Eden stood alone in the darkness, habitually flipping the mint in his mouth over and over again with the perfected rhythm of his tongue. The night air was fresh against his face, the breeze slightly stronger from his viewing point on the flat roof of the derelict shop.
The van in the alley thirty foot below was still being unloaded. Whatever the crates contained wasn’t heavy, not from the ease with which the lone guy lifted each onto his shoulder in turn. He followed the same pattern every time – lift the crate, carry it inside, be gone for three to four minutes, then unload the next.
When he disappeared inside for the eighth time, Eden scanned the roofs of the row upon row of terraced houses. The graffiti-emblazoned buildings, sat amidst their maze of back alleys, were once an inhabitable residential area of what had once been classed as a city decades before.
Now, aside from the district’s hub where the third species hung out, this was the second most lethal place to be in Blackthorn. This was The Circus: home to the convicts abandoned by the penitentiary of Lowtown across the border, and forced to reside within the confines of the third-species-dominated core of the locale.
Returning after disposing of the ninth crate, the guy slammed the van door shut and reversed back into the side alley from where he’d come. The same alley where he’d passed Eden – his van lights off, opting for the tight squeeze as opposed to the main road only a few feet away. It had evoked Eden’s curiosity enough to take the external fire escape steps up onto the flat roof – an advantageous viewpoint of the buildings he’d been heading for anyway.
He flipped his mint over in his mouth again as he watched the van back up to leave, when the figure to his left caught his attention.
‘You spying?’ the petite blonde asked, remaining a sensible twenty feet away. Her hands were tucked in the pockets of the black, cropped leather jacket that hung half off one skinny shoulder. Right hip cocked slightly higher than the left, her thin, parted legs ended in biker boots to complete the defensive stance.
‘You know this place?’ he asked.
‘You agency?’
He slid his open-cuffed jacket sleeve up to expose his inner arm, the numbers tattooed there – numbers that indicated the penitentiary he had come from as well as the categories and frequency of the crimes he had committed.
She folded her arms as she walked towards him to take a closer look, her vest top low enough to reveal the lace cups of her well-padded bra.
Her eyes – hollow, sad, barely visible through her shaggy bob – were indicative of the system she was no doubt locked in. And those blue eyes flared as she examined the condemnatory array of numbers that stretched higher than his restrictive sleeve would allow her to see.
Blowing back her fringe, she raised her eyebrows, her subsequent half smile as blatant as the length of her tight skirt. ‘That’s a lot of bad behaviour.’ She tilted her head to the side slightly. ‘And yet you look so sweet.’
‘Where does that door go?’ he asked, cocking his head to where the crates had been taken.
She stepped alongside him and glanced down at the alley. She shrugged her small shoulders. ‘There are doorways all over this place since they knocked all the houses through – some blocked up, new ones put in both inside and out. I’ve been here three years,’ she added, ‘and I don’t know half of this maze.’
Three years. At least sixteen years his junior, she couldn’t have been a day over twenty.
She took a packet of cigarettes out of her top pocket and offered him one.
Eden refused.
‘You know how hard it is to get your hands on these around here?’ she asked.
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘I suggest you take it up.’ She placed one between her badly painted lips, her skinny fingers trembling in the cold – fingers worthy of piano playing, tipped in chipped baby-pink nail polish that conflicted with the tough biker look. She sniffed and wrapped an arm around herself, dropped her cigarette-holding hand loosely to her side to flick off some ash. ‘Saying that, some reckon they fill these with all sorts of shit before shipping them in; that they’ll kill us off that way if not with the booze and food they supply.’
He’d heard the conspiracy theories a hundred times before and they didn’t get any more interesting with a change of teller. ‘Do you know what was in the crates?’
She shrugged again and blew out a curt stream of smoke that promptly dissipated in the cold night air. ‘You’re new here, right?’ She raked him swiftly again. ‘Only I’d remember you.’
‘New as of a few hours ago.’
‘They just dump you off on this side of the border? Shit, isn’t it? No money. No provisions. No directions.’ She took another swift inhale before exhaling just as brusquely. ‘Do you know what percentage of cons dropped off here make it to the second night?’
