Lex Talionis

by Keira Michelle Telford

  The night watchman shrugs. “Illegal immigrant. Has a soft spot for the Russian. I seen ‘em canoodling in the bedroom this morning while I was doing the rounds.”

  “You filthy pervert.” Silver grimaces at him. “You were spying on us through the keyhole? You’re really not endearing yourself to me at all. I’m gonna kill you first.”

  She’s not joking.

  Bang!

  Her bullet enters his head through his right temporal bone, slightly above his ear. It bounces around in his skull, tearing through brain matter, then lodges in his sinus cavity.

  He drops to the ground.

  Ria squeals, realizes she’s free, and attempts to run to Silver—but Cutler has fast reflexes. He captures the tail of her braid and yanks her toward him, reeling her in like a fish on a wire.

  “Not so fast, Myshka.”

  The second gunshot rings out a moment later, the sound echoing in the now silent street, yet … nothing happens. Cutler staggers back slightly, but doesn’t fall, and doesn’t loosen his grip on Ria. He looks down at his chest, a bullet having ripped cleanly through his waistcoat, right over his heart, shredding three layers of clothing.

  But there’s no blood.

  Damnit, Silver mentally chastises herself. Why hadn’t she considered the reason for his deep chest could be that he’s wearing a bullet proof vest? Fuck.

  He fingers the hole and teases out the crushed bullet, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger to inspect it before flicking it away into the street.

  “Shooting the Delta was clever,” he gives her a verbal pat on the back. “It saved me having to pay out the reward. But shooting me was a bad move.” He wags a disapproving finger. “Naughty girl.”

  Silver lowers and holsters her gun, knowing that was her last bullet. She also knows that she’s not strong enough to defeat Cutler—not in her current state. She needs to level the playing field.

  Realizing her weakness, Cutler goes about his business unhurriedly, ordering his two men to toss Carmen, Oliver and Ria into the old police van. He pays no more attention to Silver until he hears her withdraw her hunting knife from its sheath.

  “Are you quite sure you want to do this?” he asks without turning round.

  “Surprisingly, yeah.” Silver twirls the knife in her hand, preparing to launch it at him. “I want my Russian back.”

  “Your Russian?” He pivots to face her. “Golly! The Delta wasn’t exaggerating; you do fancy her! Luther’s darling Myshka. My little Russian mouse.”

  Before Silver can retort, he flicks his wrist and slings something small and metallic at her.

  A shuriken.

  By the time Silver realizes what it is, it’s too late. The snowflake-shaped throwing star strikes her left hand, gouging her palm along her old scar, causing the knife to fall from her grasp.

  Blood gushes and she clutches her wrist, taken aback by the level of the pain.

  “This is far too easy.” Cutler draws a gun from a holster at his waist. “It’s very disappointing.”

  He marches over to her and strikes her with the butt of the gun, knocking her to the ground. As she falls, she turns, slipping her right hand briefly inside the pocket of her jeans, removing something small, unseen by Cutler.

  He’s about to kick her in the stomach, but hesitates before his foot makes impact. Leaning over her, crouching, smelling the scent of her spilt blood, he presses his hand against her belly.

  “Deary, deary me.” He pretends to care. “You’re all knocked up.” He rubs her stomach. “Allow me to demonstrate my good nature.”

  “You’re not going to kill me?” she rasps breathlessly.

  “Oh, no.” He retracts his hand. “I’m going to kill you, but I’ll do it quickly.”

  In one swift motion, Silver whips her right arm around and slices his palm, her lucky Chimera talon pinched between her fingers. Before he recovers, she grabs his bleeding hand with hers, blood smearing between them.

  Thinking she’s looking for mercy, or a hand up off the street, he shoves her away from him and shoots her in the chest, the bullet hitting her right where hers hit him: directly over her heart.

  The last thing Silver hears is Ria’s heart wrenching scream.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Aiden presses two fingers against Silver’s neck, seeking out her carotid artery.

  He feels nothing.

  Bending down, he holds his ear above her mouth, listening for breath sounds, feeling for airflow, his hand resting lightly on her chest, hoping for movement.

