Strain of Defiance (Bixby Series Book 2)

  STRAIN OF DEFIANCE

  Bixby Series Book 2

  Michelle Bryan

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Copyright © 2016 Michelle Bryan

  All rights reserved.

  Kindle Version

  Cover Design by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover by Design

  www.bookcoverbydesign.co.uk

  Edited by Rebecca Jaycox

  [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations

  are products of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means,

  without the written permission of the author.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my awesome betas, Michelle L, Kayla, Rebecca, Kimberly,

  Linda, Marie, Lillian, Patrick and Mysti.

  Thanks for the feedback, for answering my million questions,

  and for listening to my rants. You guys are amazing!

  Please visit Michelle Bryan Author on Facebook

  DEDICATION

  In loving memory of my Dad. Until we meet again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The building is quiet. Too damn quiet. The kind of quiet that always precedes the bad guy's unexpected, shit-your-pants moment of arrival in the movies. That exact instant when Freddy Kruger materializes out of the mattress, or Jason's goalie mask pops out of the proverbial empty closet. I am so regretting my childhood obsession with horror movies at the moment. Although coming face to face with either of those nightmare icons is still preferable to stumbling upon a leech-human hybrid.

  Pressing my back against the crumbling wall with its peeling wallpaper, I listen for any sign of the rest of my group. But all I hear is my heart jack-hammering in my chest and the shallow breaths that don't seem to be anywhere deep enough to provide the oxygen I need. Where the hell is everyone?

  The pungent, musty odor of mold and decay fills my nostrils, and my stomach rolls in protest. Why are we even in here? This building is empty. Dead. There's nothing here for us. We need to leave. Now. But I can't find anyone to tell them that. Where is Luke? They should have been back already.

  The floorboards creak overhead, jolting me with the realization I'm no longer alone. I grip my knives tighter in alarm as I glance up. No one said anything about going up to the next floor. They're supposed to be clearing this level only. I shrink back into the shadows on silent feet and peer through the hole in the ceiling. All I see are the bare pipes and exposed beams of the ruined floor above. Probably just a rat or …

  Jesus!

  I smother a scream as a blurred face stares down at me for a brief heartbeat before it pulls back and disappears into the shadows. The quick glance is enough to know it's no damn rat. And it's not any of my people either. They wouldn't do that and not acknowledge me. That means the building's not so empty after all. Fucking awesome.

  Ignoring the voice in my head telling me that what I'm about to do is a really bad idea, I start inching along the wall toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. I don't know where the rest of my group is, but I need to make sure what I'd just seen is not a threat to us. I need to know who's up there.

  I scamper up the concrete stairs as quietly as I can, but the broken bits underneath my boots crunch and make me wince with every step. Halfway up I'm greeted with the echo of running footsteps fading into the building’s innards. Whoever is up there doesn't seem that eager to meet me either. Or maybe it's just a trick, and they're waiting to ambush me at the top of the stairs with an axe and chop me into bits. Fuck. Why do I do this to myself? Shaking my head to clear away the bloody image of me chopped into bite size pieces, I force myself to keep going.

  I pause at the top. Worms of fear wriggle in my belly, causing me to almost puke. What is wrong with me today? Why am I being such a scared little bitch? Before I can chicken out, I step around the blind corner.

  I find nothing waiting on the other side of the stairwell other than a long hallway and empty door frames. Most of the doors had already rotted away from exposure to the outside elements, providing numerous hiding places for my unknown prey in the shadowed rooms beyond. But I don't have to worry about searching each and every abandoned apartment for the mysterious somebody. A set of fresh footsteps mar the two-inch thick dust covering the floor, leading straight to the end of the hall. Unless this nameless someone has suddenly sprouted wings and flown away, then I know exactly where he or she went.

  My mouth suddenly feels as gritty as sandpaper, and I lick my lips trying to get some saliva flowing. My hands are slick with sweat and I tighten my hold on the handles of my Bowie knives. The urge to run overwhelms me; I want to get away from this unseen presence. I don't understand the consuming fear. I haven't felt this way since I was a kid. Wiping the sweat out of my eyes with the back of my hands, I stare down the dismal hall.

  "Come on you, chickenshit. You got this," I scold myself, even though I'm pretty sure the rapid breaths and wheezing in my chest probably means I'm hyperventilating. Fighting against the black spots swimming in front of my eyes, I take my first step into the hall.

  My feet hit the floor like iron weights, making my insides quiver like jelly. What the hell? I force myself to take another step. It takes an incredible amount of effort to move my legs and I have to force the momentum. My chest tightens more; every breath accompanied by pain. Is this what an anxiety attack feels like?

  Concentrating so much on walking, I don't even realize I've covered the entire length of the hall until I bring up solid into the windowless wall. End of the line.

  The footprints veer sharply here into the black abyss of the condemned apartment on my right. Funny. This one still has its door attached, as badly decayed as it is. The numbers on the door are long gone, but their painted outline remains. Apartment 13. For some unknown reason, the number sends a chill over me and goose bumps erupt under the sheen of sweat covering my skin. As much as I don't want to, I know I have to enter. And like I'm some puppet on a string being commandeered against my will by the puppet master, I push the door all the way open and step inside.

