by Incy Black
So he’d waited.
And on his twelfth birthday he’d received his reward. Father had shown him how to play. First with mummy dearest—she’d bled deliciously—then over the years with those other girls, younger, sweeter, their screams louder. Walter always in the corner looking on. Graduating from high chair to bar stool to knife of his own.
Poor father had been Walter’s first very own toy. Seized without consent. Such an angry teen.
He continued to click the pen. God, how he wanted to stab it into Walter’s eye. But who then would serve as his eyes and ears, his paymaster and pusher, within the Service?
“Walter, I believe I’ve got a plan,” said Patient Peter, his thumb still busy. “I’m not prepared to expend further wit chasing that girl round the country. We need Lowry Fisk to come to us. Make sure her father has an accident. Nothing fatal, not just yet, but severe enough to hospitalize him. She’ll come. She’ll visit. And when she does…well, we’ll have some fun. See to it.”
“And Ballentyne?”
“I’ve already warned you, Walter. Leave him be. Poke a hornet’s nest, and you’ll get stung. Besides, it’s not as if he’s in any position to threaten us. Not after my little leak to the press. He’s gone, and there’s no way back for him now. I promised you I’d fix him, and I did. Now, go and arrange some hurt for the Commander. I want that girl here by the weekend.”
Hmm, that was not a pleasant gleam in his brother’s eye. For a moment there he’d almost looked…dangerous. Insubordinate. The nerve of the little shit. And after all he’d done for him.
…
Stir crazy did not begin to define how she felt. Four days into her confinement within the Hall—not trusting her, Jack had forbidden her on pain of death to dare venture into the gardens—and she was mentally pleading for Patient Peter to make his damned move.
After years of social withdrawal she found the Hall, vast as it was, too crowded. Jack’s fault. She was never alone. He didn’t trust her not to run, so she was watched. Every goddamn minute of the day.
Oh, Jack’s brothers were sympathetic and discreet, their expressions at mealtimes oddly apologetic. But Jack had insisted she never be left on her own, and they were just following orders they dared not disobey. Not considering the mood Jack was in.
She’d pull a door closed, and it would mysteriously open to be left ajar.
Every four hours, she’d hear muted whispering. A changing of the guard, she suspected.
And she always knew when Jack was on duty. It was like being stalked by a thunder cloud ready to burst. He made no effort to soften his tread; he didn’t care that she knew he was on rotation.
Once she’d paused too long at a window, mesmerized by the view of swans on the lake with the majesty of rolling hills beyond. He’d bawled her out. Loudly. Loud enough for those swans to take sudden flight.
God knows what his parents must have thought.
His sighs of exasperation and huffs of frustration whenever she chose to meander the endless corridors, exploring the Hall—as she’d been invited to do—dogged her every step. She’d walk for hours, the west wing, the east wing, floor by floor, then start over again.
And he’d follow.
She turned it into a game just to annoy him. When it was his turn to shadow her, she set out on her travels. Payback for him all but ignoring her. For being brooding and moody. Taciturn and snappish. Even Richard noticed and commented on Jack’s blue funk when around her. “Take yourself off the rotation, bro, if you can’t take the strain. We’ll happily share your turns between us. We like following Lowry. She’s gorgeous to look at, and she’s got a great pair of legs, and a cute little behind…”
Jack had sworn. Richard had laughed. She’d pinked with embarrassment.
On day five, a consignment of paints, brushes, and blank canvases arrived.
“Jack’s way of apologizing, I suspect, which has to be a first. He knows he’s behaving like an ass,” Seb said cheerfully as he deposited the last of the boxes in front of her. “Just don’t expect to hear him admit it.”
“Oh God, he must be out of his mind. Now they’ll definitely know I’m here. Who else would Jack have ordered all this paraphernalia for? Stupid, stupid man. I have to get—”
Quick as light, obviously briefed by Jack, Seb slapped his hand round her wrist to stop her flight. “He’ll have thought of that, taken appropriate measures. The last thing he’d do is put you at further risk.”