  Nothing.

  Blood from the gash on her palm is all over her clothes, saturating her jeans where she’d reached into her pocket for the talon. Oddly, though, the blood on her chest is minimal. There’s only a small red blob on her camisole where the bullet entered. Did her heart stop beating so instantly that nothing was pumped out?

  He pulls out a pocketknife and slices the camisole at her bust, stripping back the fabric to reveal the wound, finding the bullet lodged near the surface of her skin.

  It didn’t pass through her sternum.

  Confused, he uses the tip of his knife to dislodge the bullet from her chest, then prods the wound with the blade, startled to hear the sound of metal hitting metal. Digging in with his forefinger, he squooshes around in her flesh, scratching his nail against a metal plate.

  Perplexed, he lifts open one of her eyelids to check for any dilatory response in her pupils and recoils instantly: her irises are shimmering with violet.

  It horrifies him, but gives him hope. Could it be that the impact of the gunshot merely stopped her heart? Testing out that theory, he makes a fist and slams it down onto her chest.

  She remains motionless.

  He does it again, only harder.

  Still no response.

  “Come on, Silver …”

  One more time.

  Bingo! The thwack kick-starts Silver’s heart and she sits bolt upright, gasping for air. She draws in one lungful, then another, then rolls over onto her hands and knees, waiting for oxygen to get to her brain. She’s dizzy, lightheaded, and everything around her feels unusually intense. The sun seems so bright, sounds so loud, and aromas so vibrant. In a small crowd of curious onlookers, she can smell that one of the females is menstruating.

  Gross.

  Further down the street, she hears an old man letting out a squeaky fart.

  “What happened?” She winces.

  Aiden shows her the bullet from her chest. “It didn’t penetrate.”

  Silver brings a hand to her chest, feeling where she was shot, and laughs.

  “What are you?” He offers a hand to help her up from the ground.

  “A soldier.” She refuses his help. “A two hundred pound Chimera landed on my chest and shattered my sternum when I was in my early twenties. Most of my ribcage was reconstructed with titanium implants. I’m fucking bionic.”

  “It saved your life.” He hesitates. “That, and the other thing,” he adds, referring to her eyes.

  “Did it work?” She tucks her lucky—now bloody—Chimera talon back into her pocket, retrieves her knife from the street, and looks at the reflection of her eyes in the blade, pleased with the results.

  “You did that on purpose?” Aiden looks mildly let down. “Why? You were clean.”

  “It’s the only way to fight Cutler, and right now, that’s a whole lot more important to me than the purity of my blood.” She stretches her shoulders and flexes her wounded hand, hardly noticing the pain. “How long was I out?”

  “You weren’t out, you were dead.”

  “Pesky details.” Her hand drips blood onto the ground at her feet. “How much of a head start do they have on me?”

  “Minutes.”

  “Do you know where they’re going?”

  Aiden nods. “Not only that, but I can help you get there.”

  The old, repurposed West Mercia Police van smells like cabbage. Either it was recently used to haul vegetables from a farmer who
pays his monthly dues in goods, or the last occupant had a bad case of gas. Either way, it stinks.

  Stripped of weapons and handcuffed, Carmen, Ria and Oliver slip and slide on narrow metal bench seats as the van veers left and right to avoid potholes, and speeds around corners. For the first time since being thrown in here, they’re silent.

  Up until a few minutes ago, Ria was wailing, sobbing, and spewing profanity in Russian. Now, she’s staring at the floor, her face streaked with tears, her eyes red, her senses numbed by grief and heartache. She’s cried so much that her throat is dry and sore, her eyes stinging, her chest hurting.

  Cutting through the silence, Carmen bangs on the small plastic window between their cage and the driver’s cab in front, her stomach churning with fear.

  “Hey!” She beats on the window with her fists. “Where are you hoggish little shitsacks taking us?”

  No response.

  “Hey!!” She thumps harder, banging on the metal wall directly behind the driver’s head, trying to provoke a reaction. “I’m talking to you!”

  Still nothing.

