Parasight
Page 6
“I’m ready,” I say as I stand and turn to walk towards him. He doesn’t miss my shin catching the corner of the bed frame, and interprets it as nerves.
“Too late to back out now, sweetheart.” He aims for annoyed amusement, but it falls short with his quiet delivery.
“I’d prefer it if you called me Calliah.”
He doesn’t move from the door frame, forcing me to squeeze past him and causing our bodies to brush lightly. My skin prickles with his nearness and I swear I hear his breath catch or was that mine?
“You don’t look like a Calliah,” he throws my words back at me, the smirk in his voice apparent. “And you don’t look like a sweetheart, so I guess that means I’ll call you Cal.”
Cal. The single syllable word is like a sucker punch. Damaris would use the short version of my name. In fact, she’s the only one who ever used my name full stop.
“You can call me Cal,” I whisper through the ball of emotion that clogs my throat. We walk down the narrow hallway through to the main part of the house and Grim falls into step behind me.
“Never pegged you for a Paul Simon fan,” he says as the landing before us widens, and his long legs bring him up alongside me.
“I don’t know of a Paul Simon. Is he coming with us?”
There’s a beat of silence as we approach the wide staircase that leads down to the foyer of Hunter Lodge. My hand skims over the moulded dado rail and lands on the thick, varnished bannister at the top of the stairs. My fingers close around the wood, my foot poised to take the first step, and he loses it and snorts out an amused and unexpected laugh. My step stumbles, and a large hand wraps around my upper arm to steady me.
“You have seriously never heard ‘You Can Call Me Al?’”
I swallow and go to answer, but his voice low and almost apologising stops me. “No, of course, you haven’t. That was stupid of me.”
We descend the stairs in silence, but his hand remains around my arm, his grip powerful yet gentle. It’s likely he thinks my nerves may make me tumble and fall, but I’m not nervous, I’m confused. His presence scatters my thoughts and my concentration dips, my tried and tested skill set failing me, and I must battle with myself to keep steady, to find my way or risk exposure.
If revealed, I will no longer be an asset to the destruction of The Kingdom and will become more of a victim than I ever have before.
“Just on time,” Luke calls from the echoing foyer below as we descend the final steps.
“My team is ready, and you know how to contact us if you need rescuing,” he adds once we’ve reached the ground floor.
Grim bristles beside me. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?” It’s not a question he expects an answer to, but I know that Grim’s terse response amuses Luke.
“Calliah,” Faye’s voice calls as she comes from Cole’s private quarters. “I have something for you.”
She walks straight up to me and brushes my hair from my shoulders before gathering it up to fall on one side. With sure fingers, she ties a velvet choker around my neck, a single pearl hangs from the front and caresses the dip of my throat.
“It’s a tracker, in case you get split up. Grim will always know where you are.”
The small, precious bead falls in a comforting weight against my skin. I know the man to my side would slaughter the entire world to find me without this device, but the gift is not unappreciated.
“Thank you.”
I feel her soft smile against my cheek when she leans in to kiss me goodbye. Touch is something I struggle with, my body instinctively recoiling from her and she doesn’t miss my flinch when her skin brushes against mine.
“One week, Calliah. In seven days’ time, we will celebrate your final justice.”
Vengeance.
Justice.
Damaris.
Grim’s hand tightens around my upper arm but not painfully.
“It’s time,” he commands, and Faye steps away. I feel her mixed emotions buffeting against me like a strong wind. Anxiety, worry and something else, something that feels a lot like pride.
Grim
The Hunter’s private jet feels small and claustrophobic. Not because of the eighteen trained killers on board, this plane could hold five times that much; it seems small because of her. The sides crush in on me, the filtered air burns in my lungs and the seat seems ridiculously tiny for my large frame and all because she is here, she is everywhere. Her presence eclipses all else. Cal’s existence sucks away everything and claims all of my attention. My centre concentrated on one small pinprick of focus that makes me only aware of her and no one else.
I try to listen to Luke’s well researched and thought out plans, to take in and memorise every detail, and, for the most part, I do, until she shifts or sighs or even breathes.
Cal. Cal. Cal.
My heart beats with that one syllable, and it hurt. This awareness of her, this need to ensure her safety was more painful than any injury, any torture or any wound I’d ever suffered.
Unlike the pain that I needed, that I craved, that I used to fuel me, to harden me, to release me, this pain was more. It was uncontrollable. It was all encompassing. It was driving me out of my fucking mind.
“Are you listening to me, or are you going to keep checking to see if she’s still buckled into her seat correctly?”
I lift my face to Luke’s blank stare.
“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Tell me more about Alexiou. If he’s the man who controls The Kingdom, how many others do I need to kill before I can get to him?”
Luke holds my gaze for a long moment before showing me the files on every important member of The Kingdom. Despite the size of this organisation, only five men have all the power with Simon Alexiou the head of the food chain.
“Alexiou’s second in command is a man called, Titus Kyrillos. Both families have held the reins of the organisation since its inception.”
