Page 5 of Blood Code

“Yes, you, invisible girl.”

I scrambled to my feet, nearly tipping over, my pulse thundering. Who the fuck was she, and how could she see me?

“Get inside, Xeniya, and I will explain everything.”

A tremor swept through me, and I stumbled back again.

The car behind her honked its horn because she had stopped in the middle of the street. But the black-haired beauty only glanced over her shoulder. “We don’t have all day.”

I folded my arms across my chest and examined this gothic woman. I was pretty sure I’d completely lost the ability to use my words, not from dying and becoming a ghost, but from the shock of this lady being able to see me.

She muttered, “Fine,” and rolled her eyes as I remained motionless and silent.

Then her body vanished.

Just like mine.

When she reappeared, her hair had turned white, as though every trace of color had been drained from it.

What the fuck?

“Get in, Xeniya. I’m like you. A woman murdered by evil men, and I am here to help you.”

My feet grew heavy. She knew my name. My name. There was no reason to trust this woman or believe a word she said. But I had no money, no answers, and nowhere else to go, and besides, what was the worst thing that could happen? She’d rape me?

I’d live through that.

She’d kill me?

Been there and done that.

I’d survived three years worse than hell. They'd taken my freedom, my body, my sight, and eventually my life. What else was left?

What could be worse?

But who was I kidding? I’d just had a full-blown panic attack, and I was a fucking mess. So…

Fuck it. I pulled the door handle and climbed inside the car.

“Finally.” She sighed and glanced into her rear-view mirror. “My name is Sabine. Make sure you buckle up because I have no idea if a Fury can die. Better not risk it.”

Chapter Two

Xeniya Morozova

Age 25

Ten years Ago

All of my scars were gone. Every single one was nonexistent. From the one on my knee when I fell off my bike at five years old, to the word whore branded on my inner thighs.

Every single one gone.

My fingers drifted to my lower abdomen, searching for the raised lettering I'd traced more times than I cared to remember. Severin’s name. Sometimes, in my prison cell, I traced it to remember him; other times, to curse his name.

But there was nothing. Only smooth, unblemished skin.

Horror raked through me because they were all gone. A whisper of a long-lost memory. Just like me. A Forgotten.