Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Collection 6-10

by Laurell Hamilton

  She slapped him. “It’ll feel good, I promise.”

  I looked at Edward. Simon had the gun against his head. The hat was on the ground. The medium-looking man had conjured a knife from somewhere and had it pressed to Edward’s throat. A trickle of blood slid down his skin. I met his eyes, and I knew that everyone in this room, everyone in this house was dead. They just didn’t know it yet.

  Edward started to say something, but Simon said, “No, no talking from you or Shooter will slit your throat.”

  The medium guy must be Shooter. The name didn’t suit him. He looked more like a Tom, Dick, or Harry.

  They wouldn’t let Edward talk, so it was my play, but we both knew where the game would end. Sudden death.

  “Get them out of there, Riker.”

  “The children?” He gave a questioning lilt to his voice.

  “Order them to leave the kids alone, now.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  I smiled. “Then the monster is going to come in here and gut you.”

  His eyes flinched. That bothered him. Good. “Knowing what is happening to them should speed up the spell of protection, I think.”

  “If you don’t stop it, Riker, there won’t be anything left to salvage.”

  “I don’t know. I think the boy is enjoying himself, from the sound of things.”

  I’d been trying not to hear, but Peter’s breath was coming faster and faster, frantic, but it wasn’t the sound of pain. He screamed, “Don’t, please don’t.”

  I looked and I wished I hadn’t. Some sights cut through your mind leaving a scar behind that never really heals. Watching Peter writhe caught between his first pleasure and the horror of it all, was one of those sights. I pride myself on never flinching. If someone is being tortured I don’t look away. To look away only saves me pain, not them. If I can’t save them the pain, then I watch as a kind of respect and as a punishment for myself, to remind me what happens to people when I fail them. But I failed Peter twice because I looked away just before a wordless scream tore from his mouth. It wasn’t the sound of pain.

  I turned away, and maybe I moved too fast for the head injury, or maybe it was something else, because the room swam in streamers of color. I tried to go to my knees, and the knife man jerked my arm, kept me on my feet. Fine, I threw up on him.

  He jerked back, actually let go of my arm. I fell to my knees grateful to be low to the ground. Throwing up had brought a roaring headache. Riker’s voice came through the next wave of nausea.

  “Amanda, Russell, be so good as to leave the children alone. Our Ms. Blake is too squeamish to do her work while she fears for their safety.”

  I looked up at the monitors to make sure they actually left the rooms. Russell kissed Becca on the head, then left her huddled in the corner, crying for her mommy. Amanda blindfolded Peter while he begged her not to. She whispered something in his ear that caused him to curl into a ball. She left his pants down, picked up her shirt from the floor and walked out.

  I huddled into my own version of a ball on the floor. I stayed on my knees while I tried to decide whether I was going to throw up again or not. Nausea like this is usually a sign of a concussion. The headache was another. But I think sheer nerves had pushed me over the edge. I used to throw up at crime scenes quite a bit. Apparently, there were still things I couldn’t handle, like child abuse. Dear God, please give us some help here. Help us get them out of here safe.

  There was a beeping, and Riker hit another button on his desk. “What is it?”

  “We’ve got two dead down here. They were fucking butchered.”

  Riker went pale. “The monster.”

  “Knives, some kind of fucking big knife.”

  “You’re sure of that?” Riker asked. “You are positive?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It seems we have intruders.” He looked at Simon. “What are you going to do about our company, Simon?”

  “Kill them, sir.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Shooter, Rooster, stay with him and kill him as soon as Riker gives the word. Mickey, you’re with me.” He looked across at the two men by me. “You stay with her. Make sure no one else hits her. Harold, Newt, come with me.”

  Then they were gone, and we were down to two bad guys a piece, and Riker. It would never get better than this.

  “Is there a bathroom?” I asked.

  “Are you going to be ill again?”

  “It’s a thought.”

  “The two of you take her. And Deuce, if you can come up with something creative that won’t leave a mark or physically harm Ms. Blake in any way, but will convince her that the children and Mr. Forrester are not the only ones that can be hurt, do so. Perhaps you can show her your namesake. You’ve got thirty minutes.”

