Blood Deep (Blackthorn Book 4) (6 page)

As he bent over, Tatum stepped in beside him, slid her hand down his behind, leaned over and whispered to him again.

Only this time he met her gaze; smiled despite missing his shot. Eden stood, cupped the nape of her neck and whispered something back, his groin unashamedly close to hers as he backed her against the table.

Tatum’s eyes flared too tellingly, not least as his hand slid down
her
behind, disappearing between her legs as he whispered another something into her ear. In a move one step more blatant than Tatum’s, it confirmed that, despite her previous doubt, she hadn’t got him wrong. From a grasp that exposed him as anything but a gentleman, he proved he was
exactly
like all the others.

Like the rest of the cons, sex was about sport, entertainment, the dispelling of aggression or experimentation. She’d seen enough of it over the decades and had seen that side to human nature in its darkest and most twisted form, until everything that was bad and fetid and wrong with it became the norm – sex linked only to fear or power or control. That was her reality.

And for someone who looked like Eden, someone with that edge of charm, she had no doubt he regularly turned it to his advantage to get what he wanted – just like he had no doubt intended to do with her.

A sinking sensation consumed her as what followed in the next agonising twenty minutes was far more than just harmless flirting. Because, when it came to Tatum, there was no harmless flirting – and it seemed Eden was of the same ilk. It became more than just playful taps on her behind as she got in the way, more than just glances as she perched or leaned on the table between his and Pummel’s shots. Instead, Eden’s confident and controlled gaze was brimming with sexual intent, something that pushed every single one of Tatum’s buttons and subsequently did nothing to help his cause – or dispel the very encounter Jessie so desperately needed to prevent.

When he eased back onto the stool as Pummel took over again, as Tatum backed between his legs, her hand disappearing behind her to massage his crotch, he had no shame in wrapping his arm across her collar bone, letting his hand slide down to clasp her breast as if they were familiar lovers alone.

Worse, his thumb that had glided along Jessie’s lower back with such secret intimacy, that had made her feel more alive than Pummel’s cold touch ever did, was now cruelly gliding over Tatum’s hardened nipple with a pressure that seemed stomach-churningly cold considering his gaze never left the game.

And not once since Tatum had arrived had he glanced back in her direction.

The stark reminder, the crash to earth of what she was dealing with, cleared her head. And when Eden moved Tatum out of the way to take his next shot, winning the third game, it was the clincher.

She
needed
him gone.

He held his hand out for Pummel to take. ‘Hope you’re a man of your word, Pummel.’

With a smirk, Pummel accepted. He looked across at Homer. ‘Tracker’s room is free now, right?’

Tracker’s room – up the stairs on the other side of the arch. Pummel was keeping him close.

‘Unless you’re expecting rent from a corpse,’ Homer confirmed.

‘You’ve got yourself a bed until tomorrow,’ Pummel declared, turning his attention back to Eden. ‘Then we’ll talk again.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Eden said, placing his cue on the table to conclude the game, having secured his reason for playing.

‘Mind if I show our new boy the ropes?’ Tatum asked, her hand sliding into the back pocket of Eden’s jeans.

Pummel flashed a grin that Jessie had seen one too many times. ‘Sure. Make him feel at home.’

Jessie watched Eden leave with the same quiet confidence that had marked his entry, grabbing his jacket along the way. Less than a handful of hours since his arrival in Blackthorn and he had nested himself in the most lucrative row having already played one of Pummel’s most prized possessions and now about to get up close and personal with his other. She couldn’t deny giving him credit where credit was due.

For as long as it lasted.

‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’ Homer asked, keeping his voice low despite Eden being out of earshot.

‘I want to see if our new resident bad boy is as bad as those numbers say he is,’ Pummel said quietly as he watched them leave. ‘You saw that stuff – however the fuck he got his hands on it, he still did. I want you to do some digging around between now and dawn. Find out if anyone else has got a penitentiary number that matches his. I want to know everything about him.’

‘And then?’