  Darkness swallows the room. I know it's still daylight outside, but not one iota of light manages to filter through the boarded up windows. Fumbling at my waist, I sheath one knife and pull out my flashlight. Its tiny beam breaks up the shroud of blackness and reassures me that there's no hiding leech waiting to rip my neck open.

  I swing my beam around the diminutive kitchen I find myself in. The rusted refrigerator—minus its door—has been tipped over on the kitchen floor and is empty. Not even so much as a box of baking soda left in it. The stove hasn't fared much better. My beam passes quickly over the graffiti covered cupboards and cratered walls. Cockroaches scuttle away from my intrusive light—the only sign of life. Whomever I'm following, they're not here in this room. Unable to stop myself, I venture further into the uncharted darkness.

  A dilapidated couch sits in the middle of the living room; its insides spill out over the dirty floor like chunks of sponge
vomit. It’s the only piece of furniture left in the otherwise empty room. My flashlight beam roves over the couch, only to get swallowed up by the thick darkness beyond. The narrow light does little to penetrate the gloom, but it's enough to catch a sudden movement. Doing a double take, I jerk the beam back to the hidden recess. Yup. Someone is standing there in the dark.

  My body suddenly goes weak. Like what I'm about to see is going to scare me shitless. I want to turn around and get the hell out. But the damn puppet master takes control again and moves me closer to the shadowy form huddling in the corner. My steps echo like firecrackers in my head, drowning out the nagging voice yelling at me to get the fuck out.

  The figure shifts and I stop. Breathing is forgotten about as the shadow person turns around; its face eerily highlighted by the light.

  It's a face I remember well. The face I've dreamed of, cried over, and longed to see again. The face that means everything in the world to me.

  And it terrifies me to no end.

  Sam.

  This is impossible, right? Sam is dead. Gone. He can't be here in this crap-ass room in front of me. But he is.

  He raises his hand in front of his eyes, shielding them from the light. But I don't lower the flashlight. I still can't quite believe this is real.

  "Sam?" I question, and my voice cracks with uncertainty.

  The figure moves from beyond the couch, stepping my way.

  "Bix?"

  The voice is raspy...like it hasn't been used in a while, but I'd know it anywhere.

  "Is it really you?" I ask, still unable to accept this as reality.

  Sam takes another step toward me. The lips that had kissed me a thousand times spread wide in a beautiful smile, and my knees go weak.

  “Sammy,” I cry as he comes closer. It’s him. He’s here. Somehow, he's here!

  I want to run to him. To pull him into my arms, but my puppet master has other ideas. I'm rooted in place, unable to move. Happiness threatens to burst my heart into a thousand fragments as the man I've missed for so long stands in front of me.

  We simply stare at each other, grinning like two idiots. Then Sam's smile widens to impossible proportions. His jaw bone unhinges with an audible snap. His teeth lengthen, sharpening to blades. The hand shielding his eyes changes and distorts as his fingers morph into claws. Terrifying and dangerous claws.

  "Sam?" My scream is filled with disbelief and horror, but it's cut short as the claws swipe down across my neck and dig into my flesh with excruciating pain. Blood spurts out of the severed artery and arcs in the flashlight's beam like a morbid scarlet rainbow.

  "Sammy," I try to scream it again, but it comes out more as a gurgle as my throat fills with blood, cutting off my air supply. I gag and cough, choking on it.

  The puppeteer yanks on his strings with maniacal glee, and my body convulses with sheer fear. The claws swipe at me again, and this time they slash deep into my belly. An agonized moan escapes my lips.

  The Sam creature pushes me back with the claws attached to my intestines and pins me against the wall. I can't move. Stuck solid, my knife long gone, I lash out desperately trying to get away. I know I'm dying. Sam is killing me.

  "Bixby," he yells at me, his voice shrill in my ear. I try to pull back, to get away from the deadly teeth, but he holds me even tighter and starts shaking me.

  "Bixby. Wake up."

  "Let me go." I push at the constraining hands and strike out with a fist. My knuckles connect with solid flesh, and I hear a low grunt as I roll away from my confinement only to fall into nothingness. I hit the floor hard, smashing my elbows and knees as the sound of my scream echoes in my muddled head.

  "Bix." I'm lifted from the floor with gentle, comforting hands. "It's okay. You were just dreaming. Calm down."

  My hand moves to my throat to staunch the flow of blood, but there’s nothing. Had it all really been a dream? It felt so fucking real. The pain. The blood. Sam.

  "Shit," I swear softly as realization kicks in, and I come to my senses. It was a dream. I'm okay. I'm in Luke's room. In Luke's arms. I'm not bleeding and gutted. That wasn't real. Sam wasn't real.

  Luke holds me close, running his rough palms up and down my bare arms, soothing my heart rate and breathing back to normal.

  "Christ. What a nightmare," I say to him finally, as I run a shaky hand across my face. "Thanks for waking me up. Sorry about the punch."

