Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve 1)

The V of Roark’s brows, the stretched muscles in his neck and his peeled-back lips exposed the wrath that consumed him. His teeth ground his gag, the whites blurring to black.

I held onto the vengeance in his eyes as the ground rose up and slammed into my face.

Rust grows from iron and destroys it;

so evil grows from the mind of man and destroys him.

Buddha

My ears perked to the low hum of white noise, air whispering through a vent. The vibration and whine of engine fan blades indicated transit. The helicopter? Too quiet. Quiet enough to hear breathing. I wasn’t alone.

Eyelids, weighed down with sedation, refused to let in light. I willed them open and blinked through the drug-induced fog.

The Drone slid a haughty smile from across a foldaway table. The doctor perched beside him, his nose in a book.

Clouds whisked by tiny windows lining the narrow cabin. Straps over my neck and arms held me firm against one of four leather seats, two facing two, the table between.

Ivory gauze draped my body toga-style from shoulder to bare feet. The knot in my gut tightened. Whose hands touched my body while dressing me? What else had they done while I was at their mercy?

Gloved fingertips slithered along my arm. I jerked as much as the shackles allowed. The Imago hovered a breath away. The black of his eyes matched the lashes feathering his lids. He ridged his forehead, the scarlet scar defying the folds. My fingers curled into the armrest.

Surrounded by three monsters—still men in form, but monsters all the same—what were my options? Without the carbine, it couldn’t be solved with a three-pound trigger pull.

I pointed my glare at the man molesting my arm. “Which one are you in the trifecta? First, second or worst?”

The Drone’s discomfiting laugh rattled the cabin. “Seems my brother is besotted.” His tone lowered. “While his attentions linger on your mouth, he forgets the affliction it may volley.”

What a douche bag. I showed none of the symptoms. Whatever. Letting them think I was a nymph would discourage rape. I hoped.

He picked up a spoon and stirred a powder into his tea cup. “Only a few more hours, brother, and we’ll confirm our suspicions.”

Or until I could free him of that spoon and gut them one by one with it. “Where’s the priest?”

The Drone’s cruel eyes were at odds with the delicate manner in which he placed the tea cup to his lips. “He’s en route to Malta.”

“What?” My organs crashed into one another in a frantic pounding. “What’s in Malta?”

As if on cue, the pilot announced our approach to the archipelago off the coast of Italy. The Drone turned up his mouth. “Your new home.”

“Release the priest. He has nothing—”

My tongue collided with the scratchy cloth of a gag. The Imago tightened the tie at the back of my head.

When the plane landed, I remained tethered to the Imago’s side. His eyes stalked me as I gnawed at the fabric that desisted my questions.

He tossed me into the backseat of the SUV, an arm stretched across my thigh. Oh, the things I would do if I had a dull knife. I would start at the elbow in my lap, sawing the serrated edge back and forth. A flap of skin. A strip of muscle. And when only the bone kept it attached, I would snap it over my knee and regift the appendage in his very own sodomy—

“Welcome to Manoel Island,” the Drone chirped from the front seat. Darkness swallowed the mainland behind us as we crossed a bridge, the doctor driving, the Drone narrating. “This island, l’Isola del Vescovo was once home to seven thousand Maltese. Now only those under my command occupy its shores.”

Apparently, his command consisted of Malta’s mutated humans. The flicker of aphids meandered in and out of the dusty stone buildings that crumbled along the beach. The tide sloshed against the empty docks. No boats and no humans.

We bumped along the disintegrating road into the quiet bowels of the island. From the depths, another shoreline emerged. The doctor slowed before a monolithic stone wall. I sucked in a breath.

“This,” the Drone said, “is Fort Manoel. Once used as a military fortification, it has been standing since the eighteenth century.” Red veins webbed his eyes.

Towering walls rose out of the Mediterranean, mocking the whipping brine and the crashing tide. A fortress meant to keep out attackers. Would I find a dungeon within? A bleeding cave? I shuddered.

On the other side of the gate, my captors escorted me up winding stairs and through one of the many stone archways that encircled an expansive brick quadrangle. The full circumference of the island was visible from that height. Desolate streets weaved between crowded buildings. Stores, docks and cars were abandoned. Not a single watercraft in sight. Not even a jet ski.