Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 153

CHAPTER 17.

CHAPTER 18.

CHAPTER 19.

CHAPTER 20.

CHAPTER 21.

CHAPTER 22.

CHAPTER 23.

CHAPTER 24.

CHAPTER 25.

CHAPTER 26.

CHAPTER 27.

CHAPTER 28.

EPILOGUE.

PROLOGUE.

Acknowledgments.

I would like to thank everyone who worked on this book. As always, my insightful editor, John Scognamiglio, helped with the book from the time it was a germ of an idea. With his help I was able to make a vague concept into a complete plot, and I can't imagine how many hours he spent on the ma.n.u.script. Before the finished book ever reached New York, my sister, author Nancy Bush, helped with the editing and compiling of the ma.n.u.script-a daunting task, believe me. Behind the scenes, a legion of people helped with the research and promotion. I can't thank them enough: Ken Bush, Alex Craft, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, Kelly Foster, Ken Melum, Roz Noonan, Ari Okano, Joan Schulhafer, Mike Seidel, Larry Sparks, and Niki Wilkins. If I've forgotten anyone, my apologies. Can I blame it on the age-thing?

Author's Note For the purposes of this story, I've bent some of the rules of police procedure and also created my own fict.i.tious police department in the city of New Orleans.

PROLOGUE.

All Saints College Baton Rouge, Louisiana December

Where am I?

A rush of icy air swept across Rylee's bare skin.

Goose b.u.mps rose.

Shivering, she blinked, trying to pierce the shifting darkness, a cold dark void with muted spots of red light shrouded in a rising mist. She was freezing, half lying on a couch of some kind and...

Oh, G.o.d, am I naked?

Was that right?

No way!

Yet she felt the soft pile of velvet against the back of her legs, her b.u.t.tocks, and her shoulders where they met the rising arm of this chaise.

A sharp needle of fear p.r.i.c.ked her brain.

She tried to move, but her arms and legs wouldn't budge, nor could she turn her head. She rolled her eyes upward, trying to see to the top of this freaky dark chamber with its weird red light.

She heard a quiet cough.

What?

She wasn't alone?

She tried to whip her head toward the sound.

But she couldn't. It lolled heavily against the back of the chaise.

Move, Rylee, get up and friggin' move! Another sound. The sc.r.a.pe of a shoe against concrete-or something hard-reached her ears. Another sound. The sc.r.a.pe of a shoe against concrete-or something hard-reached her ears. Get out, get out now. This is too d.a.m.ned weird. Get out, get out now. This is too d.a.m.ned weird.

Her ears strained. She thought she heard the softest of whispers coming from the shadows. What the h.e.l.l was this?

Her insides shriveled with a new fear. Why couldn't she move? What in the world was happening? She tried to speak but couldn't utter a word, as if her vocal cords were frozen. Frantically, she looked around, her eyes able to shift in their sockets, but her head unable to swivel.

Her heart pounded and, despite the chill in the air, she began to sweat.

This was a dream, right? A freakin' nightmare, where she, immobile, was positioned on a velvet lounge and naked as the day she was born. The chaise was slightly raised, it seemed, as if she were on a weird stage or dais of some kind, and surrounding her was an unseen audience, people hiding in the shadows.

Her throat closed in terror.

Panic swept through her.

It's only a dream, remember that. You can't speak, you can't move, all cla.s.sic signs of a nightmare. Calm down, shut this out of your mind. You'll wake up in the morning....

But she didn't heed the suggestions running through her mind, because something was off here. This whole scene was very, very wrong. Never before when she'd been terrorized by a nightmare had she had the insight to think she might be dreaming. And there was a realness to this, a substance that made her second-guess her rationale.

What did she remember...oh, G.o.d, had it been last night...or just a few hours earlier? She'd been out drinking with her new friends from college, some kind of clique that was into the whole Goth-vampire thing...no, no...they insisted it was a vampyre vampyre thing. That old-fashioned spelling was supposed to make it more real or something. There had been whispers and dares and blood-red martinis that the others had insisted were stained with real human blood. It had been some kind of "rite of initiation." thing. That old-fashioned spelling was supposed to make it more real or something. There had been whispers and dares and blood-red martinis that the others had insisted were stained with real human blood. It had been some kind of "rite of initiation."

Rylee hadn't believed them, but had wanted to be a part of their group, had taken them up on their dares, had indulged...and now...and now she was tripping. They'd laced the drink, not with blood, but with some weird psychedelic drug that was causing her to hallucinate-that was it! Hadn't she witnessed the hint of hesitation in them when she'd been handed the blood-red martini and twirled the stem in her fingers? Hadn't she sensed their fascination, even fear, as she'd not just sipped the drink but tossed it back with a flourish?

Oh, G.o.d....

This initiation-which she'd thought had been a bit of a joke-had taken a dangerous, unseen turn. She remembered vaguely agreeing to be part of the "show." She'd drunk the fake "blood" in the martini gla.s.s and yeah, she'd thought all the vampire stuff her newfound friends were into was kind of cool, but she hadn't taken any of their talk seriously. She'd just thought they'd been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with her head, seeing how far she would go....

But within minutes of downing the drink, she'd felt weird. More than drunk, and really out of it. Belatedly, she'd realized the martini had been doctored with a potent drug and she'd started to black out.

Until now.

How much time had elapsed?

Minutes?