The three males stomped to my door.

“How many Anima douche bags does it take to open a cage?” I asked, and I think my blasé tone startled them. “Three. Because they’re scared of the little girl trapped inside.”

One growled.

One smiled coldly, probably imagining his hands wrapped around my neck.

The other disengaged the lock and jerked open the door.

“Heard it before?” I asked, standing. The pen I’d taken from the table was already clutched in my hand, its belly pressed flat against my forearm, hiding it.

The first man stopped in front of me and reached for me. With lightning speed, I stabbed him in the neck. As his blood spurted, I twisted, giving the next guy the same treatment. Both tumbled to the ground, bleeding out. The other guard, the last one, was in the process of racing to the still-open door, but I dived on his back and stabbed him as we fell.

Just like that, all three were dead or dying. And I was without a single shred of remorse.

I stood, gaze locked on Hodad. He was paling, backing away from me. The table blocked him. It toppled over, crashed into the dirt and he darted around it. He reached for the phone in his pocket and dialed.

Ms. Smith?

Oh, pretty please with a cherry on top.

I tsked. “Look at what you made me do, Hodad. Use my own hands of death and destruction. But I haven’t always been so hard-core, you know. I even cried after I made my first kill. Cried over a man who’d hurt my friends and me. But do you know what I’m feeling right now?”

Panicked, he shook his head.

“A desire for more.”

He held out his hands to ward me off. “Stay back.”

I spread my arms and dropped the bloody pen. I wanted him dead—and I’d see that it was done—but I needed him to do something for me first.

“Don’t worry. I’m not quite done with you yet. Take me to Ms. Smith,” I commanded.

Chapter 30

MY SOUL TO OFFER

He must have dialed Ms. Smith from the warehouse and must not have hung up. Because by the time he parked his dark sedan at the security gate outside a magnificent chrome-and-glass building in the heart of Atlanta, Georgia, two and a half hours later, an army of guards waited for us.

My door flew open, and I was dragged outside. My wrists were cuffed behind my back. No rope, not anymore.

I didn’t fight. Just let it happen.

I was shoved into another car already loaded with four hulking men dressed in black. No one said a word as we shot into an underground parking garage. I twisted, relieved to find Hodad motoring after us.

When we stopped and emerged, the hulks forced me into an elevator. Guns remained trained on me. All this for little ole me. “Really know how to make a girl feel special, guys. Kudos.”

A bell dinged, and the doors slid open. I was shoved into a foyer, a glass wall dead ahead—peering straight into a laboratory bustling with workers.

“Welcome.” A beautiful woman in a well-tailored dress-suit stood in front of the wall, her hands folded demurely at her waist. I didn’t have to wonder who she was. Dark hair, slicked back from her face. Pale skin. Bloodred lipstick. Professional. This was none other than Ms. Smith. “We meet at last. I’m Rebecca.”

The murderous rage returned in a flash, and I barely managed to tamp it down. “You killed my best friend.”

“Me?” Her hand fluttered to her chest. “I did no such thing. I’ve been here, in Atlanta.”

“You ordered it done. So, no matter whose finger was wrapped around the trigger, you fired the shot.”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “You say potato, I say we’ve won.” Her lips curved in a perfect crescent moon, points up. “We have everything ready for you. Let’s get started, shall we?”

Two of the guards hauled me past the glass wall and into the lab. At the back was a gurney with leather straps at the ankles and wrists. Finally, I erupted. I fought with every bit of my strength. I kicked. The moment the cuffs were loosened, I punched. I even bit into a guy’s ear.

He grunted with pain and punched me in the jaw to pry me loose. But I maintained my hold and took a piece of his lobe with me. His grunts became howls.

I spit the bloody cartilage in his face.

But no matter how savagely I struggled, I was eventually laid flat and shackled. As I’d known I would be. Even with all of my amazing abilities, I had limits. But that was okay.

The saying was true, I decided. What didn’t kill me would only make me stronger.

I wanted to be stronger.

The guards left, and Ms. Smith approached my side.

I glared up at her. “Tie me up, hold me down. It’s not going to change what I do to you. I’m going to hurt you, and I’m going to kill you—and I’m going to enjoy every second.”

She ignored me, saying, “Do you prefer Ali or Sami? Or what about Alammi? Samali?” She chuckled as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves and lifted a syringe full of clear liquid. “Here is what’s going to happen. Over the next few days, I’m going to inject you with all kinds of goodies and you’re going to suffer. If your spirit, and thereby your blood, possesses the properties we think they possess, you’re going to become a walking cure for zombie-ism. If not...well, try not to let it bother you that all of our other subjects died during testing. We have higher hopes for you.”

I smiled without humor. “Do it. Do whatever you want. I won’t die until I’ve spit on your grave.”