Retribution

by Shana Figueroa

  “There you are.”

  He jumped at Abby’s voice. From the bathroom doorway, she cocked her head to the side and gave him a warm smile, golden hair framing an angelic face. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Just a headache.” Max wiped his face off on the bottom of his T-shirt, then shoved the bottle back into the cabinet. His hands shook, the emotional sucker-punch of his meeting with Val still reverberating through him. He braced them against the sink as nonchalantly as possible, hoping Abby wouldn’t notice. Calm down, Max. He took a deep breath. “Valentine Shepherd asked me to meet her for coffee.”

  “Oh?” Abby’s smile faded. “What did she want?”

  “Help with a case she’s working on. I told her…I’d think about it.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “Eh, you know. The money kind.” He shrugged. “Your brother didn’t ask to spend the night again, did he?” he asked as he walked past her, on his way to the patio. Toby followed, like he always did.

  “Not yet,” she said behind him. He could hear the frown in her voice at another conversation about Val shut down. “But he probably will. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

  Max bounced down the stairs in an approximation of a happy person. “Nope,” he said over his shoulder. Ginger’s drunken hyena cackle blasted from the patio through the living room, and Max knew they might as well prep one of the spare rooms for him now.

  “Dude, if you get a tattoo on the lower part of your back, it’s a fuckin’ tramp stamp, no matter what your girlfriend tells you,” Ginger was saying to two other guys and a woman lounging beside the indoor pool when Max joined them. Abby’s brother took a drag off his cigarette and let out a long exhale. The smoke curled up to the glass ceiling and disappeared between the window panes, tilted open to let the barbeque smoke out and fresh air in. Then he poked at the guy across from him with the same hand he held a beer bottle with. “You’ve been pussified.”

  Max grabbed a beer from the stainless steel cooler that came with the place, built into the wall. He sat back in a lounge chair next to Ginger, popped the cap off his bottle, and took a modest swig. He had to be careful; he could feel the pills working their magic, loosening him up. If he drank too much or too fast, he’d get lethargic, and the questions about his health would start.

  Toby jumped into his lap and lay down. Max considered pushing him off, but he’d probably sulk off and pee on something out of spite. He didn’t understand why the dog had taken such a shine to him. Abby had adopted him from a shelter shortly before their engagement. It was supposed to be her dog, really. She was the one who tried to cuddle and cooed at him, while Max treated him with respectful indifference. Instead, Toby imprinted onto Max; a poor choice, in Max’s opinion. Abby said Toby’s devotion meant Max was marriage material. Max thought it meant Toby was deeply disturbed. Maybe he and the dog were kindred spirits after all.

  The woman, Carrie, rolled her eyes. “Roger’s not pussified. It’s a tattoo that says ‘scholar master’ in Chinese, above a fleur-de-lis symbol. It represents his Chinese and French heritage.”

  Ginger laughed. “That is even more gay!”

  Carrie nudged the guy next to her. “Roger, show him.”

  “But, baby, it’s personal,” Roger said.

  “Come on, Roger.” Carrie shoved him hard enough to nearly knock him out of his chair.

  Roger sighed, then stood, turned around, and pulled the back of his jeans down a few inches to reveal a black fleur-de-lis symbol underneath Chinese characters, tattooed just above his tailbone.

  “Booyah!” Carrie slapped Roger’s ass as everyone laughed. Hearing his cue, Max joined in with a fake chuckle. “All. Man. So fuck you, Ginger.”

  Ginger guffawed and punched Max’s arm. Toby growled at the intrusion into his master’s space. “You know, like, every language,” Ginger said, “What does that tattoo really say?”

  Max didn’t know every language, but he did know Chinese; obviously, Roger didn’t. The tattoo said “stupid boy.” Roger would be crushed.

  “It says ‘scholar master,’” Max said. Roger wasn’t close with his Chinese relatives. Chances were they’d never see his unfortunate tattoo. He’d better not go skinny-dipping in Shanghai, though.