“Exitus acta probat—the end justifies the means, motto of the Assassins, and Jack’s the leader. He wants Patient Peter, Seb, badly enough to use me as bait if his patience is tested. This is him scenting a trail—right to me.”
“Let go of her wrist, Seb. She’s not overly fond of being touched.”
She spun around to face Jack. Why couldn’t he have stomped his presence the way he’d taken to doing these past few days?
“It occurred to me you’d be a lot less unpredictable if distracted,” he snarled. “Painting seemed an obvious activity. And I’d never carelessly put you, or my family for that matter, in harm’s way. Once was enough.”
Hostility from Jack was nothing new, but even for him—hands fisted at his sides, his chest rising and falling at an unnatural speed from the sharp breathes he huffed—his reaction was over the top. Skin stretched tight, his expression stormy; she wondered what kind of infraction she had committed now. Then she noticed his eyes, not the vital, fierce blue she’d never get used to—never wanted to, if she was honest—because they represented excitement, life lived to the full, but flat, almost pained. Christ, but for knowing he had the feelings of rock, she’d almost suspect he was hurt.
“Leave, Seb, I’ll take it from here,” he ordered abruptly. His brother didn’t protest. He didn’t even hesitate. Poof, and he vanished.
Way to go, Jack, let common courtesy hang, keep pushing everyone away. “Try that brand of intimidation on me, Jack, and I promise I’ll hit right back.”
She bent and hefted up a carton of paints. Balancing the box in the crook of one arm, she flipped open the lid and stirred the silver tubes, each affixed with a neat label donating a different flash of wild color, with her forefinger.
“They the right kind?”
She looked up, surprised. Why should it matter to him? He’d never shown any interest in her art. She’d assumed he’d simply hit the Internet and randomly ordered whatever had shown on the screen. She examined the tubes of paint more closely. These were her colors, nothing dark or muted, all shockingly bright—the yellows, the greens, violent reds. And white, lots and lots of tubes of white. Brilliant white, without a tint, her favorite. “I couldn’t have chosen better myself. Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice a little wobbly.
“Nothing to it.”
“Why do you do that, Jack? Abruptly push away? Don’t forget, I know there are over seventy tints of white to choose from, yet you cared enough to select the right one. That’s a good thing. Why hide it?”
For a moment she thought his head would explode. Then he exhaled, and striding past, he crossed to stare out the window, his body blocking the sunlight filtering into the room.
“Because I don’t care. I can’t afford to. Tried it once, and it three-quarters killed me when it all went wrong.”
Well, that made about as much sense as a fish in a tutu. Then it hit her. “This about Richard, Jack?” she asked softly. “You push him away harder than you push me. A lesser man might be offended.”
He snorted at that. “Richard’s bulletproof when it comes to taking offense. Just a pity that invincibility couldn’t protect him from broken bones and a pinched spinal cord… But I should have.”
“What happened, Jack? What happened to Richard?” For a moment she didn’t think he’d heard her. She hadn’t spoken louder than a strained whisper.
Then he glanced over his shoulder. At her, daring her to look hard and see the very worst of him. “I happened.”
Her throat constricted.
Jack cro
oked a tight, mirthless smile, as if he knew she was having difficulty swallowing. He returned to staring out the window, this time propping his forehead against one of the glass panes.
“Always gung-ho, always fiercely competitive, we were both on leave and keen to celebrate the successful completion of our latest mission. We argued good naturedly and with a lot of crude laughter about who had the better shot of one day taking command of the Assassins. Two hours later, tanked to the brim by the best part of a bottle of brandy each, we agreed it would be brotherly for one of us to step aside. But, which one of us? A challenge was in order, to separate the best from the also ran.”
A terrible sense of foreboding skittered up her spine. She wanted to raise her hand, cover her ears and beg him to stop. Not just to avoid the awfulness she knew was coming but to still his voice. Empty. A lifeless monotone.
“It was my bright idea that we scale the face of the Hall. That the first man to the top would be deemed the winner. The loser would withdraw his future application for the command. Only, as usual, we tied. So, I suggested another race. This time, back down.
