Brotherhood in Death (In Death 42)

“Let me give her the stuff, Edward. She’ll want it when it kicks in.”

“I don’t care if she wants it or not. I take what I want.”

“Please. Please.”

She wept as Betz fumbled with a syringe, managed to push the needle into her biceps. “Give it a couple minutes.”

Ignoring Betz, he rammed himself into the girl.

She screamed.

When he was done, she turned her face away and said, “Please.” Only, “Please.” Again and again.

“Freddy’s up.”

“I’ll say.” Betz stroked himself. “I got a hell of a boner. Let’s see how the magic juice works.”

He took his turn straddling her, gave her nipple a teasing pinch. “Hey, baby.”

“What? What? It’s hot. It’s so hot.”

“Yeah, magic juice. Gonna get hotter.”

She strained against the bindings, tried to rear up. But instead of fear and shock, now her eyes were glazed and wild.

“Some form, some early form of Whore or Rabbit. Chem major—family business,” Eve stated.

Roarke said nothing, but his hand slipped into his pocket, and his fingers closed over the small gray button he carried there, always.

While Betz raped her Eve heard voices, laughter, the clink of glasses. Getting drunker, she thought, getting higher. Getting off on it, and waiting their turn at her.

When Betz came with a triumphant roar, they actually cheered.

“Holy shit! Best I ever had.”

“Move your ass, Fred.” Wymann shoved him aside. “My turn.”

“It’s enough,” Roarke said and turned to the machine.

“No, it’s not. All of it.”

It made her sick, it made her sweat, but she watched it all. Watched as they went back for more, one by one, and again, even after the girl had passed out.

“She’s done, man.” Easterday sprawled beside her. She lay facedown now, limp. “No fun when she just lies there like a corpse.”

“Let’s clean her up and out. Douche the douche.” Betz cackled at his sick joke.

“She won’t remember anything?” Edward Mira demanded.

“Who’re you talking to?” Betz snorted. “She’ll remember the party—vaguely, but nothing after the first roofie we got in her. We clean her good—no DNA in her when we’re done. We get her dressed, and we dump her back on the campus. Just like we planned. Maybe she cries rape, because that bitch is going to be sore every fucking where, but they can’t put it on us. We’re our own alibis.”

“The Brotherhood,” Wymann said.

“Bet your ass, bro.”

He turned back to the camera, grinned. “And that concludes the First Annual Brotherhood Fuckfest. Thank you and good night!”

The screen went back to blue.