  Ginger shook his head. “I can’t believe you let her talk you into that.” He pointed at Max’s arms. “Now those are some badass tattoos. I bet you get laid all the time with that shit—I mean, before you met my sister.”

  Mason, the man next to Roger, shook his head. “Jesus, Ginger, you’re disgusting.”

  Max rolled his eyes at the redheaded idiot. He was tempted to blurt out the truth of how the tattoos were something he’d gotten after having sex with another man, just to see Ginger’s reaction.

  Even without the excessive alcohol, Abby’s older brother had a severe charisma deficit. A man-child who lived off his rich parents, he bounced around Seattle, crashing parties and pissing people off. Nobody liked Ginger, real name Eugene. The only reason anyone tolerated him was for Abby’s sake, and he stuck to her like a sucker fish in a dirty aquarium.

  The glass door slid open, and Abby stuck her head into the patio. “Carrie, think you can help me with some goodie bags for the children’s art show tomorrow?”

  “Hell yes.” Carrie finished her beer and stood. “Too much testosterone out here anyway.”

  “Go do your woman’s work, woman,” Ginger called after her.

  Carrie flipped him off, then disappeared into the condo with Abby.

  “Fucking chicks, man.” Ginger dropped his cigarette into his empty bottle, then staggered over to the cooler and grabbed another beer. “I love it when they just shut up.”

  Max gritted his teeth and checked his watch. Maybe if he called a cab now, he could get Ginger to leave before the misogynist asshole decided to stay overnight.

  Ginger looked at Roger. “You going on Saturday?” he almost whispered.

  Roger frowned. “I don’t know…I’ve got Carrie now.”

  Ginger scoffed. “Pussy.” He looked at Mason. “You?”

  Mason shrugged. “Nah. I went last time. Need a cool-down.”

  “You guys are fucking lame.” Ginger collapsed back into his lounge chair. “Going alone sucks.”

  Max knew what it meant when they talked in vagaries. He usually ignored them until the conversation drifted to something else. But since Val had asked him…“You need a wingman for a Blue Serpent thing?” Max asked Ginger.

  The other three men froze and stared at Max. He’d broken the first rule of the Blue Serpent club.

  “Well, do you?”

  Ginger gave Max a sheepish grin. “Uh, yeah, I guess, but, you know—my sister.”

  “Why does that matter? What do you do there?”

  The three club members exchanged looks, then leaned toward each other in a huddle. Max got the gist he was supposed to lean in as well. He smothered an eye roll at their childish secret-club bullshit.

  “There are two different levels,” Mason said. “There’s the low, entry tier, then the top one.”

  “We’re in the entry tier,” Roger added. “I’m hoping to get into the higher tier, but you have to be invited. I think I’m done with the low-tier shit.”

  “Because you’re a pussy now,” Ginger snickered.

  “I am not—”

  “But what do you actually do in this club?” Max cut in. “What’s the point?”

  “Parties,” Roger said. “Epic parties.”

  Roger, Mason, and Ginger all nodded, in agreement for once.

  Max arched an eyebrow. “That’s it? Why not just go to a regular club?”

  “Dude, you have never been to a party like this, trust me.” Ginger punched Max in the arm. “Come with me on Saturday. I’ll sponsor you, bro.”

  Roger frowned. “You sure that’s a good idea? He’s getting married to your sister in a couple of months…”

  “This’ll be his early bachelor party, one last time t
o let loose.” Ginger looked at Max and smiled. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  All three men stared at Max, eager and nervous to bring him into the fold. Everything told Max this was a bad idea, that he should run as far away as possible from all things Blue Serpent related. Even Toby looked anxious. But Val had asked for his help. Even though he’d pretended to blow her off, the truth was he’d do anything for her. Anything.

  “Okay,” Max said. “Show me how awesome the Blue Serpent is.”

  Chapter Eight

  After dragging Ginger into the guest room and turning him on his side so he wouldn’t drown in his own vomit, Max switched off the lights of his finally empty condo. In the master bedroom, he kicked the dog out and shed his clothes, then sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, feeling unusually drained.