‘Tatum will be finished with him soon enough. I’ve got the feeling he’ll pass. I’ll set him a task at dawn. And if he’s playing me,’ he said, looking back at Homer, ‘he’s dead.’

I
t had been risky
, but Eden knew Pummel’s type only too well. Lord his authority though he may, deep down the notorious con had a respect for those who dared face up to him. And that was what Eden needed to get in there: his respect. Respect
and
to snag his curiosity. Clearly he’d managed the latter with the honeytrap, or initiation, or rite of passage, or whatever the fuck Tatum was as she lead him out of the room and down towards the kitchen.

The red-haired beauty moved with a natural elegance, promoted by the quality of the top she wore. From the flow of the fabric, let alone what he’d felt, it was one hundred per cent authentic silk. Clothes of that quality were hard enough to get hold of in Blackthorn, let alone afford. Those who got access to it had to be able to pay for it one way or another, whether on the black market or paying above the odds in the one or two stores that managed to sell it – stores owned by people no one dared risk stealing from. Tatum rightly wore it like the status symbol it was. And on her shapely body, it took balls to walk around that place like that. But she had to know that and, from the way she’d come on to him so quickly, she believed she had nothing to fear. Either that or she thrived on risk as much as he did.

He leaned against the doorframe as she sauntered across the kitchen to grab a label-less wine bottle and a couple of glasses. No doubt the contents were as home-brewed and subsequently potent as most other alcohol supplies in Blackthorn.

She sauntered back past him, cocked her head as an indication for him to follow.

Glasses clinking between the slender fingers of one hand, the neck of the wine bottle held in the other, she strolled past the foot of the stairs, the sway to her hips as well-practised as her seduction routine. Because it had to be well-practised. There, in Blackthorn, sex was used as a weapon as much as any iron or steel rod. The south, in particular, was brimming with as many deadly females as males. There was no such thing as a superior species there. Women moved in gangs the same way the men did and knew how to fight as effectively as they knew how to seduce and manipulate. There, women would slaughter you mid-act just for the fun of it. And an intelligent woman, like Tatum, was the most lethal of all – smiles and seduction one moment then a six-inch blade in the back or castration the next.

But, for now, Pummel seemingly wanted him alive.

As he reached the foot of the stairs, he looked over his shoulder to see the girl had exited behind them.

At first she stilled, her hand clutching the handle on the door she’d closed behind her. She glanced at Tatum stepping through the arch into the neighbouring house, before glaring back at him. And it was a glare that didn’t falter even as she looked over her shoulder from halfway up the stairs – a glare that brimmed with indignation at his presence.

There was something else behind those brown eyes too – something that exuded vulnerability from his actions. Beneath that vulnerability, though, lingered the silent warning that she’d finished with him about as much as he’d finished with her.
That
look was as intoxicating as it got for him – ten times more compelling than the sexual swagger of the woman who was escorting him to his new room.

He held her glare for a second longer than he should have, wanting it to be clear to her that nothing had severed their connection despite Tatum having entered the mix. Something he’d be proving to her soon enough.

And he couldn’t help but smile as she frowned. Not only was there a lot to like physically; she had a sharpness in her eyes, a quick retort, and a defiance towards him that screamed challenge. But more than that was a composure, a compassion shining through a haze of corruption and standing out against a backdrop of darkness.

‘Hey,’ Tatum said, recapturing his attention. She glanced up the stairs, but the girl had already, thankfully, disappeared into the shadows of the stairwell. She cocked her head back towards the arch. ‘This way.’

‘What’s up there?’ Eden asked, indicating up the stairwell.

‘Pummel’s room. Homer’s too.’

No mention of the girl.

With her glass-holding hand, Tatum looped a free finger around the front pocket of his jeans, tugging him gently through the arch that had once been a dividing wall to the terraced house next door.

He stopped at the foot of the staircase on the other side of the wall. The same pattern ran all the way through the row – and the further away the rooms, the denser the population, the more opaque the darkness, the more lurid the potential. ‘How many houses are in this row?’

‘It stretches to sixty. Most rows span to about forty.’

‘Have you got any problems with turf wars?’