I flick my eyes over the photographs of the two Greek shipping billionaires. Their profiles are of typical rich playboys. Handsome, wealthy and impeccably dressed but it takes a monster to know a monster and both men have my Devil’s attention. He can see as well as I, the darkness in their eyes. He wants to drink it down with a chaser of their blood.
Luke continues his research presentation on each of the five. Along with Alexiou and Kyrillos, there’s a wealthy American called, Ford Kennedy, a Russian named Artur Fedorov and another man. A man I know I’ve seen before.
“Who is this guy?” I point at the clear but covertly taken image of a man and a young girl in a park.
Luke looks at the colour photograph and then raises his face to me, searching my eyes, digging into my head.
“He goes by the name James Cooper, but recent intelligence suggests he was born with another moniker.”
I stare down at the man who smiles at the small child holding his hand as he leads her away from the swing set. His dark features, strong nose and cut jaw. He looks so much like -
“He was born James Renshaw.”
James Renshaw.
No. It can’t be. There’s no way. I would have known. I would have fucking done something.
My head spins, my gut churns, and there’s a sharp stabbing pain somewhere in my chest.
Luke’s voice continues as if he hasn’t just torn my blackened heart, still beating, from my chest.
“He’s two years younger than you and was kept off our radar because he was sent away not long after he was born to a private institution, then onto various private boarding schools before recently inheriting what’s left of the Renshaw fortune and lands.”
“And he-” the words burn as I spit them out. “- he’s like them?”
Still non-plussed at sharing this information Luke coldly continues, “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree if that’s what you’re asking. You’re looking at your baby brother, Grim, and he would have made your sick-fuck parents so proud.”
Can’t fucking breathe.
My fingers curl around the edge of the table before us, and I keep my head lowered, my chin pressed tightly to my chest, restricting the air into my lungs further. The aeroplane bucks slightly, likely caught in a jet stream, and Cal’s audible gasp drags my attention from my burning lungs and white knuckles to her nervous form.
With her hands gripping tightly onto the armrests and her back pushed firmly against the leather of her chair, her body language screams terrified, yet her face is a mask of serene composure. Her eyes are closed, her chest rising and falling lightly with deep breaths, and before I even realise it, my breathing has matched hers. When she inhales, so do I. When she exhales, my lungs work in sync. I bet even my heartbeat has latched onto hers and pounds at the same rhythm and just like that, the panic eases and my lungs fill with conditioned air.
I watch as Cal’s hands slowly release their grip when the plane abruptly stops shaking. Her eyes open wide as she smooths her palms over her thighs and settles her hands loosely in her lap. Just as I’m about to refocus my attention on Luke, before he calls me out on whatever weird shit has me spinning, her head turns slowly towards me, her eyes locking onto my face. The smile she gives me is one of relief.
I knew you were watching over me. Thank you.
I blankly turn my face from hers and force myself to take another long look at the man and little girl in the image before me.
I ignore him and fix my eyes on her.
“Does he own her?” I ask without thinking.
“Daughter. Her mother is dead.”
Luke gathers up the files and takes the image away from my transfixed stare.
“There’s nothing to suggest she’s anything but a content, happy and loved child, but we have contingency plans in place to remove her and bring her to Hunter Lodge should our operation be a success.”
The pilot’s voice comes over the speakers and interrupts us, “We will be landing in Paris Le Bourget in just under fifteen minutes’ time. Please prepare for landing. Transport awaits us on the runway.”
I wait for the pilot’s instructions to end before I turn to face Luke.
Dressed all in black, he looks like an expensive hitman. His classic good looks make him appear approachable until he turns his icy focus on you. You can feel the frost burn from head to toe.
He turns that focus on me now, but it doesn’t stop me from saying, “The child gets removed whether we succeed or not.”
He assesses me for a moment before replying, “I’ll personally ensure it happens.”
I offer no thanks for his promise. Luke doesn’t work that way, neither do I. Despite my earlier show of anger towards both him and Cole, the bond we have goes beyond the need for thanks. Our friendship is carved from death and etched in pain. There are no emotions stronger.
Off to my side, Cal adjusts her seatbelt.
As I watch her settle in to land, it dawns on me that there may be no emotions stronger than what binds me to the Hunters, but I’ve become aware of one that makes me weaker.
I grunt in annoyance as I tug my seatbelt across my lap.
Weakness in my line of work is unwelcome.
Before I kill the men who unknowingly await the sharp edge of my knife, I need to eradicate this flaw. I need to murder all feelings other than death and pain. As if she can sense my decision, Cal turns to face me once more.
Sacrifice me.
I willingly offer myself.
And then she smiles.
Calliah
The private French airport was ready and waiting for our arrival.
We disembark the plane using the narrow airstairs, each footstep of my descent bouncing against the unanchored steps and highlighting the inadequacies of my normally composed gait. As soon as my feet hit solid ground, I’m ushered towards a line of vehicles and deposited inside the first one.
Minutes pass in the air-conditioned car, and my arms develop goosebumps from the overly chilly atmosphere. The silence only enhances the cold seeping into my exposed flesh, and I find myself uselessly tugging at the hem of this sinfully short dress.