  “They won’t answer you,” Ria croaks. “It’s strictly forbidden.”

  Carmen settles back on the metal bench opposite Ria, sick with dread. “What’s Luther going to do with us?”

  “He’ll probably sell you.” She glances at Oliver, then back to Carmen. “Both of you. People are always looking for young, fit domestic help.”

  “What about you?”

  Ria’s cunt cramps with the unpleasant anticipation of what’s to come, and she considers steps she can take to delay the inevitable. If Luther’s expected home imminently, she’ll be sent to ‘prepare’ herself to take company. Such preparation involves a combination of waxing, shaving, tweezing, and toying.

  Luther likes her to arrive at his bedroom the same way he likes dinner to arrive at his table: hot and ready. He considers foreplay a waste of his precious time, and wants only to be able to ram his cock inside her as quickly as possible. Inching it in gently and loosening up her tight, protesting body is an annoyance to him, so she’s expected to give herself ample pleasure beforehand.

  This should give her plenty of time to break open the hard shell of her razor, remove the blade, and use it to slice the delicate skin between her thighs so that, when the time comes and he calls for her, she can pretend to be unavailable. She’s known girls who’ve done that before. Some end up permanently scarred. Some slice too deep and end up dead in the bathtub.

  Wondering if she even has the nerve for it, she sighs heavily and answers Carmen’s question.

  “He’ll fuck me.”

  Silver fidgets in the new clothes given to her by Aiden to replace her torn and bloodstained ones. The kicksies feel fine, though they hug her ass more than she’s used to, but the waistcoat’s taking some adjustment. She’s used to having a Kevlar vest strapped on over her shirt, not a form-fitting piece of hemp cloth that serves no real function and offers scarcely any warmth.

  She rolls her sleeves up to her elbows, watching Aiden spread out a map on the table in an ironmonger’s workshop.

  “This is where he’s taking them.” He taps a marked section of the map. “Birmingham.”

  “A city?” Silver squints at it.

  “Luther’s primary residence, Aston Hall, is on the outskirts. It’s a stately home, tucked away in the middle of some woodland.”

  “How long will it take me to get there?”

  “It’s about an hour by motor.”

  “Motor?” Silver perks up.

  “My men caught a poacher a few days ago.” He walks her to the other side of the workshop and unveils a rusty blue car hidden under a sheet of tarpaulin. “They hadn’t had time to strip it yet.”

  It’s right-hand-drive, two of the doors don’t match, one of the wing mirrors has been smashed off, the paint’s bubbling and peeling all over, the rear windshield’s missing, and it smells like blood and guts, but it’ll get the job done.

  “What’s all this?” Silver explores a nearby table that’s covered with weapons, acutely aware that she’s out of ammunition for her gun.

  There are two rifles and a handgun—none of which is designed to fire bullets of any kind—an assortment of hunting knives, and some tranquilizer darts.

  “The poacher’s tools,” Aiden explains.

  “Tranquilizers, but no real guns?”

  Aiden shrugs, the sight not uncommon to him. “Shooting an animal makes some of the meat inedible. Either this bloke didn’t want to waste a good steak, or he was after live animals for farming.”

  Silver inspects one of the tranquilizer darts. “They’re empty.”

  “Drained for veterinary use. We don’t have the means to produce Ketamine ourselves, but the Mercians synthesize it as a cheap substitute for heroin. It’s quite abundant across the border. Apparently the high’s akin to PCP.”

  “Yeah, it’s not bad,” Silver comments absently, holding up one of the darts. “I need to fill these.”

  Aiden shakes his head. “I can’t get the Ketamine back.”

  “I don’t need Ketamine.” She pulls the packet of heroin out of her back pocket and slaps it down on the tabletop. “I need some water.”

  Ria’s heart plummets when the van comes to a stop outside Aston Hall. She’d half hoped they’d be besieged by highwaymen, or get run off the road by a pack of rabid wolves.

  No such luck.

