Page 5 of Pretty Savage: Defy

Halloween Night

Laurel

“You’re Laurel Turner, in the flesh.” Silas, leader of The Jackals, exhales a soft, delighted laugh, his gaze never wavering from my face. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”

The bus takes a hard turn, and I shift with it, gripping the table to keep my balance. Above us, a small crystal chandelier sways on its chain. Light fractures through the glass, flashing sharp and broken across the booth. Each swing paints Silas’s face in light, then shadow, then light again, as if the room can’t decide whether to reveal him or keep him hidden.

When the darkness falls, it sinks into the hollows beneath his eyes, turning him skeletal. When the light returns, it slides over his black teardrop tattoos, making them glisten like fresh blood. The ink drips from the corners of his eyes, down his cheeks and throat, disappearing beneath his collar, grief without an ending.

I know what those tattoos mean: each one is an act of violence, a life taken.

Jackson, my least favorite person on earth, twitches beside Silas. He’s started to sweat. Droplets slick his brow and gather on his upper lip. His feverish gaze jerks from one shadow to the next. I follow it, taking in the bus’s interior, which is steeped in dark luxury, with rich black fabrics and heavy curtains thick enough to smother whatever light might be outside.

Daylight. Moonlight. I can’t tell.

My fingers find the tender lump on the side of my head. Pain flares, throbbing, and I turn a glare on Jackson, remembering the swing of his fist, the sickening crack of my skull, the way the world went dark.

Bastard.

He doesn’t notice, too busy fidgeting. His hands pluck at his shirt like they have a mind of their own.

I take in the rest of the space. It’s half living room, half bar. The banquette table is ebony, the velvet seat so soft I sink into it like quicksand. Across from where I sit a wet bar is illuminated by discreet spotlights. Glittering crystalware and bottles of liquor glow in shades of amber, emerald, and peridot. Beneath the counter, a wine fridge casts a soft glow, blue light on black carpet, like a bruise.

The silence is wrong. No engine rumble or outside noise. Even our breathing is swallowed, as if the room conspires to keep sound a secret. Maybe that’s the Faraday cage at work, the wire mesh wrapped around us, blocking the signal from the tracker hidden in my shoulder.

I’d counted on it as a lifeline, but Silas severed it. The loss is more than technical. It’s physical, emotional, a blade that’s sliced the invisible thread binding Carrson to me. There’s an emptiness where his steady presence used to be. I want to cry, not just for the loss of him, but for the cold, undeniable truth that no one is coming to save me.

I reach up and absently rub at the skin overlying the tracker. It still throbs from where Carrson inserted it a few days ago. I thought the pain would fade by now, but if anything it’s worse. Every now and then a sharp twinge shoots from it, as if it isn’t sitting quite right. The ache follows as I continue to survey the bus.

Two doors frame the space. One at the front, leading to the driver. The other is at the back. Bedroom? Bathroom? Escape route? I weigh my chances. They’re not good. Jackson is big, pure muscle under that jittery frame, and Silas has the kind of lean, coiled build that makes you think of a panther, patient but ready to pounce.

If I run, I doubt I’d make it three steps.

“What happened to Trent Riveria?” Silas asks, breaking into my thoughts.

I blink. “Who?”

“Dark hair with some gray. Teardrop tattoos like mine.” He says it casually, like he’s asking for directions. “Your boyfriend killed him. Carved him up with a knife. Ring any bells?”

It comes back to me. The smell of pizza in the air. Pepperoni and pineapple. The first time I ever saw Carrson, covered in another man’s blood. The certainty that I was about to die.

“Uh...” My mind races.

“No lying. I already know what happened,” Silas says with an impatient flap of his hand. “I just need to know what they did with the body. Trent has family. A mother. A sister.” He folds his hands on the table, and the corners of his mouth turn down. “Don’t you think they deserve closure, Laurel?” He shakes his head sadly, expression growing more earnest. “Isn’t that what you would want?”

I know he’s manipulating me, but damn him because now I’m picturing a mother sitting by a phone that will never ring. A sister running to the front door every time headlights sweep across the window.

I frown, ashamed that I’ve never considered that before. I’d only thought of Trent as a criminal since he was involved in that bad batch of cocaine. The one that those kids overdosed on. Now, I think back to that night, to the way the body vanished. Carrson denied it had ever been there, but I’d seen the truth in his eyes. Back then I mistook Carrson’s distance for cruelty. Now I know better.

“I don’t know where they took him.” I lift my chin and meet Silas’s eyes. “I mean it.”

Silas scans me like he can see straight through flesh and bone.

“Why am I here?” I straighten, trying to hide my nerves. “You didn’t kidnap me just to ask about Trent.”

“Now that’s the right question, sugar.” He props his chin in his hand. “Why are you here?”

I clench my hands and say through gritted teeth, “That’s what I just said.”