  There aren’t a lot of things you can do to a person that fulfilled Riker’s requirements. The ones I could think of were mostly sexual. Usually, the talk of my impending rape upsets me, but all I could think of now was that I had thirty minutes with two men who might want to fuck me more than kill me. All I wanted to do was kill them. It made my options easier. But I said, “Is there a reason for torturing me, too, or is it just a hobby?”

  He smiled, pleasant, confident. “I thought you would be worthy of my men, but I find you weak, Ms. Blake. Weakness should be punished. But it must be done carefully, so you can still do the spell, because I do want that.”

  “Isn’t the line, these things must be done delicately or you injure the spell?”

  Deuce laughed. Riker frowned at me. “It’s from The Wizard of Oz,” Deuce said. “The Wicked Witch of the West says it to Dorothy.”

  “Take her away, Deuce,” he wrinkled his nose, “and clean yourself up, Blade. You’re welcome to help in the punishment, but Deuce is in charge. I don’t want her damaged.”

  Deuce grabbed my arm almost gently and helped me to my feet. The guy I’d thrown up on, Blade, followed us by a few steps. Evidently, he was taking no chances. At the door a man appeared. He was darkly Hispanic with longish hair, a shoulder holster, complete with .9 millimeter automatic. He looked like local hired muscle, but he wasn’t. He vibrated with power. A shimmering energy flowed off of him. Psychic or maybe more.

  “Ms. Blake, meet our resident expert on the supernatural, Alario. He was in charge of the protection spells on all my establishments. His art failed him recently at one of my shops, and my workers are dead. You will succeed where he has failed.”

  Alario watched me with cool dark eyes. His power flared over mine as Deuce led me past him. We recognized each other as powers, but there wasn’t time for anything else, but there would be later. Which was what I was afraid of. Alario was the real deal, a practitioner of the arts. He’d figure out pretty quickly that I didn’t know shit about spells of protection, at least not the kind Riker wanted.

  Deuce led me down the white hall, with Blade trailing us. We were out of time. I couldn’t go back into that room and fake a spell. Olaf had failed to make his kills horrendous enough to fool the bad guys. The only good thing he’d done was divide their forces, and I had to take advantage of that while it lasted. Which meant that if at all possible only one person was coming back from the bathroom. Hopefully, it would be me.

  57

  IT WAS ONE of those bathrooms with a double sink separate from the rest of the bathroom. Deuce led me into the little bathroom area, complete with shower. I managed to do some dry heaving, but that was the best I could do, and even that made my head ache. It hurt so much I closed my eyes trying to keep my brains from leaking out through them. If it wasn’t a concussion, it was a hell of an imitation.

  Deuce wet a washcloth and gave it to me.

  “Thanks.” I put it over my face and tried to think. So far, Deuce hadn’t touched me. Blade was trying to clean up in the sink area, but he’d want the shower soon.

  “I loved the look on Blade’s face when you puked on him. It was priceless.”

  I put the wash rag to the back of
my neck. I was thinking furiously about what was in the purse and what options I had. But my voice was calm, point for me. “Blade? As in the comic book character?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, the vampire killer. They both carry knives.”

  “And they’re both African American,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  I looked into his face, wash cloth that he’d so kindly given me still on my neck. I tried to read behind those pleasant, slightly dreamy, brown eyes, but it was like trying to read Edward. I just couldn’t read between the lines.

  “I think that Blade actually used wooden knives and like a cross-bow in the comic books,” I said.

  Deuce shrugged. “You’re either very brave, or you don’t think I’ll hurt you.”

  “I believe you’ll hurt me, if you want to.”

  “Then you’re brave,” he said. He was leaning against the wall, fingers playing lightly with the gun on its sling at his shoulder.

  It was my turn to shrug. “Yeah, but it’s not really bravery that’s keeping me calm.”

  He looked interested for the first time. “What is?”

  “After what I saw being done to Becca and Peter, I just can’t get too excited about myself.”

  Blade banged on the door. “We don’t have all night, and I want a shower.”