‘Do you?’
She shrugged again. ‘Nah. Still, it’s better than the penitentiary. At least you get to do what you want around here.’
‘You’re a con?’
She slid her jacket sleeve up her arm with her cigarette-holding hand to give him a quick flash of her own numbers.
He knew exactly what they meant. ‘Murder?’
She shrugged again. ‘Stopped him cheating.’
He didn’t know whether he was saddened more by the indifference in her tone, or the lack of expression on her heavily made-up face.
‘You don’t get sent here just for murder,’ he said.
‘I killed one of the penitentiary guards who reminded me of him.’ Her jacket sleeve dropped into place again as she wrapped her arm back around her waist.
He didn’t doubt it was more than bravado. The capability consumed her morally apathetic eyes. He knew the type only too well. Had handled enough.
‘I don’t remind you of him too, do I?’
She smiled, revealing surprisingly good teeth. ‘Good looking and a sense of humour. Nah, you’re all right.’ She stepped up to the edge to look down at the alley before turning to face him. ‘Building up the courage to go in, huh? You’ll be all right – unless you’re planning to make your mark and get beaten to a pulp for it. My advice: keep your head down. And don’t flash those numbers too much. Some might see it as competition.’ She lifted the cigarette back to her lips and exhaled as she assessed him from head to foot again. ‘Messing up that handsome face, let alone that body, would be a crime in itself.’ Her gaze lingered before she sauntered back over. ‘I’ve got a room in there. You can bed down with me until you get yourself straight.’
‘And where does someone get themselves straight around here?’
‘This patch is Pummel’s. If you’ve got something to offer, he might give you a room. If not, you can try one of the abandoned buildings, but security ain’t good. Any further afield and you’re going to find yourself with vamps as neighbours or a rogue lycan or whatever other third species crawls the back alleys of this district.’
Anywhere beyond the thin margin of the south that didn’t belong to anyone other than the squatting cons.
‘Pummel?’ he asked, despite already knowing he was in the right place.
‘That’s what he’s known as around here. For good reason.’
‘He sounds like a charmer.’
She smiled again, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes. ‘So you want that room?’
‘With my history?’
She exhaled a steady stream of smoke as she sidled closer. ‘This place gets lonely. Besides, whatever those numbers say about you, I’m a good judge of character. Hang around long enough and you get to know types around here.’
Clearly not that good a judge.
‘As much as I appreciate the offer, you don’t want to be bedding down with me.’
She smiled as she closed in, her overpowering perfume surrounding her like an aura. ‘Why? You got some kind of fucked-up kink or something? Only I’m open-minded.’ She looked back down at his arm before looking him in the eyes again, lingering with a confidence only experience brought. ‘Just how far up do those numbers go anyway?’
Eyes that, despite their confidence, looked on edge, almost impatient.
He glanced over at the fire escape and back at her. As he’d guessed, her impatience escalated.
‘Or we can stay up here,’ she said, discarding her cigarette before running her hand down his arm, guiding him to face her, his back to the fire escape, as she pressed her lips together. ‘That’s quite a body under that jacket. I bet you know how to take care of yourself. And me.’
It was subtle. And she was good. But not good enough for it to do anything but confirm he’d been right to sense the signs of an ambush.
‘And taking care of me is the only thing I’m interested in right now,’ he said, removing her bony hand from his arm, a hand he could so easily crush for what he suspected, before backing away.
‘At least let me show you around,’ she called out louder than she needed to, catching up with him as he crossed to the steps. ‘Hey! Wait! You’ll want to know where you’re going in there.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ he replied, descending.
She clunked down the fire escape behind him. ‘What’s the problem? You not into women or something? Or am I not good enough for you?’
‘Don’t take it personally.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed,’ she said, grabbing his shoulder, ‘I’m offering it to you on a plate here.’
‘And lucky for you, I don’t have an appetite tonight,’ he said, shrugging her off.
At least he’d got to the bottom of the steps before they appeared.
There were two of them at first. Then another two appeared from behind them.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the blonde who remained four steps up, her arms now tightly folded, her eyebrows raised smugly to perfectly complement her smirk.