“Richard won. He fell the final thirty feet. Smack into the flagstones laid by our ancestors.”
“Jesus, Jack. Jesus.”
“No, sweetheart. He was absent that day.”
She didn’t hold the use of that endearment against him. She couldn’t. This wasn’t the Jack who’d promised never to use it. This was a man lost in a world of pain.
She didn’t care that he wouldn’t see the gesture. She shook her head. “Stupid. Reckless. But not your fault alone… Not the way you’ve been carrying the blame all these years. Richard doesn’t hold you responsible. He knows he was there too, that he’s just as culpable as you. Speak to him, Jack…stop pushing him away. Just speak to him.”
He swung around, his breath-snatchingly handsome face, a tear of savagery. “And what the fucking hell good would that do? It’s not like one ‘sorry’ from me, and up he’ll stand and start walking again.”
Steam replaced the blood in her veins. So much waste. Too much waste. “No. But it might heal you.”
Heart wrenched in two, her chest too tight from the pain of what both brothers had lost, she spun on her heel and quit the room.
Jack didn’t follow.
An hour later, sitting on the edge of her bed, the box of paints Jack had bought her on her lap, she realized that she hated being alone. That she missed the presence of someone watching out for her.
A solid series of rapid thumps and Seb, pushing his head around the door he’d just opened, grinned at her. “Urgent message from Richard. He wants us all in the cellars now. He’s got Marshall patched through. Any idea where I might find Jack? Richard wants him there, too.”
Chapter Fifteen
Jack loved the cellars beneath the Hall. They were where he and his brothers had schemed and played. Where he’d first decided—age nine—to become a cop-spy-astronaut-fireman-rock star. Yes, he’d been overly ambitious, but two out of five suited him just fine.
And it had been years since he’d visited them.
Richard’s fancy little subterranean operation put the high-tech facilities at the Cube to shame. Banks of computers lined each wall of the cavernous space. The muted whirl of electronic activity filled the underground area, which was backlit with unholy green light to reduce the glare of data streaming across the many screens.
It annoyed Jack that he hadn’t known of this little operation’s existence, but then there wasn’t much that hadn’t annoyed him these past few days. Especially Lowry, who’d taken to pretending he didn’t exist.
In fact, she was annoying him now. Standing there in the doorway, bottom lip tight between her teeth, clearly reluctant to enter the enclosed, windowless space. Steadfastly refusing to catch his eye.
Richard rolled his wheelchair aside to make room for Lowry at the main console. “Come on in, Lowry, Marshall’s got something to tell you,” his twin coaxed. “I’m switching to speaker mode, so we can all listen in.”
She hesitated, her eyes darting nervously across the bank of screens, then stepped forward and crossed to stand beside Richard who, much to Jack’s disgust, took her hand and dropped a kiss of encouragement on it. She didn’t seem to mind. She even managed a weak smile.
Jack narrowed his eyes and folded his arms. He’d be having a word with his brother about that later. He and Lowry might not be on speaking terms, but Richard needn’t think he was about to get away with taking advantage. Brothers had rules. You did not hit on another brother’s woman. Not unless you wanted full-scale war.
“You’re in the clear, Lowry. I’ve finally got irrefutable proof that you couldn’t possibly have killed Wainwright,” said Marshall, his voice echoing loudly from too-great amplification.
Richard leaned forward and flicked a few switches to adjust the volume.
“You got lucky. We found the disc drive from your surveillance camera during a random security check of the drains beneath the Cube. Water damage has compromised a lot of the detail, but from what the techies have managed to pull, you can’t possibly have been the killer. You’re too slight. The absence of drag marks on the floor, and no evidence of abrasion on Wainwright’s heels, suggests he was carried. A physical impossibility for a woman of your stature. And nor, to the best of my knowledge, do you possess a sick sonofabitch giggle that registers within the male vocal range. The warrant for your arrest has been lifted.”
The high fiving and jubilant banter from his brothers had Lowry waving her arms for shush. “Can you run that past me again, Marshall? I’m not sure I heard you right.”