I know better than to bother. The Kingdom expects their objects to be displayed for the perusal of others. It’s how we are bought and sold, how possessions are traded from one member to another, ensuring owners never become bored. I lost count of the number of men who’d owned me. Once I’d lost my appeal or served my purpose, I would get displayed, just as I am now, and taken to market. On occasions where I wasn’t fit for presentation, I’d be given back to The Kingdom for free. There they would do just enough to ensure my survival until they could sell me on once more.
This constant ritual has been my life. So why does my skin crawl with the apprehension of once more being a part of the only world I’ve ever known?
Because I’ve tasted freedom.
My hands are fussing with the scraps of fabric across my breasts when the car door opens. The spacious vehicle suddenly seems tiny. I wait for more people to enter, but the door closes quickly, and I’m aware it’s just us.
The engine starts with a rough purr, the car pulling off moments later.
“Stop fussing with your tits, for fuck’s sake,” Grim growls at me from the other side of the car. The words coarse and direct, making my fingers fumble and a blush creeps up my chest and neck.
I’ve been called all kinds of depraved and insulting names, but having Grim use the words tits in that aggressive tone is mortifying, but it’s also something else. Something I don’t know how to describe. Tingles replace the goosebumps on my arms, and suddenly the enclosed space seems twenty degrees warmer.
“Take my hand.”
The order spoken softly, yet the words seem to hurt him, and I can almost hear his throat tear as he forces them out.
“Why?”
“Why do you have to question me? From here on out I fucking own you, act like it and take my fucking hand.”
He can’t bear to touch you, a voice whispers in my head.
But I want to touch him, I whisper back. Desperately.
Carefully, more for my benefit than for his, I stretch my left hand out across the cold leather seat, my knuckles grazing the fabric, my palm flat and open. He doesn’t take my hand immediately, but I can feel him looking at it, weighing up whether he can do this. I leave my hand there, feeling open and more exposed than the many times I’ve been naked, just waiting for that first touch of his skin on mine.
Will his hand be soft or rough? Will it have calluses? Will his palm be dry? Hot? Smooth? Strong?
These questions tumble around in my head like sand swirling beneath an incoming tide and I almost, almost, miss the very instant his fingertips skim over my skin.
If I didn’t know better, the touch could be considered reverent. His fingertips are so smooth they feel like satin as they skim slowly over my skin leaving little fireworks in their wake. When his palm engulfs mine, and his fingers close to hold my hand gently, I get the answers to all my swirly questions.
Soft or rough? Will it have calluses? Soft, but with calluses at the upper edge of his palm under the roots of each finger.
Dry? Hot? Smooth, Strong? Dry, warm, smooth apart from the calluses, and despite his gentle hold I can feel his strength pulsing under the surface. He could break my hand without blinking should he choose to do so.
“You don’t have fingerprints,” I state thoughtfully, marvelling at the smoothness of his fingertips.
His hand tightens a fraction at my words, but he answers honestly, “I’m a ghost. Ghosts don’t need them. Ghosts can’t be found.”
His words hit me, not only because of the implication behind his words, after all, this man is a cold-blooded killer, but also because despite trying to keep his tone blank, loneliness seeps through every wor
d.
“When did you become a ghost?” I ask, not expecting the conversation to continue.
“When I died,” he admits, his fingers tightening another fraction around mine. “I was eleven when I died and was then reborn.”
He was just eleven when he became Grim.
“Who were you before then?” I’m pushing it, and I know it, but he’s answering as though there’s no one here actually listening.
“Henry.” The admission costs him, and I feel the steel band of tension wrap around both our chests. “A broken, dead boy called Henry.”
His voice trails off as if he’s now aware he’s sharing too much, so we sit in silence. My fingers are clasped gently in the hand of a vicious killer, while my heart aches for a young boy called Henry.
“We’ve arrived. I’ll be waiting close by, just buzz once if you need me, and I’ll pick you up at the front entrance. Two buzzes and I’ll be waiting around back in the alley.”
The detached voice of the driver comes through the speaker as we pull up outside a nondescript building on the Rue Montmartre in central Paris. A set of intricately carved wooden doors are sunk into the cement façade, the only sign that this building houses something impressive. Not that I’ve ever seen those doors, but I’ve heard them described by other property. Whisperings late at night in our cells about failed escapes, or depraved recollections of the monthly markets pouring from the sobbing lips of new acquisitions.
Grim tightens his grip on my hand, and I feel his eyes on my face. Before opening the door, he tells me, “Just follow my lead. Tonight, is only a scouting mission, but should something happen and I give you the instruction to close your eyes, you do it, and you do it immediately. Do you understand me?”
I want to tell him there’s no need to protect me from anything that’s going to happen; I’ve lived through worse than he could ever know. Closing my eyes will not stop me from seeing the truth. Where one person may see beauty in the living, I see that very same beauty in death. Instead, I reply, “Yes,” and he guides me out of the car and into the cool Parisian evening air.