‘You’re done, Mya,’ one of the males said.
‘No way,’ she insisted. ‘Not when I did all the work again. I want to watch this time.’
Eden glanced back over his shoulder at her again, the thought of putting her over his knee and giving her a damn hard spanking, and not for his personal pleasure, reeling through him. ‘Sugary little thing, aren’t you?’
‘Fuck you,’ she sneered.
‘Oh, darling, you wish,’ he said, turning his attention back to the four squaring up ready to attack.
If there was one thing he abhorred it was pack hunting. If he was going to be taken on, he could at least grant some respect to an opponent willing to take him on alone. But these reeked of cowardice, a guarantee to send his adrenaline pumping.
Only two types fought in packs in Blackthorn – cons and lycans. And there was nothing lycan about these. Lycans didn’t hesitate, and they sure didn’t use honeytraps to do their dirty work.
In fact, there was nothing third species about them at all. These were humans – his own kind – convicts that clearly didn’t intend to ask questions or need a reason for their intentions. This was about entertainment. He could see by the look in their eyes that they wanted to hurt him, and he’d been in that situation far too many times before.
He crunched the thin remainder of his mint as strategy instantly kicked in. The two guys on the periphery were the weakest link. They’d be easy enough if they fought fair.
But Eden turned his attention to the one who had spoken – clearly the leader. He dominated his five-foot-ten adversary by at least three inches, unlike the other three who were the muscle of his little gang.
‘Any of you Pummel?’ Eden asked, already knowing that the answer was no. But it wouldn’t hurt to play innocent.
The leader’s thin lips broadened into a chilling smile. ‘You ain’t going to get that far, pretty one.’
Eden had the feeling the con believed it. He frowned for effect. ‘Is that some kind of come on? Only I’m not into possessive types.’
The leader didn’t laugh. Neither did the others. The leader’s slitty eyes narrowed – eyes that emanated sadism. ‘What the fuck did you say?’
‘Hey, I’m not questioning your taste,’ Eden said. He glanced at the other three guys. ‘Unless I’m the anomaly and they’re your usual choice.’
It took a moment for his insult to sink in.
When it did, just as he’d suspected, they didn’t come at him in an orderly queue.
With a single nod of the leader’s head – a nod that indicated he intended to sate his minions’ taste for blood first – the three attacked.
Eden didn’t take his eyes off his first target. One clean and powerful sideways kick to the windpipe and number one was down long enough for him to turn his attention on the second. A swift, solid, precise fist to the attacker’s groin and number two was on his knees, curled over with pain.
The third took his opportunity and punched Eden clean in the jaw – but only enough to throw him off balance rather than take him down.
Eden ploughed into him before the attacker’s fist had a chance to make second contact. He rammed his attacker against the wall only for him to shove back with equal retaliation, slamming Eden backwards onto the metal fire escape steps.
Mya squealed in disturbing delight, almost skipping as she slipped past them to avoid the onslaught, whilst number three, pinning Eden to the steps with his weight advantage, applied two sharp blows to Eden’s side and another to his jaw.
Eden spat out blood into his attacker’s face, surprised, from the force and angle of number three’s blow, that a tooth hadn’t exited with it.
The blood shower only incited more vicious pounding, the leader also closing in ready to pounce.
Eden gritted his teeth, lifted his knee and kicked him clean off. Using the steps as leverage, he got back onto his feet.
But so did the other two he had taken down in round one.
Eden wiped his bloodied mouth with the back of his hand, spitting out more blood as he rethought his strategy.
Clearly they didn’t take the hint. Clearly they intended to kill him. And he never took to either kindly.
This time, a second blow to number one’s windpipe was intentionally fatal. A swivel kick to number two knocked him clean against the protruding rusted pole jutting out from the wall.
Their comrade’s impaling only slowed number three and the leader for a couple of seconds before they bared their teeth and closed in on him again.
Eden shook the tension from his shoulders, rolled his head left and right, nimbled up, ignoring his waning energy before taking a defensive stance.