  From the bathroom, Abby asked, “Do you want to come with me to the children’s art show tomorrow?”

  Max rubbed the bridge of his nose, a headache building between his eyes. Too bad he’d thrown out all his real migraine medication to hide the OxyContin. “Nah. I’m a bad influence.”

  “Come on, it’ll be fun. There’ll be arts and crafts, and a bouncy castle, and chocolate pudding, I think. You can’t pass that up.”

  He smiled, but couldn’t hold on to it and it faded away. Abby loved children—something he could never give her. He’d been up front about his vasectomy after they started getting serious. Though she said she’d be happy without having any of her own, he had his doubts. Toby made a poor substitute. Could be Abby faked it for him, told him what he wanted to hear so he’d let her get close to him. Maybe Val was right—the whole world really was out to get them. That thought made him smile again, bitterly.

  He’d always been wary of trusting anyone, before Val. If he was being honest with himself, he’d admit he probably never would’ve dated Abby if Val hadn’t made him realize he was capable of love—and desperate to experience it again. When he met Abby at a fund-raiser for impoverished schools, he remembered he used to like blondes. If he could love Val, why not someone else? The longer he dated Abby, the more he liked her—and the less he thought about Val. Until one day she mentioned marriage, and it occurred to him: Why not now? Why not embrace a good thing, try to have what other, normal people had? He didn’t feel for her what he felt for Val, but love came in different forms. They made each other happy, and that was all he needed in his life now.

  And the pills. But that was different.

  Abby walked into the bedroom, running a brush through her hair and wearing only sheer panties and a camisole top. “What did Valentine Shepherd really want?”

  Max sighed. This conversation again. He should’ve lied and said he’d gone to get ice cream. Anything Val-related sprung up a gauntlet of questions. In truth, Max had lied to Val when he said Abby knew everything. He’d told Abby most things. She knew about Max’s ability—his curse—but she didn’t know Val could do it, too. She knew about his father’s abuse, but not that Max had killed him. She knew something had happened between Max and Val during their time on the run together, but he wouldn’t elaborate. Val’s secrets were her own and not for Max to disclose, not even to his fiancée.

  “I already told you,” he said, “She wanted money.” That was true, in a way. He tried to stick as close to the truth as possible, and talk around the holes. But it was the holes that Abby always picked up on.

  “But what did she want money for?”

  “A missing person case she’s working on. She didn’t give me details.”

  “Are you going to give it to her?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Abby set her hairbrush on the dresser and walked to Max. She slid a leg over his lap, straddling him where he sat at the edge of the bed. “What’s to decide?”

  Max ran his hands up her back, underneath the flimsy camisole. He pulled her flush to him and kissed her soft neck. “I’m deciding if it’s worth the investment,” he mumbled into her skin.

  “Just tell her no. Tell her you don’t need the trouble.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why not?”

  Max lifted his head from her neck with a sigh, unable to hide his exasperation. “Because she saved my life. I owe her.”

  Abby frowned. “How long are you going to keep paying her back?”

  Forever. Max rolled with her onto the bed until he lay on top of her. “I don’t want to talk about Val anymore.”

  He kissed her deeply, dominating her mouth with his. When he felt her body arch into him, he pulled off her camisole and ran his lips down her torso, over supple breasts where he lingered on the hard outcrops of her nipples. She ran a hand through his hair and let out a soft moan.

  “I wish you’d let me in,” she whispered.

  He didn’t look up. “You are in.” As far in as he could let her, anyway.

  He slipped off her panties and made a trail of sloppy kisses over her stomach and across her hips, then into the wet middle. She whimpered as he made love to her with his mouth, caressing her sweet insides in the way he knew she couldn’t get enough of. Her fine hair tickled his nose as she writhed around him, clawing at the bedspread, curling her toes. When her thighs quivered at the edge of climax, he stopped. He moved up until he was face-to-face with her as she panted underneath him. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and tried to pull him into her, pawing at his naked body in desperation for release only Max could give, but he wouldn’t move.