Marshall did as asked. This time laying out every detail as to why she was no longer the prime suspect in the murder of her friend. He closed his account with, “By the way, Lowry, Will sends his love. He mentioned something about footing the bill of a wild spending spree in a lingerie boutique of your choice. On condition he gets to accompany you, and watch while you try on whatever you fancy. His words, not mine.”
Her snort morphed into a giggle from which she appeared unable to recover. Tears, silver in the dim of the cellar, traced her cheeks. Happy tears.
Jack clenched his fists. Shit. He loved that giggle. Not sweet and shy, but cheeky. Naughty as all hell. The way his heart flipped in his chest was a little alarming, but not unpleasant. And the layer of tingly warmth lying just below the surface of his skin felt extraordinary. He could have done without the cockstand though, given what he would have to do—rob her of an all too rare moment of carefree frivolity—because he seemed to be the only one struck by the bloody obvious. That Lowry could now do what she’d told his father she would do once cleared of the murder. Up and vanish again, believing she’d be safe.
Only she wouldn’t be.
Patient Peter would not stop until she’d been silenced. Not even if successfully brought down and locked up for life. He’d want vengeance. And Christ alone knew the true length of that bastard’s reach.
She could kick all she liked—and fuck, was she likely to kick—but he wasn’t standing his protective custody down. He’d lock her up. Down here in the cellar, if he had to. She’d hate him. But at least she’d be safe.
Chest clamped in what felt like an ever narrowing vice, he waited for her to push her chair clear of the console and stand to accept the wide grins and warm hugs his brothers were all too ready to give her. She was more comfortable accepting displays of affection now—too damned comfortable, in his opinion.
Oxygen peculiarly sparse, he sucked in as deep a breath as he could find. “This proof of your innocence changes nothing, Lowry. As a known threat, Patient Peter is going to come at you hard. And God help anyone who stands in his way. Now you can be afraid. Fucking terrified. And not just for yourself. Family, friends—he’s going to mow them all down to get to you.” His words, sharp, abrupt, and deliberately cold, had all heads turning toward him in shock.
As dampeners went, his brutal observation was a killer, just as he�
��d intended. No way would he sanction her thinking she was safe. Not even with the Service now, discreetly, going after Patient Peter’s ass. She wasn’t the only one to have doubts about the integrity of the Service. He had them, too.
One look though, at her suddenly straightened lips, drawn so tight they’d tinted blue, and the sight of silent agony fleeting her eyes, and he crumbled like a wall built of sand and held together by spit alone.
He relaxed his fist, dragged a hand over the curve of his chin, making a surreal mental note that he needed a shave. “That was unnecessary. I’m sorry. Neither Patient Peter nor any of his minions are going to get anywhere near you, Lowry. You, or anyone important to you. Blood oath.”
The force of her anger as she approached and got in his face caused him to take a step back. She didn’t say a word, just stared him down, before shoving past him, her elbow precisely targeted and timed, jabbing him deep in the ribs.
One foot braced on the first step of the flight of stairs leading to the floor above, she paused, and again caught him dead center in the crosshairs of her smoky-greens. “Get over yourself, Jack. It’s not in your power to give me that guarantee. And if I thought for one moment that you were capable of regret or remorse, I’d accept your apology. But you’re not.”
She paused, stared at her feet. Her body shook with temper. No one intervened. No one dared. He sensed his brothers draw a collective breath. And hold it. His lungs were still seized from her jab to his ribs.
She blew out a series of little puffs, before continuing.
“You’re right, Jack, you don’t care. You’re every bit the hard, driven, ruthless, clever bastard everyone says you are, but don’t take that as a compliment. Others may revere your reputation. Personally, I find it tragic. You and Patient Peter? You may have chosen different paths to follow, but scratch beneath the surface, and the two of you are fundamentally the same. Both empty shells…dead on the inside.”
He didn’t much mind her insults. He deserved them—except the Patient Peter comparison, which he’d take up with her later. Her tears, though, horrified him. He’d made her cry, and not pretty little silver ones of joy.