Unfairly fresh to the fight, the leader eventually took advantage. Several poundings later, he’d weakened Eden enough for number three to get a grip on him. Wrenching Eden’s arms back, number three exposed Eden’s torso for the leader to make several more dangerously impactful blows.
Eden knew he had no choice but to sag, the move allowing him to regain a few inches between him and his captor, the latter loosening his grip just a fraction as he’d hoped.
Not wasting any time, Eden used the leader as a walk-up, kicking him hard in the jaw and simultaneously slamming him against the brick wall in the process. He concluded the manoeuvre by pivoting over the one who held him and taking him to ground with the force, his opponent’s head cracking on the floor beneath him as he used him to soften his own fall.
Stumbling back to his feet, Eden spat out another mouthful of blood as he looked across at the leader, now also upright again, his slitty eyes filled with rage.
This time Eden was out of patience. A full-on fight in under three hours was not what he had planned for. And he most certainly hadn’t accounted for dying. This time the leader was going down.
But another con emerged from around the corner. One who clearly wasn’t expecting to walk in on the floorshow but, from the way he smirked as he discarded his cigarette, was all for interaction.
The newbie and the leader fought together and they fought dirty, Eden taking several more blows for the many more he defended. He struck them both hard enough to draw blood several times, but not enough to floor either of them for long.
His body ached, his eyes blurred as he took a smack to the nose. But as the newbie wrapped his arm around his neck, jammed his other arm behind his back, Eden hadn’t expected the leader to play that dirty.
He rammed the blade into Eden’s side. And twisted.
‘Fucking do it again,’ the one holding Eden hissed.
Eden felt the blade leaving his numbing body, before the leader rammed it in again.
When he felt it withdrawn once more, Eden knew the next one was going to be fatal.
He took a steady inhale to build up the last of his strength, ready to shove back against his captor with all his force.
A split second later, the leader’s head was twisted sharply to the side, his limp body slumping to the floor. He heard further crack of bones from the newbie, his hold loosening.
Eden fell to his knees on the floor. He clutched his side as he squinted up through blurry, bloodied eyes, barely able to make anything out but a girl stood above him – a tall and shapely female with dark, waist-length ringlets.
That distinctive feature along with the fact that, whoever she was, she clearly wasn’t human, told him he might have found what he’d come for.
If he lived long enough to see it through.
Jessie removed the padlock from the iron-mesh door and shoved it in her back pocket. After a wary glance left and right along the dark alley, she re-entered the abandoned storage area, quietly closing the door behind her.
From what she could see, he hadn’t moved. The stranger still lay on his back where she’d left him unconscious the night before, tucked into a blind spot beyond the crates. But since she’d checked on him late that morning, his left booted foot was now under his right calf as if he had stirred a little at some point. Both his arms were still lax by his sides though, his left bent upwards towards the crates behind. His jacket, which she’d removed and placed over him for warmth, was still in position.
Once convinced the rhythm of his breathing wasn’t fake, and his lack of swallowing proof enough that his sleep was genuine, she placed the spare T-shirt on the crates and approached him. Ballet pumps silent against the concrete floor, she unscrewed the lid on the water bottle as she stepped up alongside him.
Head tilted to the right towards where she stood, his eyes remained closed, sealed by unflinching dark lashes that, almost feminine in their thickness, were a contradiction to his otherwise masculine features. But handsome though he undeniably was, the numbers on his exposed right forearm betrayed anything but beauty beneath his exterior.
Tilting the bottle forty-five degrees, she quarter-emptied the contents down onto his face, the water flattening his short-back-and-sides dark hair and splashing on his strong, stubble-shadowed jaw.
‘Fuck,’ he hissed, his voice gruff and irritated enough to make her take a couple of steps back. He wiped his face before squinting up at her in the shadows.
The fine hairs on her arms prickled, heat flushing through her body as soon as his startled brown eyes met hers – compelling dark eyes that quickly narrowed.
He eased himself into a seated position, his jacket sliding off. But he instantly flinched, his hand clutching his side when reminded of the double stab wound that had nearly cost his life. He’d been lucky – a couple of inches to the left and he would have been dead, as Grayson had no doubt intended.