‘No more than expected. A few have tried their luck with Pummel but no one has succeeded yet. Everyone knows it’s not in any of our interests to have a full-scale war. Not with each other.’

‘What about the third species? Do you get many problems with them?’

‘Not much. They stick to their own turf, west and east. The lycans tend to stick to the north. If you’re smart you’ll stay out of their territories, especially the hub. They don’t take much to our markings.’ She indicated towards the density beyond. ‘That’s the party end. You’ll find whatever you want down there. And in the floors above it. It can get rough in some of the end rooms, so know what you’re getting into. Are you a watcher or a participator?’

‘Depends on the show.’

She laughed; tongued her upper teeth fleetingly. ‘Be warned, I have ways of calling your bluff. So does Pummel.’

‘And me yours.’

She smiled. She pondered for a moment as she searched his gaze. ‘I think I’m going to like you.’ She caught hold of the buckle on his jeans and led him up the poorly lit stairs. ‘So you’re new in Blackthorn?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But you’re not from this locale?’

‘I am. I was extradited to a pen in another.’

‘You
must
be a bad boy.’

‘I just have a problem with being told what to do.’

‘You’re going to have to work on that if you plan on sticking around here. Pummel has rules.’

‘Like what?’

‘It’s each to their own around here. Pummel’s strict about that. He also keeps his nearest and dearest closest. The further along this end of the row you are, the more relevant you are. As you now know, Pummel and Homer’s quarters are on the other side of this wall,’ she said, cocking her head to the left. ‘You don’t go up there. The lounge will be fine though, as is the kitchen.’

Turning left into the small recess, she unlocked the door to the right and stepped inside.

The room was no more basic than he’d expected. The double bed was shoved up against the wall in the top right-hand corner, the small window directly ahead casting minimal light on the foot of it. The duvet was flat, the pillows misshapen. Ahead was a small double wardrobe. Another door was in the corner directly to his right.

Wandering over to take a look inside, he was met with an outdated en suite. It was mouldy, dark, dank, no curtain on the tiny dark-green plastic shower enclosure tucked behind the door. But at least it had a toilet and a sink. Like so many of the larger houses in that area, it had once been converted into a bed and breakfast or guesthouse. He switched on the extractor fan which remained silent.

‘You got lucky,’ Tatum announced. ‘There aren’t that many rooms that come with an en suite. Anything that’s in here is yours.’

‘Unless I want to ask permission from a corpse, right? What happened to him?’

‘He got beaten up behind the courtyards last night. Someone broke his neck.’

Eden looked back around. Suddenly he didn’t feel so bad. ‘Like you said, lucky for me.’ He stepped over to the sash window and slid it up to look at the brick wall of another building beyond the alley, the row of small courtyards below.

‘I’ll get the bedding changed for you and get someone to give the room the once over,’ she said. ‘Help yourself to Tracker’s clothes for now, but you’ll be able to afford your own soon enough if you stay in with Pummel.’ She eased up onto the four-drawer chest beside the bed. She crossed one shapely leg over the other as she reached for the cigarettes and lighter that had been left there. ‘So what are you going to offer him?’

‘What does he value most?’

‘Knowing the area,’ she said. Placing a cigarette between her full lips, she lit up. She cast the lighter on the table beside her, inhaled steadily before resting her arm on her knee as she drew it against her chest, the smoke twirling into the air. ‘Affiliations with the third species or witches could be useful. Getting your hands on goods. Contacts who can get things across the border – smokes, alcohol, the good stuff though, not the crap they shift in.’ She exhaled a lingering stream of smoke as she rested her head back against the wall, surveying him under her thickly coated lashes. ‘Herbs are a definite. Protection. That’s a big bonus for him. You’ve got to know how to handle yourself enforcing those rackets around here, especially with all the sires. Those vampires get precious over their feeders. You ever had any dealings with the third species before?’

‘Once or twice,’ Eden declared, opening the wardrobe, feeling Tatum’s cool gaze observing every move he made.

‘Then you know how to look after yourself.’ She raked him slowly with those penetrative eyes. ‘Not that I hadn’t worked
that
out already.’