  “Please,” she begged, in his sexual thrall. “Please.”

  Max looked down at her for another moment, noted how completely she belonged to him. His own angel, who tasted like the color of her hair—honey, inside and out. And yet…He imagined himself getting up right then and walking away. What would she do? Keep lying there, waiting for him to return? What would he do? Go running to Val and beg her to take him back? Not again. Never again. She didn’t want him. He needed to accept that.

  Appreciate what you have, Max.

  He entered Abby hard. She cried out, exploding like a popped water balloon in his arms. He surged through her as she clung to him, losing himself in her sweetness, pushing everything but Abby’s warm wetness from his mind.

  Her screams of ecstasy grew louder, and he willed himself closer to climax. He needed to be here, with her. Though he had stamina in spades, and making Abby come multiple times in one night had been fun in the past, his mind still reeled with thoughts of Val, and his plunge with eyes wide shut into the Blue Serpent. His attention itched to be somewhere else.

  You have your angel. Don’t think of the other one.

  Abby’s fingers dug into his back and she rasped, “Yes, yes, yes!” She threw her head back and he felt her insides tighten around him. He closed his eyes and thrust harder, deep into her as she bucked against him, consumed with an ecstasy he could only imagine. For him—and Val—this was the best part, right before.

  Don’t think of her.

  “Abby,” he moaned into her ear. “Abby—” His mind slipped away as he came—

  98726492090102971923198319847845671897452798761018439782742001902938151187892754298759820847520934827587643273628039109109287915563678212320918419756781509281218109804192837180975276185648921609854629680987654321—The red raven flies above me in the moonlight, just out of my reach. She swoops down and cuts one sequence of numbers in half with her claw, swallows another section in her ebony beak. She beats her lustrous wings and flies away from me, fading until she’s merely a ruby glinting in the light of an unseen moon. Come back, I call after her, come back—

  Max blinked as the image faded, replaced by the pillow he’d collapsed into face-first. Abby still lay underneath him, though she’d pushed him to the side a bit so his deadweight didn’t crush her. He turned his head to look at her and she smiled back, her cheeks flushed.

  She stroked the back of his neck. “Do you feel it when I do this during your trances?”

  “No.” He rolled off her and rested his forearm
across his eyes. “I don’t feel anything.”

  Slick with sweat, she pressed her naked body against his and rested her head in the crux of his shoulder. “What did you see?”

  “Nothing.”

  She gave him a playful nudge. “Does that mean the economy’s going to collapse?”

  He cracked a smile. “I mean nothing special—just numbers. Your dad’s Southeast Asian Division will post a twelve percent loss next quarter, though. Drop him an anonymous tip if you want.”

  “I’ll let him figure it out.” She pushed his arm off his face and caressed his cheek, her eyes searching his. “I love you, Max. I really love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She smiled and her eyes grew moist. For a moment Max thought she might cry. Instead, she buried her head in his neck and lay with her arms around him. He rolled onto his side, away from her, closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep. With Abby pressed against his back, he thought of the red raven, of Val, and what his meeting with her might’ve changed of his future.

  Chapter Nine

  Val approached the McMansion of Michael Stevenson, one of three men she was pretty sure had raped her. Stacey had bitten the bullet and watched both Val’s and Margaret’s videos, writing down every detail she could about the attackers. Unfortunately, since each man had been nude and wearing a mask, “every detail” amounted to a rough estimate of height and weight, hair color, and a few birthmarks and scars that would normally be covered by clothing. In other words, it would be nearly impossible to make a visual ID without stripping a suspect down.

  Except in the case of a dark-haired man in his late thirties with a patch of gray above his right ear. With the clues to her attackers’ identities, Val had sat in her car in front of the Pana Sea for two days straight, from opening to closing, until she spotted him. While he was in the bar, she bribed the valet, broke into his car, and got his name and address off the registration. Could be Stevenson was innocent, and just happened to share a physical trait with her suspect. A cruise through his house might clear up the ambiguity.