Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve 1)

“When I put my hand on your face, I felt a…you stabilized. You stopped them before the first mouth broke skin. And when you lost consciousness, Aiman held them back.”

I cupped my mouth and slid down the wall. “I have no reason to believe you.”

He squatted next to me and angled his chin toward the night sky. “Like the moon, the truth doesn’t hide for long.”

“Get the fuck out of my face.”

He dropped his head and looked at me through lowered lids. “Give me a question only the priest can answer.”

My muscles contracted against the longing in my chest. I couldn’t give into hope. Why would the Drone let him live? And what was Dr. Nealy’s motivation? He’d taken care of me, kept me alive. Such was a scientist’s relationship with his rats. Until the tests began. I couldn’t trust him, but I could call his bluff.

“The priest received a sign. What was it?” The memory of that night latched onto my heart. I’d never forget Roark’s wonderment as he knelt over me, the depths of his eyes tracking the ladybugs on my body.

The doctor set an apple on the floor at my hip. “I do this at my own peril. Aiman and Siraj wouldn’t agree to my methods.”

At my shaky nod, he left.

Would the Drone and the Imago kill the doctor before I had the chance? The idea shoved in an ache deep inside me, which should’ve twinged my conscience. But losing my moral principles was nothing compared to what the past year had taken from me.

I crawled into the bed and sorted through my new memories of Joel. His final words ate at me. Why couldn’t he have just told me he loved me? Even amidst transformation, he counseled.

Trust mind, body and soul. Your guardians.

I eventually trusted my soul. It didn’t guard me. Instead, it weakened me and took my mind with it. My body would have followed, had the doctor not intervened. Was there another meaning? It wasn’t like Joel to speak in riddles. But in the throes of death, maybe he saw things or understood things I couldn’t.

Vulnerability settled around my heart. To chase it away, I practiced Roark’s boxing exercises, aiming each jab at the slivers of moonlight spearing the room. When the door groaned opened, I was stretched, energized and ready to pound the doctor’s lying mouth.

The Imago swaggered toward the gate. His gaze prowled over my body.

I squared my shoulders, fighting the compulsion to back into the corner. Fabric stretched over my chest, inviting his ogle while I cataloged his weapons.

The dart gun slung across his back. A gold Desert Eagle .50 cal seated in his thigh holster. His belt flaunted a Jambiya dagger in a J shaped sheath.

“Looking for Dr. Nealy?” The Imago never came alone.

He unsheathed the knife and dialed the combination on the lock. Then he locked himself—and his weapons—in with me. Stupid douche. Even the Drone wasn’t arrogant enough to put weapons in my reach.

“I passed him on the stairs and decided to pay you a visit.” His eyes continued their greedy perusal.

My pulse was an erratic thrum in my ears. “And so you have. Now you can go.”

He scratched his chin with the blade. “I’m a man of opportunity. It’s not often Michio leaves you alone. Undress. Or shall I do it for you?” He teased the blade down my sternum. His other hand palmed the butt of the pistol.

I suppressed the telltale bob of my throat. “What’s the Qur’an say about that? Big brother likes me covered.”

“Quickly.” He stomped his boot.

I clutched the hem of my top, prepared to brook any action that would get me closer to one of his weapons.

Heat burned in his eyes when I pulled it over my head, taking the headscarf with it. His lashes dropped with the garments’ descent to the floor. Then he was on me, mouth assaulting mine, stabbing with a tongue as stiff and foul as his cigar. I let him back me into the wall and waited for the moment he was caroused on lust.

It didn’t take long. He sheathed the dagger. His trembling hand groped my bared breast. His other fumbled with the buckle on his pants.

I tried to endure the next few moments, but my stomach rolled, preparing to blow chunks over the slimy invader in my mouth. I yanked my face back. “Do you like your tongue?”

He grinned, waggling the offensive organ bubbled in spit.

“Put it in my mouth again and you won’t get it back.”

“I’ll take my chances.” And he did.

I transferred my attention away from it to the belt under my exploring fingers. I ached to castrate him. He was moments from handing it to me. My thumb bumped the dagger’s hilt.

The final button yielded. His trousers sagged to the floor. I held onto the dagger and sank my teeth into the foul flesh between them. Hard.