Page 91 of Secret Gifts
His eyes stare into mine, and I feel a draw, almost as if something is pulling me to him. Oh no.
“You should still take my blood. It has to be painful,” he says while motioning to my still gaping wound.
“It is, but I can deal. Taking blood from a vein means blood fucking someone, and I’ve only ever done that with one person. It’s a little too intimate for me.”
He starts laughing to the point where he doubles over to grab his knees. My cheeks heat up, and he rises while shaking his head.
“Damn. At your age you’ve only ever blood fucked one person? Holy shit. No wonder your gifts are so damn buried,” he murmurs while turning away, and I follow him blindly down the hall to a large, wooden door. I didn’t even know they made doors with wood.
“My gifts are buried because my mom blocked them,” I argue, though I shouldn’t be telling him this.
“Your mom doesn’t have that ability,” he says too curtly, his condescension coming through very clearly.
“She does have that gift. She did the same thing to another person as well,” I counter very matter-of-factly, leaving out the fact it was my brother.
“Your brother’s gift wasn’t blocked by your mother, It was blocked by you,” he says, and I can feel a grin hiding behind that mask as he stares at my scowl.
“How do you fucking know it was my brother? You really can read minds, can’t you?”
He laughs lightly while shaking his head, and then he scoops me up as we reach a large stairwell. He holds me to his body instead of making me climb the steep steps, and I just lean into him, my body willing to touch his for reasons I can’t explain.
“I think your boyfriend’s secret has made you paranoid. I can’t read minds; I just know a lot about you. I’ve been watching for a while. I bugged your cars, including your rental car. I needed to know if I could trust you.”
He just told me he’s been spying on me, and still I’m leaning against him, trusting him, and not screaming for help. This isn't good. Not now. Not that I've found Jase.
It can't be. I'm sure I'm just a little overly emotional due to the fact I was almost killed. I'm reading too much into this.
“So... do you trust me?”
“You wouldn’t be in my lair if I didn’t.” he murmurs very smoothly, and I almost dissolve like a fool. “You blocked your brother’s power because you would do anything at all for him. You don't remember it, but you knew what he was struggling with, felt it with your empathic abilities that used to be much stronger. Later, after you hurt him, you blocked your own. I’ve studied your mother’s blood. She’s not capable of doing it.”
Suddenly, I’m tense all over.
“What… how…”
“Relax. I was friends with Clay Jude. He trusted me with her blood for reasons I can’t disclose right now.”
Why do I trust him so implicitly?
“Why didn’t you ever give me any of these details sooner? You apparently knew where I was staying. You know my number. Why wait until tonight to tell me anything?”
We reach the top of the stairs, and he very gently places me on the couch before pulling out a remote that drops several screens from the ceiling.
“For one, you weren’t ready to listen. For two, you didn’t trust me and you were trying to track my phones. If I had spoken for longer, you would have. Maybe in the future I can.”
The screens come to life with images, and he comes to sit by me while pulling out a handheld screen full of smaller frames.
“These are the emergents they know about. I’m sure you saw their board. Here’s the image you didn’t get to fully see." He pulls up the clear, unobstructed footage of the underground massacre before it was a slaughterhouse.
“Just listen,” he says while turning up the volume.
He messes with some dials that dulls the clatter of the very alive people who are working, breathing, and acting normal in the room. Then he zooms in on the image that barely made it onto the screen, and I can hear the voice of the doctor who is drawing blood out of the girl after her eyes have turned violet.
“Drain her until she stops bleeding, then feed her blood and drain her some more. Call me when you have enough to start the tests,” the white-coat madman asserts.
“What if she uses her gift?” the mignon asks.
“Then use the magnesium on her. Her allergy to it will prove useful.”
