"Do it, Bowman," Beryl retorted with a self-satisfied smirk. "And see who he blames. You're the employee, not me. You'll face his wrath for letting a test subject get away."
Dr. Gene Bowman of NewLife Technology. The former supervisor of Jaxon Law's new mate, Kira Locke. Sweat rolled down Aric's face.
Bowman remained unmoved. "If you honestly think spreading your legs for some demon is going to protect you from any fallout from what you've done, you're sadly deluded. This project is much bigger and more significant than your petty games. What we're on the verge of accomplishing is huge, and he'll let nothing get in the way-especially not a slutty, mediocre witch who's easily replaced in his bed."
Aric missed Beryl's pissed-off retort. His brain was too busy reeling at the overload of information. Demon? Was that a slur against Orson Chappell, or had Bowman meant "demon" in the literal sense? Anything was possible-including the idea that Chappell was not the head of the snake, something Nick and the team had feared. Whoever the head slimeball might be, Beryl was sleeping with him.
Bowman turned to the muscleman and the other guy in the lab coat. "Get him down from there and take him to the lab for prep."
Before that moment, he'd only thought he'd known fear.
The taller doctor and the meathead released his wrists, allowing him to drop. Arms dead from little circulation, limp as cooked noodles, he face-planted on the dirty concrete floor with his legs still attached to the wall, spread-eagle.
It was the single most degrading moment of his life.
Then the doc and the muscle guy hauled him up, easy as pie considering all the weight he'd lost, one taking him under the arms, one getting his ankles. Carried faceup, naked body on display and nobody caring, his carcass no better than a number to write down in their sordid files.
After an ascent in an elevator, he tried to keep track of the twists and turns they made, but he was simply too exhausted. Disheartened. Several minutes later, he found himself in a stark space that distinctly resembled an operating room.
It was then he noticed the drain in the tiled floor.
When they placed him on his back on a steel table, he began to struggle, attempted to call his fire or his wolf. Anything. But the "gifts" he usually cursed had deserted him when they counted most, and his rebellion was short-lived. A needle slid into the crook of his right arm and a cold burn seeped through the limb, stretched icy fingers across his chest. Suddenly he had trouble breathing, whether from the medication or sheer panic he didn't know.
The freeze slowly crept across his stomach, to his groin and legs. With the cold was the realization that he couldn't move at all-though his mind remained aware.
Bowman's hated, innocuous face appeared over him, smiling faintly. "Console yourself with the thought that this is for the greater triumph of mankind. Now relax." To the other doctor, he said, "Note that the experimentation on number five fifty-two has commenced."
"Wh-what're you doin' to me?" he slurred. His tongue felt heavy as a wet blanket, his thoughts growing sluggish. He peered at a bright light overhead and it quadrupled, as did the faces above him.
No one answered his question. His legs were spread and fastened with restraints, and so were his wrists at his sides.
A scalpel appeared in Bowman's hand as he continued to dictate the procedure and findings to someone Aric couldn't see. "Subject is malnourished and dehydrated, with cuts and lesions in the late stages of infection over forty percent of his body. Taking samples of the subject's DNA and semen to determine their viability to our cause."
Semen? What the fuck?
"Percentage of probability of scheduling subject five fifty-two for termination?" a robotlike voice intoned.
"Will advise."
"Thank you, doctor."
Yeah? Fuck you very much, doc.
Focused on his task, Bowman answered with only a grunt as he lowered the scalpel to the center of Aric's chest, just a millimeter south of his sternum. Aric's instinct was to struggle, try to yank on his bonds, get his hands free and torch them all, but again, absolutely nothing happened. He could only watch as the small blade sliced gradually into his skin, parting the surface like hot butter. There was pressure but no pain, an odd and frightening thing when a maniac had total access to his body and he couldn't do a damned thing to stop the asshole.
The pressure increased, the knife digging deeper. So deep he swore the doc was cutting straight to his heart. Maybe he was. Apparently satisfied with this cut, the doc removed the now-bloodied knife, laid it on a nearby tray and held out his hand for a new instrument. A large pair of what Aric thought of as oversized tweezers were slapped into Bowman's palm and he pried apart the sliced flesh, inserting the points. A strange tugging sensation in his chest, now accompanied by some pain, took his breath away.
Bowman lifted the tweezers. Aric's eyes widened to see a piece of his own tissue dangling from the instrument. If he'd been capable, he would've gotten violently sick. As it was, the procedure was repeated twice more while Aric tried desperately to think of anything but what they were doing to him. The medication didn't prevent him from closing his eyes, but he couldn't stop watching.
The last sample of flesh was handed to an assistant. "Log in and test the heart tissue samples from test subject five fifty-two. I want to know if his DNA and gene strands are compatible to merge with human subject two twenty-nine."
"Yes, doctor." The assistant disappeared.
And something chilling occurred to Aric-the fact that Bowman hadn't bothered to put him to sleep, was openly discussing the procedure when he and his bosses knew that Alpha Pack was onto them, meant that Aric wasn't supposed to survive.
When they were done using his body, they would kill him.
Bowman continued, moving down to stand next to Aric's spread legs. "Now obtaining semen sample from five fifty-two."