  He shrugs his broad shoulders at me as he drops me back on my feet. "You hit like a little girl, sooooo no harm done."

  "Hey, I take offense to that." Ignoring my weak-ass attempt at humor, he sits back down on his bed, scratching his bare chest and staring up at me. His piercing brown eyes study me as if waiting for some elaboration on what just occurred. When none is forthcoming, he says with uncomfortable bluntness, "You were dreaming about Sam....again. You were calling his name. Screaming it, actually. You wanna talk about it?"

  Crap. I was kind of hoping I hadn't said anything out loud, or at least Luke would ignore it if I had. So much for that hope.

  "No, I don't wanna talk about it.” My sigh is weary as I drop back down on his bed and flop onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. "I just experienced a terrifying nightmare. Last thing I want to do is hash it over. Plus, my elbows hurt like a sonofabitch where I fell on them."

  Luke falls back beside me on the stiff blanket, propping his head up on his elbow and clucks at me with fake sympathy.

  "Nawwww, baby got a boo-boo? You gonna cry about it?”

  “Well, I was until you said it like that,” I mutter at him crossly.

  He grins at my crabbiness. “Let me see."

  Raising my arm, he studies the skinned elbow.

  "Just grazed a bit. You'll be okay."

  "But it hurts," I whine, expecting far more concern.

  He twists my arm with gentle fingers and raises the elbow to his lips. A tiny kiss lands on my bruised skin.

  "That better?"

  "No."

  His lips move to the inside of my elbow and flutter, causing an outbreak of goose bumps.

  "How about now?"

  "Still not better."

  The lips meander up my arm, nipping playfully. Soft, silken kisses trail along my collarbone and down my naked chest. His tongue circles around one nipple in teasing strokes. It stands at attention, but he intentionally ignores it, as much as it begs for his touch. Instead the exquisite contact changes direction- up my neck, along my jaw, and stops on my ear. Dammit. Not the ear. He knows me so well. Me and my fetishes.

  I can feel his breath stirring my hair, but he doesn't do anything. He just hovers for a bit, his breath tickling my neck. My body squirms in anticipation, waiting impatiently for the contact. A slight flicker of his tongue on my earlobe starts a wave of heat burning in my abdomen. The wave quickly escalates into a full blown tsunami as he starts nibbling on my ear, flooding my body with desire. God, I fucking love it when he does that.

  Impatient with his slow seduction, I push at his shoulders, flipping him onto his back with me on top. He grins up at me as I straddle him, knees on either side of his waist, and the evidence of his desire pressing hard against my butt.

  "That must have made it better, I take it?"

  "Mm-hmm, all better now," I whisper as I crush my lips onto his. He kisses me back but then draws away, putting a slight distance between us.

  "You know as enticing as this is, I can't help but think..." he starts, but I cut him off with another kiss.

  "That this is kind of—" I kiss him harder. "...awkward considering you were just..."

  I pull his bottom lip between my teeth.

  "...dreaming about Sam...Ow!”

  My teeth clamp down hard. I don't mean to bite, but hearing Sam's name throws me for a loop. "Seriously?" I question as he pulls away from me, glaring at me and rubbing his bleeding lip. "What the fuck, dude? Why you bringing up another guy's name when I'm trying to get funky here?"

  "You drew blood," he says in disbelief, staring
at the red smear on his finger.

  "Well, you shouldn't be throwing that name at me while I'm trying to get in your pants."

  "Considering I'm not wearing any pants, it shouldn't be that hard to do. And admit it. I'm only saying what we're both thinking. You're trying to chase Sam's ghost away with sex. Which is kind of awkward and insulting, really."

  I stare down at him, mouth agape. "What the hell? You do realize you started this? And no, I don’t find it awkward or insulting at all. What I do find it however, is downright mood killing."

  I swing my leg over him and launch myself off of his stomach, ignoring his winded oof. Reaching for my tank top on the floor, I shove it over my head hard as I search for my jeans. There's no way I'm staying the rest of the morning here now that he's pissed me off again. Why does he always do that? And where the hell are my pants? What did he do with them when he ripped them off last night? I circle the small room looking for the damn things, but they're nowhere to be found.

  "As cute as your fine derriere looks stomping angrily around my room, why don't you just get back in bed?" he drawls, but I refuse to look his way.

  I know he's still laying on top of the blanket, his finely toned body on display for my viewing. I'm a sucker for his beautiful nakedness. I'm not looking. I'm not.

  And I look, dammit. He sends me a beseeching smile and pats the bed beside his long legs. I can feel my resolve weakening as my eyes drink in his still obvious arousal. I swallow hard but pretend to have some willpower. And dignity.

  "You promise not to mention...you know who again?"

  “Voldermort?”

  “Hahaha. Funny, douche-bag. Promise not to bring him up again and we can finish what we started.”

  I expect him to agree. I mean, he certainly looks up to the task. But instead his smile drops away as he eyeballs me like I’m a strange bug he’s trying to figure out and covers himself with the blanket.