In fact, he’d been very lucky. Grayson was always precise, indicating that the stranger had flustered the brutal killer. That was a feat in itself. As proficient a fighter as the stranger had been, though, Grayson would have finished the job had she not intervened.
She’d only looked out of the landing window because she’d heard the unfamiliar rumble of a van’s engine down the back lane. At the same time, she’d caught sight of a male figure ascending the fire escape onto the flat roof opposite.
Keeping out of sight, she’d kept a wary eye on him whilst watching the van being unloaded below. Crate after crate had been removed and taken inside – nine in total. She would have investigated the latter further already had the night not taken the turn it had. Because it had taken that turn the minute something else had snagged her attention: a small, blonde figure ducking around the front of the van and also heading to the steps.
Mya. And where there was Mya, there was trouble. Mya was the best honeytrap the cons used. An appearance of vulnerability with an iron heart inside, she was willing bait in most of Grayson’s sick games.
So after the van had pulled away, when she saw Mya appear on the flat roof too, she’d lingered a moment longer.
She should have walked away. She should have left them to it. Keeping herself to herself was the way it worked – the way Pummel insisted it worked. And she nearly did. But the stranger’s apparent nonchalance towards Mya, despite her blatant come-on, had sustained Jessie’s curiosity. More so, seeing Grayson and the others ducking out of sight against the wall below in wait for their next outnumbered victim was all the provocation she’d needed not to turn a blind eye.
She’d headed back down the stairs, through the knocked-through archway into the neighbouring terraced house. She’d squeezed through the usual night crowd as she’d passed through the next arch. Those who’d noticed her had quickly parted, as they always did. It was the policy that had surrounded her for decades: no one touched, no one spoke to her, no one even looked at her other than by accident – no one outside of Pummel’s exclusive circle.
Reaching the under-stairs door, she’d turned her skeleton key in the lock and descended the wooden steps into the abandoned room. She’d crossed to the window and pushed the slatted boards aside. Easing out into the courtyard, she’d doubled back on herself, lifting herself up over the low, crumbling dividing wall as she headed in the direction of the alley.
Peering through the deep V of missing bricks on the far side, she’d arrived in time to hear the stranger mention Pummel. It shouldn’t have surprised her – everyone in the south had heard of Pummel. Or at least everyone who was anyone. With logic dictating the stranger was yet another in a long line looking to make a deal or get in with reputably the most powerful con in Blackthorn, she should have walked away.
Instead, she’d pressed her fist against the broken brick wall that hid her and clenched her jaw at the injustice of the four-on-one fight that had almost instantly broken out. She’d expected it to take only minutes before they’d beaten him to a pulp, but the stranger could fight, and impressively so, taking two out with swift and brutal ease as well as holding his own with the others. Whoever he was, he was most definitely someone. She’d watched in fascination and partly in awe, not just at how adept a fighter he was but the intelligence in his tactics too – an advantageous combination in a sub-society lording the principle of the survival of the fittest.
He almost hadn’t needed her help, until Grayson had fought dirty. Seeing the brutal con take the blade from the holster at the back of his jeans, she’d snapped. Consequences or not, she couldn’t stand by and watch the stranger be gutted.
She’d kept it swift and painless, though neither con deserved either. The stranger had subsequently collapsed to his knees amidst his heavy and pained breathing. From his half-beaten state though, he’d squinted up her.
It had sealed his fate.
Finally having seen his face as clearly as if sunlight had descended on it, she’d nearly forgotten to breathe; a face she’d recognised, sending shooting sensations up her spine as a result.
He’d passed out within seconds, whereas she’d stood staring down at him like she’d stepped into wet concrete – just like she was now.
But he still showed no recognition of her, confirming they hadn’t met; subsequently confirming there was far more to this con.
She handed him the remaining contents of the bottle more civilly, which, as he finally managed to recline against the crates despite his obvious discomfort, he accepted. As she backed up against the crates between him and the exit, he gave her another swift assessment before doing the same to the dark, dank storage room.
‘You know how to fight,’ she said, trying not to let any sense of admiration slip into her tone.
