Neon Blue by E Frost (best book reader .TXT) 📗

to spare at the moment. I rise shakily; I want to be away from here. Wherever here is. And I want to be away from him. Whatever he is. But I’ve still got some unfinished business.

“Where’s Rowena?”

“Which particular Hell?”

I shudder. He could mean literally. “Her body.”

“In there.” He nods behind me and I twist around to meet my own bedraggled, blood-streaked reflection in a huge floor-to-ceiling mirror.

“In the mirror?” I squeak. Did he capture her soul and trap it in the mirror? I’ve heard of some ghost traps that work like that.

“Behind it. In her sanctum.”

I sigh with relief. I can’t quite hate Ro, no matter what she did to me, or tried to do. The thought of her soul trapped in a huge mirror for eternity is . . . unthinkable.

“Is there a way in?” I ask.

“Sure.”

A firm shove sends me stumbling. Straight into the mirror. I throw up my arms, a last-ditch attempt to protect my face, expecting to feel the hard impact of the glass. Instead a shivery cold sensation runs over me as I plunge through the mirror. Twisting in surprise, I look back at the room behind me, reflected darkly in the mirror. A dressing room. Dominated by the huge not-vampire.

A loud crack staggers me. Pain blinds me. I collapse against something hard and unyielding.

His wicked chuckle brings me back to groggy consciousness. “Now that’s a sight I never thought I’d see. A witch on the wheel.”

A hand closes on my injured wrist, pulls me upright. I whimper as merely sore goes back to blinding agony. “Stop,” I beg.

“No,” he says, his deep voice gone cruel. “You know how many days I lay howlin’ on this thing?”

Ice-cold metal closes around my wrist. Pins my arm against rough wood. He captures my other wrist, locks it over my head. I twist, kick futilely. He grabs my legs, forces them apart and steps between them. Leans into me. His hot tongue laps across my skin. Over my eyes, my forehead. Probing like a brand into a spot on my forehead that hurts a really-fucking-lot. I shudder, try to turn my face away. His big hand wraps around my jaw, holds me still.

Stop this! I scream into his mind.

He chuckles between wet licks of my face. Make me.

I scream aloud. The sound doesn’t echo the way it should. It’s deadened. Sound-proofed. No one’s going to hear me. No one’s going to save me. I’m on my own. Again.

He nuzzles my cheek, my ear. Still gripping my face, he growls, “Open your eyes.”

I do, blinking away my blood and his spit. Stare into my own reflection. The ghost-white oval of my face. A bright shock of blood down the side of my face from a head wound. The circles within circles of my wide eyes. His darker skin bracketing mine. Dreadlocks spill down his back like maroon snakes.

“See yourself?”

I nod. Watch that paper-pale face in the mirror bob.

“Think about lying here, day after day. Watchin’ them take off their clothes. Bare all that beauty. Prance around in lace and feathers. Think about lying here burning.”

I have no idea what he's talking about, but his rage is unmistakable. “I-I’m sorry,” I stutter, too frightened and lost to say anything more meaningful.

He growls. “You are, huh? Ready to make it up to me?” His hand drops away from my face, presses roughly down my body to my hip. He yanks at the waistband of my cargo pants. “Could take awhile. I’m starvin’.”

Fury flares, burning bright through the pain in my head and my wrists. Through the confusion and fear. I’m not going to lie here helpless and let him rape me. I’m not going to surrender to the Shadow Man. I’ll fight him all the way down.

“Are we back to this?” I ask bitterly. “You’re a bit of a one-note song, aren’t you?”

He freezes against me. His hand twists in the waistband of my pants so hard the button pops off.

Then he begins to chuckle. His chuckle builds and builds until he’s roaring with laughter, thunderous in my ear, his chest heaving against mine.

He releases my pants and unlocks me, one wrist and then the other. I slide out from under him and back away warily, not really knowing where I’m going but anywhere away from him is good. My Keds crunch on the strangely-stiff carpet. He leans against the wooden thing – it’s a huge wheel, propped in front of a wide one-way mirror – and watches me over his shoulder, through his dreadlocks, still chuckling softly.

I glance around, getting my bearings. Looking for exits. So I know which way to bolt when his mood changes. Small room. Smells atrocious. Dominated by a huge black table a few feet behind the wheel. Funny brown streaks on the walls. Door’s on the other side of the table. As is a small workbench like the one in my herbarium.

My eyes skip over something on the floor between the table and workbench. Track back. It could be a pile of rags. But I know it’s not.

“Oh, Ro,” I whisper.

I take a step towards her.

A hot constriction around my throat stops me in mid-motion. “Uh-uh,” he whispers into my ear.

I swallow hard against his hand. I didn’t see him move, and no one should be able to move that fast. I hold myself very still. I don’t want to give him any reason to crush my throat.

“You thinkin’ about taking that ring?” he asks, his voice a dark caress, lips brushing my ear. “Seein’ if it’ll work for you?”

I shake my head carefully. There’s no point in explaining. Telling him about Manny. He wouldn’t care. Or believe me.

“Go on,” he says silkily. “Take it.”

I tremble. I know it’s a trap, but I don’t know how to avoid it. He releases my throat and I edge carefully around the high table. The carpet crunches underfoot. When I reach the pile of rags that was my friend, I stoop and stretch out a shaking hand, brushing