  She can’t stop picturing the jolt of Silver’s body as the bullet entered her chest. She can’t stop thinking of all the missed opportunities there’d been for closeness since their first meeting. She’d been so timid. Why had she been so timid? If they’d met in London, somewhere in her comfort zone, she’s certain they’d have fallen into bed together within hours of meeting. Their connection was so strong; so immediate; so fervent. She feels foolish not to have trusted her emotions from the outset.

  And now it’s too late.

  She steps out of the van in a zombie-like state, letting Cutler’s men drag her into Aston Hall through the servants’ entrance. The red brick, Jacobean-style, horseshoe-shaped building, with its private gardens to the left and stables to the right, is enormous and lavish and jaw-droppingly elegant, but she doesn’t give it so much as a cursory glance. She was hoping never to see it again.

  Inside, the unhappy trio is led into a cold, dark kitchen and told to wait. The polished, stone slab floor is almost shiny enough to cast their reflections back at them. Pots and pans are hanging from hooks on exposed ceiling beams, along with some bunches of dried herbs. The antique stove has been ripped out and replaced with new, the large oak table set for lunch. Someone’s stomach rumbles.

  “Argo!” Cutler booms, snagging a passing maid by the arm. “Where’s Argo?”

  “In the drawing room, sir.” She keeps her head down.

  “Fetch him.” He tosses her down the hallway. “And tell him to bring tethers.”

  She does so without question, scurrying off at double pace, the starchy fabric of her Victorian-style maid’s dress—black, ankle-length, with a white apron—rustling and swishing against the petticoat underneath.

  A minute later, a young man in his mid-twenties skips down the staircase into the building’s bowels, carrying a black leather briefcase. Clean shaven, and dressed like a perfect gentleman—the usual waistcoat, puff tie, and pocket watch—he looks more like a banker than a gangster. He’s attractive, too.

  “Whaddya want, Cutler?” He strides down the hall, his thick, dark hair gelled into place so rigidly that not a single strand moves. “The hen house is full.”

  “Look who’s back.” He invites Argo to see for himself. “Our beautiful Myshka.”

  As Argo steps inside the chilly kitchen, his amber eyes completely bypass Carmen and Oliver and get stuck on Ria, a flash of quickly concealed tenderness and affection sweeping across his face.

  “She’s made some new mates,” he observes, keeping his voice neutral, tension visible in his strong jawline. “
What’re we supposed to do with them?”

  “Shove ‘em in the hen house with Myshka till Luther gets back.”

  “What’s he gonna do with them?”

  “I’m sure the scraggy gawkey’s tougher than he looks.” He flaps a hand in Oliver’s direction. “He’s got a stable boy air about him, dontcha think? We can get rid of that old codger who keeps pissing in the water trough and put this young lad up in the barn.”

  “And the other?”

  Cutler shrugs. “She ain’t got much in the way of curves, but I’m sure he’ll think of something.”

  Getting down to it, Argo opens his briefcase on the table and withdraws three identical, tamper proof electronic monitoring bracelets—the tethers. Familiar with this process, he uncuffs the somber trio and fixes the tethers on their wrists, starting with Ria.

  “I’m sorry,” he mutters under his breath.

  She acknowledges the sentiment with a fleeting upwards turn of her lips.

  “Fancy something to eat?” He takes his time putting the tether on.

  She shakes her head, certain that she is hungry, but even more certain that she wouldn’t be able to keep anything down.

  He moves on.

  Carmen’s next, and while putting on her tether, he spies the somewhat defaced CPS emblem on her jacket. “Have you seen this?” He pinches the emblem between his fingers, showing it to Cutler. “She’s a fucking Magistrate.”

  Cutler isn’t concerned. “Whatever she was, she ain’t no more.”

  “What the hell is this?” Carmen picks at the tether.

  “An alternative to keeping you in a cage.” Cutler laughs, slipping out of the room to harass another passing maid into fetching him a drink.

  “It allows you free run of the house and some of the grounds,” Argo explains, fixing Oliver’s tether. “But go too far, or try to mess with it, and it sets off an alarm.”

  “So we’re your prisoners now?”

  Argo face shrugs. “That depends on what my brother decides to do with you.”