  Deuce and I both jumped when he banged on the door. We shared one of those embarrassed smiles, then he opened the door and ushered me through.

  Blade had tried to scrub at his clothes in the sink, but it hadn’t helped. He tried to go through the door, and Deuce stepped in his way. “Riker won’t like you taking a shower.”

  “He told me to get cleaned up.”

  “Simon told us to keep two people on her. We can’t do that if you’re in the shower.”

  Blade looked at me. “I think Simon overestimated her. Anyone that throws up after seeing mild torture like that, I’m not afraid of. Now get out of my way, Deuce.”

  Deuce moved to one side, moving just ahead and to one side of him. Blade brushed past us without a word, his anger trailing behind him like a loose coat. He slammed the door behind him.

  I went to the sink and rewet the wash cloth. He was watching me in the mirror now. His eyes were still pleasant, but something else had crept in. Something that promised pain, the way the wind can bring the smell of rain against your skin just before it starts to pour.

  I started fishing in the purse. “I’ve got some breath stuff in here somewhere.”

  “I could lock you in the room with Blade. He strips real pretty, and he’s not very happy with you right now.”

  My hand closed on the pen with its hidden blade.

  “You really think he could control himself enough to just rape me and not do other damage? Like you said, he’s not very happy with me.”

  “You never asked about my nickname,” he said.

  The conversation was moving too fast for me. “I assumed it was some kind of card-playing thing.”

  He shook his head while I watched him in the mirror. Then he started unzipping his pants. He was too far away to touch me, or for me to fight back. All I could do was wait for him to come to me.

  He slipped inside his open fly and lifted himself out in a smooth practiced movement. He was huge, impressive even limp and soft. If I hadn’t seen Bernardo earlier, I’d have been more impressed. Of course, you could never be a hundred percent sure how big a man got when he was erect. Some barely changed size. Some grew a lot. Maybe he’d been very impressive. Then I realized he had a tattoo on it.

  I had to turn and look, rather than trust to the mirror. “Am I supposed to run screaming or ask to touch it?” I wasn’t even scared. It was too bizarre.

  “Which do you want to do?”

  I admit I was having a hard time looking at his face and not his penis because it was growing, and I could see the tattoo more clearly. “Can’t rape the willing, hey?”

  He smiled, as if this approach had worked before with women. It was certainly something a girl didn’t get offered everyday. “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”

  “Is that the two of hearts on your . . . penis?”

  His smile widened.

  “Didn’t that hurt?”

  “Not as much as it’s going to,” Deuce said. He moved slowly towards me, so I could get a good look. He had a flair for theatrics, did Deuce. I didn’t want him using his flair or anything else on me. I turned and stumbled on purpose. He caught me, as he’d caught me all the other times. I put the pen against his chest, just under the sternum, angled upward. I was a vampire hunter. If there was one thing I knew how to do, it was to find the heart with the first blow.

  I pressed the button the second I touched him. There was no upward movement, no feel of shoving the blade, because the blade did its own work.

  His eyes went wide, mouth opened, but no sound came out. I twisted the blade left, then right, making sure he’d never draw breath to warn the man in the other room.

  Deuce started to slide down the cabinets. I caught him and lowered him gently to the floor, glad he was one of the smaller men. I’d have had trouble wrestling Mickey’s body around. The water was still running in the shower. Blade probably wouldn’t have heard the sound of the body hitting the ground over the shower, but better safe than sorry.

  Deuce lay there on the floor, the blade sticking out of his chest, his pants still unzipped, his namesake naked to the world. He looked very sad lying there dead. If I had time before I left, I’d zip him up, but first Blade. I got the gun off Deuce’s shoulder and put the sling around my shoulder. I checked to make sure I knew where the safety was, and that it was off. The switch on the side had three settings, not just two like the Uzi. I put the setting on high. Logic said it would make the most bullets come out in the shortest space of time. I got Duece’s extra clip for the sub gun. A clip only holds twenty rounds. Normally, that sounded like a lot, but not tonight. There wasn’t enough ammo in the world to make me feel safe tonight. I put the extra clips for both sub guns and the hand guns in the purse and crossed the purse straps across my chest.

