Free Dark Taste of Rapture by Gena Showalter Page B

Hector was ashamed to admit he’d actually accepted once .
    Fear shuddered through him when the Zoo Keeper strutted in a few minutes later .
    It was time .
    A short, squat man with thinning hair and a few missing teeth, the Zoo Keeper liked wearing overalls stained with blood his “animals” had spilled. Grinning with satisfaction, he rapped a stick against each of the cage doors .
    “Rise and shine, my little mutts. Today’s your day to shine. Or not.” He chuckled cruelly. “We’re gonna kick things off with a big bang this go-round.”
    He dropped the stick and grabbed two of the leashes hanging on the far wall—a pink one and a blue one—then he strode to Dean’s cage. Fear intensifying, Hector sat up. His mind swam with dizziness, sharp lances of pain making him grimace .
    Dean just lay there as the Zoo Keeper unlocked his cage. Hinges squeaked as the door opened. The pink collar was strapped around Dean’s skinny neck, and Dean was jerked to the dirt-laden ground .
    “Stand up, boy.” Another jerk .
    Dean dragged himself to his feet, swayed .
    The Zoo Keeper tugged him forward—and stopped at the praying girl’s cage .
    Oh… God. Oh, no. “Dean,” Hector said, his stomach threatening to heave, even though there was nothing inside it .
    If Dean killed another boy, he’d hate himself and never get over it. But if he killed a girl …
    Dean didn’t look in Hector’s direction .
    The Zoo Keeper wrapped the blue collar around the girl’s neck, but she had enough steam to get herself out and to her feet without aid. She was Dean’s height, with matted blond hair and eyes glassy with fear .
    “Boys are never pitted against girls,” Hector called, desperate to stop this. “Please, don’t make him fight her. You have to—”
    “I don’t have to do shit, mutt.” The Zoo Keeper tossed him a scowl that promised he’d suffer later. “Boys and girls didn’t fight before. Now they do. And you’ll keep your mouth shut from now on if you know what’s good for you.”
    Hector’s body began trembling as Dean was dragged away. What would happen? What would Dean do? He closed his eyes, fighting those sissy tears he’d told himself he wouldn’t shed .
    He knew the moment the fight started. The crowd erupted, people calling out instructions. Things like, “Rip his ear off!” And, “Punch her in the face!” All he could do was huddle in the corner of his cage and wait to learn the outcome .
    And when he did—
    Hector’s eyelids popped open.
    Barely able to catch his breath as the dream receded, he realized he was drenched in sweat, his body seemingly on fire. He did a quick scan of his bedroom. He was alone. His thick, dark curtains were drawn, and the only light source was the azure pulsing from his arms.
    His arms. Shit! He jackknifed to his feet and studiedboth. The skin was raw from his determined scratching, the ink faded. Again.
    Scowling, he looked over his bed. Despite his flame-retardant sheets, he’d left singe marks behind. Have to control yourself better . His heart drummed erratically against his ribs, his blood molten in his veins.
    Hector hated dreaming about his childhood, but he especially hated that particular memory. At least you didn’t dream about what happened the next night .
    Shaky, he lumbered to his kitchen. His tattoo gun, ink, various other paraphernalia, and gauze rested on top of his kitchen table, where he also had papers about his past scattered.
    Articles about people with unexplainable abilities that had nothing to do with otherworlders. Things like skin turning to stone, and bone to metal. Things like eyes that swirled and hypnotized and voices that enslaved. Then there were the papers concerning his mother and father’s family trees. Hector came from poor, uneducated trash, and he’d even had to teach himself how to read and write.
    Another reason you shouldn’t be with Noelle .
    The stray thought didn’t exactly take him unaware. He’d thought about her