Somehow in the whole scheme of her current life, being smashed into a tree at this point didn’t seem so bad.
Eventually they hit a narrow dirt road and crashing through the gate that marked the edge of the property, Dylan shoved the gas pedal to the floor and sent them hurtling down the road with bone-jarring speed.
Angela struggled to stay upright, more than once hitting her head against the window as Dylan took a corner or hit a pothole. She lost track of time, but she sensed they were traveling east of Columbia.
Not that it mattered . . .
This time no one was going to be making a perfectly timed appearance to save her from the crazy freak. What difference did it make where she was killed and her body dumped?
Drowning in her dark thoughts, Angela barely noticed when the car came to a halt. It wasn’t until the car door was opened and Dylan was hauling her out of the backseat that she came back to her senses.
And immediately wished that she hadn’t.
Not only was her entire body one big cramp, but there was a stench of garbage and something that she couldn’t quite identify wafting in the air.
Meth?
With casual indifference to the pain she might cause, Dylan ripped the duct tape off Angela’s mouth, her expression hard with warning.
“You can scream if you want,” she said, gesturing toward the filthy trailer park that was filled with a half dozen shabby trailers. “No one around here gives a shit.”
Angela believed her.
The very air reeked of a grinding poverty that would steal the soul of anyone unfortunate enough to be stuck in the barely habitable structures. They were far too busy trying to survive in a world that threatened to crush them to worry about anyone else.
“I don’t know why you brought me here,” she muttered as Dylan forced her up the stairs of the nearest trailer. “I told you, I can’t do what you want.”
“Of course you can.” Dylan efficiently dealt with the complicated lock before swinging the door open and shoving Angela inside. “It’s all about focus.”
“But . . .” Angela’s protest died on her lips as she tripped over the threshold to discover a small living room that had been scrubbed clean and stripped of most of its furniture except for a table that was nearly hidden beneath a stack of scientific equipment. “Are those mine?” she demanded in shock.
Dylan shoved her forward so she could enter the room and shut the door behind them.
“You’ve convinced yourself you need technology to work your magic, so here it is.”
Angela scowled at the persistent implication she was a fellow freak.
“It’s not magic. And this equipment is only for my personal use. I would have to be in a fully functioning lab to try and complete my research.”
“You’ll do it here.” Removing her gloves, Dylan used a claw to slice through the cuffs that were shutting off the blood supply to Angela’s hands and pushed her toward the table. “And you’ll do it now.”
Managing to stay upright, Angela rubbed her sore wrists and pretended to study the equipment.
You couldn’t argue with a crazy person.
Besides, it gave her the opportunity to covertly survey her surroundings.
To the right was an open kitchen with the standard stove, fridge, and microwave framed by cheap cabinets. There was a window over the sink, but it was too small for her to wriggle through.
To her left a doorway led to the back of the trailer, but the lights were out and it was too dark for her to make out more than a narrow hallway.
Directly opposite her was a pair of windows, covered by hideous paisley curtains. They had potential as an escape route, she decided. Always assuming she could somehow distract her dangerous captor long enough to attempt an escape.
Sensing Dylan’s growing impatience, Angela sucked in a deep breath and turned her head to meet the crimson gaze.
“Fine. I’ll need to start with a blood sample.”
The Sentinel strolled forward, offering Angela a sneer as she reached for one of the unused slides. “Not that I don’t trust you, but I’ll do it.” Using her claw, she poked the end of her finger and smeared the drop of blood on the slide. “Here.”
Angela took the slide and grudgingly headed for the table.
It was ironic, really.
There wasn’t a scientist alive who wouldn’t sell their soul for a glimpse at this rare blood. Some would even be willingly kidnapped (okay, that was an oxymoron) for the privilege.
But Angela would have traded the opportunity in a heartbeat if it meant being safely tucked in Niko’s arms.
Turning on the microscope, she settled on the lone stool in the room and adjusted the settings, unnervingly aware of Dylan’s impatient stare.
On the wall a clock ticked and more distantly a dog barked, but what felt like a threatening silence was wrapping around Angela, making it almost impossible to concentrate.
At last she had to do something, anything to slice through the thick air.
“How did you learn about me?” She glanced up to see a puzzled expression on Dylan’s exotic face. “I mean, none of my work has been published yet.”
“Oh.” Dylan shrugged. “Your professor contacted Calder when it became obvious you were more than just another grad student.”
Angela froze, not certain what part of the explanation bothered her the most.
“Which professor?” she finally managed to croak.
“I think his name was Appold.”
The fact that the woman knew the name of the professor who’d taken Angela under his wing and had become a trusted mentor shook Angela more than she cared to admit.
Could it be true?
God almighty.
Was her growing skill at manipulating cells actually a result of some mutation?
The thought was almost too overwhelming to even contemplate.
Not because she was prejudiced against high-bloods. Or even horrified at the thought of becoming one of them.
It was quite simply impossible to spend twenty-six years of her life believing herself to be one thing, and then in the space of one day being forced to accept she was another.
She was a logical, pedantic type of gal.
She needed time to process the data.
Clearing the lump lodged in her throat, she wiped her damp hands on her jeans.
“Who is Calder?” she asked.
“The Master of Gifts,” Dylan readily explained. “His order is in charge of seeking out high-bloods who either don’t know they’re special or those who are trying to blend in among the norms.”
“And he knows my professor?”
“Yes, he’s one of Calder’s order who keeps his eyes open for high-bloods in this area.”
She briefly wondered why Appold hadn’t told her of his suspicions from the beginning. Had he intended to spring the good news on her along with her diploma?
“Here’s your doctorate, Angela, oh, and by the way, you’re a freak. . . .”
She thrust away the futile thought.
She was more interested in the future. Hey, there was a minuscule chance that she might survive the night. She needed to be prepared.
“Do they force all high-bloods to Valhalla?”
Dylan’s humorless laugh echoed through the empty trailer. “Let’s just say that they strongly encourage people to travel to the mother ship.”
“Why?”
“They need to know if you are going to be a danger to yourself or others.”
“Oh.” Angela slowly nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“Fantastic,” her companion mocked. “Now that we’ve shared our little heart-to-heart, will you get to work?”
She heaved a sigh, knowing she’d put off the inevitable for as long as possible.