmer voice, “I’m not anxious about anything.”

He was already on some complicated cocktail of pills designed to keep him under control, but it had been years since they’d felt the need to use anything to keep him calm. He wasn’t going to go back to being chemically brain-dead again. He couldn’t. He would die first.

“Just a little something,” Dr. Ransom said in that soothing tone he always employed. He looked at Jed over the rims of his frameless glasses. “It seems to me that you haven’t been yourself lately.”

Himself? Ransom had no idea who Jed was. Nobody did, including Jed.

“Is it because of the tests?” Jed asked bluntly.

The doctor hesitated, cutting his gaze from Jed’s. “Of course not. You know we’ve always made it clear that our concern is for your well-being. Never any test results.”

It was what they said, but never what they’d meant. Jed frowned. “New meds won’t make it any easier for me to do what they ask.”

For the first time since Jed had entered the room, Dr. Ransom smiled. The effect of it was chilling—a stretching of the older man’s lips that in no way resulted in any humor reaching his eyes. Ransom tap-tapped his pen rapidly against the desktop.

“We only want what’s best for you, Jed. We’re your family.”

“The only one I have,” Jed replied, sincerely if not gratefully.

Ransom’s smile stretched wider, showing his yellowed teeth. “You’ve been at Wyrmwood a long time. We’ve worked together for a long time, too. I’d like you to know how...fond...of you I’ve grown over the years.”

Jed shifted in his chair, wondering if the doctor expected a matching response. He couldn’t make himself lie, so he stayed quiet. After a moment, the doctor’s smile faded. He tapped his pen once or twice more, then closed the folder.

“You can go back to your room now. Our session is finished. Unless you have something you need to talk about?”

Jed shook his head and stood. “Not really. Will there be a test?”

“Oh, no.” Dr. Ransom laughed. “No more tests will be necessary.”

Relief and terror in equal parts raced through Jed, who did not react in any visible way. He nodded when Ransom repeated that he’d be sending Jed some new meds, but didn’t protest again. As he left the room, a guard on either side of him, he considered striking out. Surprising them.

They’d kill him without a second thought—he knew that—and wouldn’t suicide by armed guard be a better way to go than waiting, waiting for them to finally decide to end his life by some other method? Wouldn’t it be better to go on his own terms? But of course, he only walked meekly between them without a word and stepped through the door into his cell, where he waited for whatever was going to happen next.

Chapter 12 (#ude717567-7d12-5712-ab10-47a0b9cc06fa)

There was always a way to get whatever you wanted, if you knew how to ask. Unlike her brother, who could simply make you do whatever he desired, Persephone had learned the best ways to ask. A quiet word in the ear of the skater kid on the corner who hooked her up with some weed before passing along the word to someone else, who got the news to the contact Persephone needed. Eventually, a woman pushing a stroller took a seat beside her. The woman bent to offer the toddler in the stroller a lick of her ice cream.

“Word is, they’re getting a little desperate. Losing funding. Need something to get their grants back.” Suburban mom cooed at her child for a second, then pulled a package of baby wipes out of her purse and started to wipe the kid’s face.

“Does that mean they’re actively looking for us again?”

“If they get one of you, they could make a case for keeping the program open. We’ve had no word that they’re doing anything major, but I’d be careful, yes. They have freelancers working on it.”

Persephone sat back on the bench. “Bounty hunters?”

She’d dealt with bounty hunters before. The guy from the other day had sure felt like one. Not a very skilled one, she thought with some relief and a little alarm at how close he’d been to her, even if he hadn’t known it.

“They don’t have the means to put together any kind of teams like the one...” The mother trailed off, looking around, but they seemed to be the only ones there.

Persephone nodded. “I got it. You don’t have to say.”

“The reality is, the organization has been privately funded for a long time, but they’re on the way out. They’re swirling the drain. Without a big benefactor or some kind of breakthrough, they’re going to have to close completely. Look, I’m on maternity leave right now, and the only reason I agreed to meet you is that this is really low priority. You know they don’t have eyes and ears all over the place, they’re not monitoring the entire world or anything. Vadim said to tell you that they’ve assessed the danger to you as minimal, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful.”

“I know.”

The woman studied Persephone. “He said to remind you that you have a place with us whenever you want it.”

“I’m doing all right. Thanks.” Persephone stood.

“Even so, he told me to remind you.” The woman stood, too, and pressed a small square of paper into Persephone’s hand. “Call him on this number when you’re ready.”

Chapter 13 (#ude717567-7d12-5712-ab10-47a0b9cc06fa)

Waking from a nightmare, she realizes all too quickly that this has not been a dream. The ringing in her ears is still so loud all she can do is clap her hands to the side of her head and rock back and forth until it eases. She’s alone. Whoever did this to her has left her for dead, she thinks, and risks running a hand over her body, checking for wounds.

The blood covering her is not hers. The bits of flesh and bone and brain, also not hers. Her fingers clench, remembering the feel of the weapon in her hands, but she can’t remember shooting anyone. Unsteadily, she holds her hands out in front of her, inspecting the nails, grimy with filth.

She has killed with these hands.

The question, with the answer she can’t remember, is has she killed now? Or perhaps not if, because it feels so obvious that she has, but who? She can’t even remember who she was fighting. Staring at the tufts of fur beneath several of her fingers, stroking along the slices in her clothes and the torn flesh beneath, Samantha thinks maybe she needs to ask not who.

What.

Blinking to clear her vision, she makes sure she can stand upright before she tries to go anywhere. She’s in a safe house, not one she remembers, but she recognizes it without too much effort. Bare floors, bare walls, utilitarian furniture. Nothing to show anyone on the outside that there’s anything here but an almost empty house waiting for someone to occupy it. Nothing to stand out to anyone who came to the door.

She hopes nobody does that now. The beige walls are spattered with thick dark fluid that smells of dank earth. The furniture, a brown plaid couch and matching armchair, are overturned, the stuffing torn out. It would be so very clear this house was the scene of something awful.

She doesn’t call out. The ringing has faded enough that she can, if she strains hard enough, hear more than the buzz. Her feet are steady, planted shoulder-width apart. Her fingers ache; she forces them to relax and open. She doesn’t search for her weapon. She already knows it’s gone.

Whatever happened here was recent enough that the blood is sticky, but not dry. Her wounds still seep. She could not have been unconscious for more than twenty or thirty minutes. Listening hard, Samantha waits for some clue to tell her what went on, but she hears nothing but the harsh rasp of her own breathing.

In the next room, she finds him. Eyes wide. Mouth open. He stares at the ceiling, the ribbons of maroon on his throat evidence of what killed him. A familiar face.

Her father.