Fallen Angel of Mine (Overworld Chronicles #3)
Page 28I imagined how pale my eyes must look by now. How the gaunt lines of my cheeks and jaw probably appeared as they edged toward an almost inhuman mask I'd once seen on Dad's face when he was starving. If only I could reach those women, somehow.
"Is anyone else in here?" I called out. No response came. Either they ransomed people fast, or the pickings were slim in this neck of the woods.
Sometime later, the short-tempered food-stomper man returned, but this time without any food. I noticed the rice and beans he'd kicked all over the place were gone. I wondered if they'd made him clean it. I wished I'd been awake to make fun of him while he did.
The door at the end of the hall slammed open again and a tall thin man wearing a black suit and dark shades strode through while one of his cronies held open the door. A ponytail barely held back a thick mane of coarse hair. His skin, though olive-toned, looked pasty.
The short man's face went deathly pale and his eyes dropped to the floor. He spoke a sentence in tremulous Spanish and pointed at me a couple of times. I reached with my senses toward this new guy—obviously a head honcho—and felt only a whisper of cold aura. I must have sprained my brain earlier because it took all I had. But what I felt was enough. My stomach roiled and an arctic chill shivered all the way from the peach fuzz on the bottom of my butt cheeks to my scalp.
This guy was a vampire. No question about it.
He regarded the short man with a cruelly amused expression, and in a rich Spanish accent rivaling Antonio Banderas said, "Diego, get out of here."
Diego burst out of there with speed almost supernatural for a human, leaving me alone with El Mysterioso Strangero. I'd figured out by adding an 'o' to the end of most of my words, it was practically like speaking Spanish.
"Greetings, Justin Slade," the man said with the hint of a cunning smile. "Maximus sends his regards."
Anger burned through the frost of fear. I gripped the bars. "Who are you?"
He leaned against the cinder block wall and regarded me as a cat might look upon a trapped mouse. "I am Marcel, right hand of the man who runs this compound."
"Maximus runs this place?" Good lord, this wasn't the ordinary ransom by a drug cartel like I'd thought.
He threw back his head and laughed. Light glistened off his fangs. "Maximus, in charge here?" His laughter cut off suddenly and cruel cunning once again filled his eyes. "I can assure you, such is not the case."
"Such questions are beyond your concern, my friend," he answered coolly.
"How the hell does Maximus know where I am? Is he here? Did he send that guy after me?"
Marcel chuckled softly, clearly enjoying my confusion. "So many questions, friend. All you need worry about, however, is keeping me and Franco full of sweet spawn blood."
I shuddered and backed away, my mind groping for some way out. "Maximus might not appreciate you keeping me."
He removed his sunglasses and tucked them into a pocket, revealing the red irises, a dead giveaway to his supernatural affiliation. "Maximus does not need to know."
"Obviously, he somehow knew I was down here and asked you guys to kidnap me." I raised an eyebrow. "He's not stupid. How long do you think it'll be before he comes to collect?"
"You seem to know Maximus very well, friend. But he is a young vampire and poses no threat to us."
"Not even with his army of vampires?" I was grasping at straws here, but I remembered the compound full of vamps Maximus had recruited, not to mention Underborn's dire warnings the rogue vampire had extended his tendrils into schools all over the nation and had his sights set on other countries as well.
Marcel's eyes flickered uncertainly for the first time, though his fanged grin never faltered. "We provide him with certain services. If he wishes those services to continue, then keeping you will pose no problem."
"You know, if I were any other spawn, I might say you're right. But Maxi-poo and I go back a long way. You're going to have a fight on your hands." Part of my brain raised a metaphorical eyebrow and gave me a crazy look, probably wondering why in the world I was so eager to make this guy hand me over to Maximus. Or maybe I was just desperate to keep his nasty, diseased fangs out of my skin. I couldn't repress a shudder at the thought.
"How did Maximus know I was down here?" I asked again, voice hoarse and trembling.
"You placed a call to your father's phone and left a rather detailed message. Maximus forwarded it to us and requested we bring you in."
My stomach suddenly weighed a ton. Did Maximus have my father's phone, or had he somehow tapped it? Had something horrible happened back in the States while I'd been stuck down here? I had to keep these guys from feeding off me. I remembered how weak my father had been during his incarceration by Maximus. If they got me in that state, I'd be useless. Oh, who was I kidding? I was already beyond useless in my current condition. I had to play Maximus against them. Give myself time and a chance to recover.