‘Comes with practice,’ he said, still with the same rasp of an inevitably dry throat. He adjusted his position with a minor wince, albeit it with a fluidity of moves as enticing as the body that governed them.
He certainly had the scar tissue to back up his claim: one on his left hip, another on his right side not far from his now rapidly healing stab wound. And he had that look – one that warned people not to get too close despite the mildness of his dark-brown eyes. Mild eyes that she knew from the evidence tattooed on his arm were painfully deceptive – numbers that betrayed acts as dark as the black ink used to engrave them on his skin. Acts that were committed both outside of and, more worryingly, inside the penitentiary.
‘Your penitentiary number isn’t from Lowtown,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t they send you to the core in your own locale?’
Transferring a convict from a penitentiary to the core was the last resort, saved for those who committed crimes so heinous or were so defiant on the inside that they were extradited to fend for themselves amongst the third species. Most cons banded together for survival, usually with bonds they had formed inside, so to be transferred to another locale was rare – as inhumane as sending established enemies into Blackthorn without security guards to protect the weaker. Because once you were in, you never got out. In all cases, an irretrievable chip was injected into each con’s brain on transfer – a chip that would implode if they tried to cross the border. Once in, they either survived or died, a fact that prompted her to again question if she would have been kinder to leave him to his inevitable fate sooner.
The only problem was, she didn’t know whether that fate was for good or bad. And she had no way of knowing. Not yet. All she knew was that, based on her recognition, he was integral somehow.
‘This is my locale,’ he said. Adjusting his position again to sit completely upright, he drew Jessie’s attention to the thick, black leather band that encompassed his left wrist as he lifted the bottle of water back to his lips. ‘They sent me to a penitentiary in another.’
He seemed surprisingly at ease, but his scrutiny as he rested his head back against the crate, as he dragged his gaze from her feet to her eyes, made her stomach clench. No one dared linger on her except for Pummel – and he never looked at her like that.
‘They don’t do that unless you’re serious trouble,’ she said.
‘Is there any other kind?’ he asked with a glint of a smile before he took another mouthful of water, the flexion in his bicep straining against his T-shirt sleeve with the motion.
She tried not to be distracted by the lips that wrapped themselves around the bottle’s rim – lips she had lingered on while she’d bit into her own as he’d lain unconscious beneath her. Firm lips she had gently touched with the very tips of her fingers, knowing there was no risk of him waking with the sedative she had embedded in his system to ensure he stayed unconscious long enough for her to get back to him. Lips she had been tempted to graze with her own just to experience how they would feel.
‘You don’t want to be boasting of any kind of reputation around here,’ she said. ‘This place is more territorial than you can imagine.’
‘So I’ve seen.’
‘Believe me, there are plenty more where Grayson came from.’
He glanced to her left to where moonlight spilled through the mesh door behind her, creating a woven pattern on the concrete floor. ‘How long have I been unconscious?’
‘All day. I gave you a mild sedative to ease the pain.’
He scanned the room again. ‘Where am I?’
‘Only twenty feet from where you were attacked last night – in a storage lock-up below the old shop roof you were standing on. No one comes in here.’
He looked back at her, raked her swiftly again. ‘You had some swift moves of your own out there.’
‘He would have stabbed you again and finished the job.’
‘What do you care?’
‘I don’t. But Grayson was out of line.’
‘You knew him?’
‘I know everyone around here.’
He glanced at where the sleeves of her loose-fitting sweater cusped the backs of her hands. ‘Are you a con too?’
She folded her arms. ‘No.’
She expected him to persist, but he didn’t. Instead he lifted his bloodied T-shirt and pulled back the dressing to examine the stitches she’d used to patch him up. Stitches that she knew were for effect only, her attempt to mask the true nature of his healing. She tried not to linger on the fraction of the hard body he’d exposed and could only hope he wouldn’t notice how rapidly he was healing – that his memory was hazy enough to question what really happened.
‘Did you do this?’ he asked, looking back at her.
She nodded and cast the clean T-shirt at him.
He caught it one-handed, seemingly having no further question of the small miracle happening beneath his skin. Knocking back another mouthful before leaving the bott
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