  Deuce’s backup was a .9 mm Glock. Personally, I find Glocks awkward to shoot, though I know people that swear by them, once the learning curve was over at the firing range. But I was happy to see this one.

  The guns were great, but they would make a lot of noise. If I shot Blade, it would bring the rest of the bad guys down on me, and worse yet, they might kill Edward before coming after me. They had three hostages. They only needed one.

  I needed something quiet. Trouble was I didn’t think I could take Blade with a blade. Hand to hand, forget it. That left me with the contents of the purse.

  I pulled the blade out of Deuce’s chest. Blood welled up darker than most, like heart blood is supposed to be. I cleaned the blade automatically on a sleeve of his shirt and slipped it into my front pocket.

  One of his hands was lying against the cabinet doors far under the sink. Maybe I did have more than just what was in the purse. I moved his arm and looked. It’s amazing how much lethal stuff people keep in their bathroom cabinets. Almost everything has hazardous warning labels, yelling poison, caustic agent, if accidental contact with eyes, flush with water immediately. But there was a pile of big, fluffy towels, and I had Deuce’s handgun. Homemade silencer. But I was going to have to hold the gun at about waist level, close into my body, to keep the towels tight enough to act as a muffler. Holding the gun that way meant I’d want to get in close before I fired. If Blade were as good as the rest of them, he’d have his gun close. I’d only get one shot, and it had to count.

  How do you get that close to a well-armed man? Answer—take off some clothes. I took off the T-shirt and the vest. It wouldn’t stop a knife, and the idea was that he wouldn’t get a shot off, right? Besides, I was trying for romance or at least lust. Kevlar just lacks that certain something.

  I kept the bra. My nerves weren’t that good. Besides, if he demanded I take some clothes off, it left me something besides my p
ants. It was like playing strip poker. More clothes give you more to work with.

  The shower went off. Shit. My time had just run out. My heart was suddenly in my throat. But I had to get in there, before he came out here. If he saw the body, it wasn’t rape I had to worry about.

  I tucked the gun down the front of my pants, towels clutched to my chest and stomach, and opened the door. I closed the door with me leaning against it. Blade looked up. His dark skin was beaded with water, and Deuce had been right. Blade stripped real pretty. Under other circumstances, it would have been a pleasure to see him. Now, I was so scared I was having trouble breathing.

  He reached for the gun that had been propped against the tub. His knife sheaths were draped across the back towel rack like you’d hang a wash rag, to keep them dry but handy. He stopped in mid-motion, fingers trailing on the gun.

  “What do you want?”

  “Deuce said to bring you towels.” I let the fear slide into my voice, making it breathy.

  “How’d he get you to strip down?”

  I looked down, an embarrassed head bob. “He gave me a choice of him or you.”

  Blade laughed, and it was a purely masculine sound. “He show his deuce?”

  I nodded. I didn’t have to pretend to be embarrassed. I just didn’t try and hide it.

  “Take off the bra.” He straightened up, hand going farther away from the big gun, but still too close to the knives and his handgun on the towel rack.

  I slid out of the straps, and pressed the towels to my chest, reached back and undid the snaps. I lifted the towels away from my body just enough to pull the bra out and let it fall to the floor. I kept the towels tight against me, for modesty’s sake, and to hide the gun in my waistband.

  He stepped out of the tub and started to take those three steps that would close the distance. I turned my body, sort of sideways, getting the gun out, still held behind the towels.

  He was right in front of me, three steps away from all his weapons. He curled his fingers over the top of the towel and pushed them lower, exposing my breasts an inch at a time. He was less than ten inches away from me. His hand stroked the upper mound of my breast, and I fired. His body jerked, and I think he said, “Fuck.” I kept pulling the trigger until he collapsed to his knees, eyes rolled back. His stomach and lower chest were a red ruin. The towels were shredded, and covered in black powder stains. The shots had been muffled, but not silenced. I waited there in the small room, the shots seeming to echo in the walls. I waited for cries of alarm. Nothing.