I took an involuntary step back from the bars, my leaden legs threatening to give way, and said, "Franco, I presume."
He crossed his arms and looked me up and down like a piece of juicy, grade-A beef before turning to Marcel. "He is the one?" His accent had a well-educated British quality to it.
Marcel nodded. "Should we move him to the low cell? We need to keep him away from women."
"Once he's in the low cell, he can have all the women he needs to stay healthy." Franco motioned me closer. "Come here, boy. I want to taste the merchandise."
I backed away. "I don't think so, twinkle toes."
Franco gave Marcel a look and motioned toward the door with his head.
Marcel produced a radio and barked something in Spanish. A smug smiled appeared on his face. He was planning something nasty, I could tell. The steel door creaked a few minutes later and a hulking muscle-bound dude with enough testosterone in his swagger to impregnate a woman from thirty yards out strutted in. Looked me up and down. My legs wobbled but somehow I kept them from buckling by leaning against the back wall.
Marcel spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. He repeated one sentence three times, so even with my horrible comprehension, I figured out what he was saying. "Absolutamente no mujers. No muchachas. Comprende?" Absolutely no women. Understand?
"When I return, I believe you will be more than happy to let me sample your blood," Franco said with a cruel smile. "Jose will make you eager to do as we say."
He and Marcel left. Jose pumped a meaty fist into his palm and smiled. Diego, the short food-stomping man came in a moment later with a stool. He obviously wanted to watch Jose pound the snot out of me.
Jackass.
"You must have the tiniest little pee-pee in the world," I said to Jose, showing him my pinky finger and wiggling the tip. A hysterical laugh burst from my dry ragged throat. Apparently, my hunger had deteriorated into dementia. I also didn't recall drinking anything since my arrival, so my brain was probably dehydrated and shriveling into a gray prune. My legs finally gave way. My knees crashed into the concrete, sending a jolt of pain through my bones.
I was in horrible shape. Overdose of tranquilizers, no water, no food, no essence to feed on. This was not going to be pleasant. I groped desperately at Jose's aura, but his happiness was so sadistic, it repulsed me. I tried to tweak his mood, but without a female presence, I was fiddling in a lock without a key.
"Do you know what Franco and Marcel are?" I said.
Diego grinned. "The bosses. They own you."
My forehead furrowed and worsened my headache. "What about Maximus?"
"How you know about Maximus? He sells us guns. He no interested in you."
"What about vampires?"
A puzzled look wrinkled the little man's face. "You crazy gringo." He spoke to Jose and they guffawed long and loud, Jose bending over and slapping his thigh with merriment.
Holy crap. These guys didn't have a clue who or what they were working for.
The big guy opened the cell and, gripping me by my shirt, tried to drag me onto my feet. My T-shirt, a loaner from Alejandro, stretched and tore. I thudded back onto the concrete like a sack of potatoes. He kicked me in the ribs with pointy-toed boots. Something cracked. I was going to set a record for breaking my bones this week.
His kick ripped an incoherent scream of pain from my throat. I folded into the fetal position, holding my sides. Jose jerked me to my feet and punched me in the stomach. His fist finally did what all my earlier dry heaves couldn't. I vomited a stream of stomach acid all over his face. He yelled what had to be every Spanish profanity in the book, spitting, sputtering, and backing away. I slumped against the wall, my entire body feeling more like jelly than flesh and bone.
A hard kick from the walking testicle slammed against my ribs. Something else cracked. A hard breath wheezed through my raw throat. Jose kicked me over and over again until the pain was so blinding black spots dance before my eyes. I heard someone yelling—it sounded like Diego—and the kicks stopped. Warm fluid pooled in my mouth. I angled my head and saw bloody drool leaking onto the floor in a grim puddle.
This might be it, I realized. Unless I figured out a way to feed off these turds, I was going to die, probably bleed to death from internal injuries. Endorphins flooded my system and took the edge off the pain, but beyond that, the raw ragged edges of agony seeped into every part of my body.
The short guy rolled me onto my back. I screamed as the sensation of icepicks stabbed into my right side. He yelled at the big guy who vanished and returned moments later with a white guy carrying a black bag.