The scalpel was handed back to Bowman, and Aric's brain reeled in horror as the doctor's latex-covered hand lifted his testicles. Only when the knife descended did he realize that the numbing agent must be wearing off. Fucking bastards!
The pain was extraordinary, both bone-cold and white-hot, like nothing he'd ever felt. Not even when he'd been attacked and turned into a wolf. In spite of the paralyzing medication, his back arched off the table.
And the red wolf howled again and again, but only in his mind.
"Hello! Can I help you?"
Rowan turned to the speaker with a half-formed reply in the affirmative... which promptly died on her lips. Standing right in front of her was a tall, lithe, impossibly gorgeous man dressed in skinny jeans and a snug navy T-shirt.
And, yeah. The guy had long, flowing sapphire blue hair she would've thought had been colored by Miss Clairol-if it weren't for the matching wings.
"Well, fuck me sideways," she blurted.
Golden eyes sparkled with humor. "An interesting idea. May I at least have your name first?"
That surprised a laugh from her, and she held out her hand. "Rowan Chase, LAPD. You?"
The man, or whatever, took her hand but instead of giving it a firm shake, turned it over and placed a kiss on her palm. "Some call me Blue, but my real name is Sariel, and I'm a former prince of the Seelie court. Now I'm an assistant in Block R, where I help Kira Locke oversee the rehabilitation of displaced and injured otherworldly creatures."
Her skin tingled where his lips had touched and she slowly withdrew her hand, blinking at him. O-kay. "Seelie? What the heck is that?"
"I'm Fae," he said proudly. "Or faery if you prefer."
She eyed him from his glorious head to his feet, which sported a snazzy pair of Doc Martens. While the gorgeous slice of man looked like he belonged on a Paris runway, he so didn't look like any fairy in her book. But hey, whatever floated his boat. "Fae it is."
"What is L-A-P-D?" he asked, spelling the letters carefully, as though they were foreign to him.
"That stands for 'Los Angeles Police Department.' I'm a cop, here on personal business."
Excitement lit his face. "Oh! I've seen those on the television, capturing and shooting bad guys," he said, making a gun with his thumb and forefinger.
His enthusiasm would've been cute if it hadn't been for the vision of Luis Garcia dead on the dirty ground that still stalked her brain. "It's not all fun and games," she replied shortly. "Those people on the tube are actors and the shows rarely get it right."
His smile fell. "I'm sorry. It's just that I'm still learning so much about your world and have so far left to go that when I recognize something familiar..."
"Hey, no sweat." Now she felt bad for ruining his fun.
Shrugging, he went on. "Anyway, you must be an extremely worthy female of your kind to have such an important job."
"Tell that to the media and the general public."
"What?" His brow wrinkled.
"Nothing." She couldn't believe she was having this conversation-any conversation-with a blue-haired dude wearing wings. "Say, where does a hungry person get something to eat around here?"
Sariel brightened again and offered her his arm. "In the dining room, and you're in luck because it's time for the evening meal. I'll escort you."
"Sounds good. I could eat roadkill right about now." Taking the man's arm, she saw him wrinkle his nose and couldn't help but laugh. "Relax, that's just a saying. I don't eat dead animals off the pavement."
"Good to know!" His relief was palpable.
Sariel led her back through the maze the way she'd come, but when they reached the hallway where her room was located, he made a turn in a new direction. After a few moments, they ended up in a big dining room, as promised. Like the rest of this place, the room was designed to create a homey feel.
Several large tables took up the space, which was made to house a number of people yet provide for more intimate conversation than it would have with just one huge table. In the center of each table were platters of food, served family style. And around the tables were quite a few men and a sprinkling of women. Most of whom had stopped talking and were checking out the newbie. Rowan looked around for Mackenzie, hoping for a familiar face, but didn't see her.
"Hey, Blue," someone called. "Who's your friend?"
"This is Rowan Chase," Sariel announced, either ignoring the slight awkwardness or unaware of it. "Apparently she's our guest for a while. Come on."
He tugged her to a nearby table where a small blond woman sat with a handsome, dark-haired, goateed man and two other guys she'd seen at the gate. At least now they were dressed. The body language of the blonde and the goateed man, the way they sat close, the big brute leaning into her, made Rowan think they were together. Rowan sat next to Sariel, across from the others, eyeing the steak and baked potatoes in the middle of the table.
Her stomach growled, hopefully unheard due to the talking that had resumed around them. The goateed guy pushed the plates closer to her side and nodded.
"Dig in."
"Thanks." Reaching for the big fork on the steak platter, she dished up a piece, put it on her plate, then stabbed a potato.
"I'm Jaxon Law, by the way," he said, and then gestured to the blonde burrowed into his side. "This is my mate, Kira Locke."
Mate? Okay. Wolves mated, right? Did they get married, too? She didn't see any rings on their fingers.
She addressed the other woman. "You must be the one who works with Sariel rehabilitating, um..."
Kira smiled. "Basically, we help any creature or intelligent being when they become lost or hurt and are brought to us. Right now we have a gremlin, a basilisk, two rescued shifters, and a wolf who's-" She cut off the last part of what she was about to say at a quick shake of Jaxon's head. What was that about? "Anyway, Nick is going to provide funds for us to build a rehab center on the grounds for that special purpose."