Betrayed

time when somehow I'd seen him in his bedroom, but this connection between us was different. It was less clear, more filled with dark emotions than playful desire. I concentrated harder, and did what Erik had said to do. I called Heath.
    Aloud, as well as with everything inside of me, I said, "Heath, come to me. I'm calling you, Heath. I want you to come to me now. Wherever you are, get out of there and come to me!”
    Nothing. There was no answer. No response. No sense of anything more than damp, cold fear. I called again. "Heath! Come to me!" This time I felt a surge of frustration, followed by despair. But I didn't get an image of him. I knew he couldn't come to me, but I didn't know where he was.
    Why had I been able to see him so much more easily before? How had I done it? I'd been thinking about Heath then, just like I had been now. I'd been thinking about .. .
    What had I been thinking about? Then I felt my cheeks get hot as I realized what had drawn me to him before. I hadn't been thinking about how cute a kid he'd been or how pretty he made me feel. I'd been thinking about drinking his blood ... feeding from him ... and the red-hot bloodlust that caused.
    Okay, well then .. .
    I drew a deep breath and thought about Heath's blood. It tasted like liquid desire, hot and thick and electric. It made my body burst alive in places that had only begun to rouse before. And those places were starving. I wanted to drink Heath's sweet blood while he satisfied my yearning for his touch, his body, his taste—
    The disjointed image I had of darkness cleared with an abruptness that was shocking. It was still dark, but that was no problem for my night vision. At first I didn't understand what I was seeing. The room was weird. It was more like a little alcove in a cave or a tunnel than a room. The walls were round and damp. There was some light, but it was coming from a dim, smoky lantern that hung from a rusted hook. Everything else was complete darkness. What I thought at first was a pile of dirty clothes moved and moaned. This time it wasn't just a threadlike feeler I was looking through. It was actually as if I was floating, and when I recognized the moan my hovering body drifted over to him.
    He was curled up on a stained mattress. His hands and ankles were duct taped together and he was bleeding from several slashes on his neck and arms.
    "Heath!" My voice wasn't audible, but his head snapped up as if I'd just yelled at him.
    "Zoey? Is that you?" And then his eyes widened and he sat straight up, looking wildly around. "Get out of here, Zoey! They're crazy. They'll kill you like they did Chris and Brad." And he started to struggle, trying desperately to break the tape, even though all that was happening was he was making his already raw wrists bleed.
    "Heath, stop! It's okay—I'm okay. I'm not here, not really." He stopped struggling and squinted around him like he was trying to see me.
    "But I can hear you.”
    "Inside your head. That's where you hear me, Heath. It's because we've Imprinted and now we're linked.”
    Unexpectedly, Heath grinned. "That's cool, Zo.”
    I gave a mental eye roll. "Okay, Heath, focus. Where are you?"
    "You won't believe this, Zo, but I'm under Tulsa.”
    "What does that mean, Heath?”
    "Remember in Shaddox's History class? He told us about the tunnels that were dug under Tulsa in the twenties because of the un-alcohol thing.”
    "Prohibition," I said.
    "Yeah, that. I'm in one of them.”
    I didn't know what to say for a second. I vaguely remembered learning about the tunnels in History class, and was astounded that Heath—not exactly an excellent student—would remember at all.
    As if he understood my hesitation he grinned and said, "It was about sneaking booze. I thought it was cool.”
    After another mental eye roll I said, "Just tell me how to get there, Heath.”
    He shook his head and a way too familiar stubborn look settled over his face. "No way. They'll kill you. Go tell the cops and have them send a SWAT team or something.”
    That was exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to get Detective Marx's card out of my pocket, call him, and have him save the day.
    Unfortunately, I was afraid I couldn't.
    "Who is the `they'?" I asked.
    "Huh?”
    "The people who took you? Who are they?”
    "They're not people, and they're not vampyres even though they drink blood, but they're not like you, Zo. They're—" he broke off, shuddering. "They're something else. Something wrong.”
    "Have they