He stared at the wall behind the bed, at the peeling wallpaper, the damp patch on the cigarette-smoke-stained ceiling. But he wasn’t there to stick around. He was there to get what he wanted and then get the fuck out. ‘Anything else I should know?’

‘Just know that once you’ve pledged an allegiance, you’d best stick to it. I’m guessing Pummel’s already warned you that you don’t go near Jessie.’

‘Jessie?’

‘The brunette at the pool table.’

Finally he had a name.

He strolled over towards her but maintained his air of nonchalance as he threw his jacket onto the bed, opened the top drawer of the bedside table. It was packed with foil packets – the one item Blackthorn was given freely in copious supplies.

All cons were made sterile before they were abandoned into Blackthorn. It was the only act of mercy the authorities showed – not just to the potential victims, but the potential kids caught in the middle. They put it forward as a human rights initiative. What they meant was politics got messy if kids were left to run around Blackthorn – and transferring them elsewhere in the locale complicated their perfect segregation system. What it subsequently proved was that, in the Global Council’s eyes, no one was born free. You were born to a class and nothing changed that.

The free supplies were subsequently added security – an effective measure in light of the potential of sexual disease being rife and the lack of medical support a guarantee.

‘Is she Pummel’s?’ he asked, closing the drawer again.

‘She’s none of your business,’ she said, her curtness frustrating. ‘Remember that and you’ll be okay.’

Persistence would have aroused suspicion. He was there and he was in; that was step number one. The focus was on getting to step number two.

‘How long have you been here?’ he asked.

‘Four years.’

‘How did
you
get to the exclusive end?’

‘Like everyone else who’s here – I made myself indispensible to Pummel.’

He braced his hands either side of her thighs. ‘By fucking whoever he asks you to?’

‘Let’s make one thing clear,’ she said, spreading her thighs either side of his in a slow and languid move. She exhaled a cloud of smoke in his direction. ‘I pick and choose. And I always get first choice.’

Substance fumes seeped into his head and into his system – fumes that reminded him of his past, his misspent youth.

He hadn’t grown up in Blackthorn, but he may as well have. Lowtown had already been rife with corruption several years before his older brother, Billy, had been born. So by the time Eden had come along three years later, the disintegration of any remaining civility amidst the deemed underclass had begun.

His parents struggling more and more to find any legitimate work over the years, witnessing his father return home after too many unprovoked beatings, too many sleepless nights listening to his mother cry, had hardened Eden – physically and mentally. Whereas his father had been ground down by the system, Eden had become determined to fight it. He’d learned how to talk the talk. He’d learned how to survive on the roughest streets of Lowtown, even venturing into Blackthorn on occasion. He’d learned how to get what his family needed – primarily illegally because there was no other option. He’d learned to run fast when he’d needed to, and to stay and fight when that was the better option. Eden needed to be the one to take control because, despite being the eldest, Billy was made of softer stuff, so Eden had learned how to defend and protect him too. Over time, Eden had earned a reputation that meant he got even more of what he wanted. It was about survival, because
his
survival meant his family’s survival.

Now was no different.

Luckily – as he felt Tatum’s thighs locking around his – he’d also learned a lot over the years from the women who found his hard edge, coupled with his charm, appealing. He’d turned it to his advantage, making the most of willing partners ready to teach him that extra skill or take him that one step further. He’d subsequently handled more than his fair share of women like Tatum – those who were anything but the feebler sex. And he had thrived on it.

They had become his weakness, his guilty pleasure. But they had also taken a part of him that only with age had he learned he’d lost. Sex, for him, was now void of the connection granted only to the privileged. Sex hand in hand with love was as elusive as love itself. Love outside of his family, at least.

‘So you’re not here to test my mettle then?’ he asked.

Her smile was as toxic as the fumes that now filled his senses. ‘Would you like that? It’d certainly give me some clues as to what nickname I can give you.’

‘I don’t need a nickname.’

‘Anyone who’s anyone doesn’t operate by their real name around here.’