Vengeance Borne

by amanda bonilla

  She could tell Cassy didn’t want to ask the favor any more than Jacquelyn wanted to do it for her. “I don’t have a car, mine’s broken down. I’ve been riding my bike.” Intuition told her not to mention Bree’s night out with Finn to Cassy. “It’ll take me a bit to get over there, but I’ll check on her. Call my cell if she shows up in the meantime.”

  “Sure.” Cassy gave a relieved sigh through the phone. Maybe she didn’t like to tangle with Bree, either. “Thanks, Jax. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” God, she hoped it wasn’t a problem. “I’ll call you if I track her down. Bye.”

  Icy fingers of foreboding drove their tips into her scalp, sending a shiver down the length of Jacquelyn’s body. A feeling that never played her false. Something was wrong. Bree once showed up to open that damned coffee shop in the middle of a blizzard that shut down every road in the county. There was no way she was sitting in her car, broken down on the side of the road, and even less likely lounging in bed with Finn. She’d have been at Grind, poised and ready to turn the key at precisely six a.m., amazing night of sex or not.

  Call Micah, a voice urged in the back of her mind. This could be bad and you’ll need a Bearer at your side. Don’t be stupid and go this alone. Jacquelyn lay back in bed, staring up at the ceiling while intuition warred with recklessness. “Fuck,” she ground out, kicking the covers to the foot of the bed. Damned if recklessness didn’t always get its way.

  Micah stared at his reflection as he passed a palm over the stubble on his cheek. He’d had a nice, dreamless sleep, but the same sense of unease he felt after a particularly dicey night crept up on him anyway. His cavalier attitude with Jacquelyn the night before left a sour taste in his mouth. He could never condemn her for doing the things that had to be done. But at the same time, he’d committed himself to be her accomplice in murder. Was he prepared to stand at that moral precipice and jump? Sure, she’d said that the person who called the Furies would slowly lose his humanity and become more monster than man. Could he justify taking that life, no matter what form it may have taken, if it meant he’d be protecting other innocent lives in the process? It was no more than what would be asked of any soldier during wartime. And Micah had a feeling that McCall sat right in the middle of a warzone.

  The water ran hot from the tap and Micah passed a washcloth under it, wringing out the excess before he scrubbed the scalding cloth over his face. He let out a relaxed sigh, the tension escaping his body with his steamy breath. Step by step, he’d allowed himself to be brought into the folds of this mysterious town and the secret faction of residents bent on its protection. And at the center of it all, a pair of pale green eyes drawing him deeper into something he might never escape. Again he wet the cloth under the hot water and wrung it out, pressing it against his face and over the top of his head. With each new day, Jacquelyn proved to be more addictive than any pill he’d ever swallowed. And he wanted more.

  Trish sat at the kitchen table as Micah descended the stairs. Sipping from a steaming mug, she stared idly out the window at the crisp fall morning. She inclined her head toward a vacant seat, a wispy smile playing on her age-weathered lips. “Good morning, dear.”

  Micah took a seat next to her and poured a cup of coffee from the pot left in the middle of the table. She sounded weary this morning. More like the old woman she was. He tried to pretend not to notice the deep sadness she exuded, but it weighed him down, stuck to his skin like sludge. “Good morning, Trish.” He wished he could do something to make her feel better. Trish had done so much for him already. Micah knew he’d never be able to fully repay her. “Beautiful morning, actually.”

  She smiled politely as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “Can I make you some breakfast?”

  “No, thanks. I’m meeting Jacquelyn in town this morning.”

  “Micah,” Trish said on a sigh. “Are you sure you want to be involved in this business? Once you’ve crossed the line, there’s no going back.”

  Micah sipped from the mug, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. Now everyone’s consciences had kicked in? Once they’d lured him in and given him no chance of leaving—once they’d made him care about them—they were all offering him an out? Kind of like the Emperor telling Darth Vader he could still change his mind after they’d lowered the black plastic hood on his head.

  “No turning back now. If you wanted me to have a choice, you never would have taken me to the place where that man was killed. You knew what you were doing, and it’s too late to feel guilty about it.”

  Trish laughed, a raspy sound like the crackle of dried leaves. “I suppose you’re right, Micah. I’m a little old to worry about trifles like guilt. You can take my truck to town if you want.”

  He stood and placed his cup in the old ceramic kitchen sink. “Thanks. I might stop by my RV and check everything out while I’m in town. Can I bring you anything back?”

  “No thank you, dear. Tell Jacquelyn I said hello.”

  “Can do. I’ll be back after a while.”

  Trish waved him off. “Good luck, dear. You’re going to need it.”

  Jacquelyn pedaled toward Cottonwood Street, sweat beading on her forehead and running in icy trickles down her back. She was in shape but sped toward Bree’s house, almost desperate to prove her intuition wrong. Her breath raced painfully in her chest as she turned a sharp right across Warren Wagon Road, narrowly missing a jogger at the intersection.

  Shifting gears on her mountain bike, she pushed her pace until Bree’s house came into sight, her car parked in the driveway and the front door gaping open like an eerie black hole. Jacquelyn squeezed the brake handles and the bike skidded to a halt. Swinging her leg over the seat, she let the bike fall to the ground and shouted, “Bree!”

  Silence answered, and her stomach flipped, sending a jolt of adrenaline through her bloodstream. She reached behind her back and pulled her Glock from the waistband of her jeans, checked the clip, slid it back into place and pulled back the slide. A deep breath managed to calm her racing pulse, albeit very little, and she tightened her hand around the grip—her circulation almost cut off by the tension—as she edged her way to the front door.

  “Bree?” Jacquelyn called again. Her shallow breath matched each frantic beat of her heart. “Are you home?”

  Nervous anticipation tingled through her body and the hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Be home, damn it. Be passed out on your bed, hung over or something. Have the fucking flu. Be throwing up, hanging over your toilet seat. Just please be alive. Shit, she’d take naked in bed with her ex at this point. Toeing one foot, and then the other over the threshold, Jacquelyn held the Glock at the ready, her steps crossing one over the other. Hyper-aware and ready for anything, she scanned the absurdly tidy living room, her eyes roaming over the micro-suede couch, not a decorative pillow out of place. “Bree?” Her voice sounded hollow and small in the confines of the house.

  The sound of vertical blinds rustled by the wind gave her a start, a cold morning breeze snaking its way toward her from the dining room. Jacquelyn stopped dead in her tracks, her gaze drawn to the table, where remnants of a romantic spread were left unattended. Taper candles burnt nearly down to their crystal holders sat encased in pools of hardened wax. T-bone steaks, scalloped potatoes, and green beans remained untouched, save the flies that feasted on the uneaten meal. And a vase of flowers sat in the middle of it all, looking strangely out of place and much too withered to have only been sitting overnight.

  Sliding glass doors led from the dining room onto a small concrete patio. The door had been left wide open, presumably all night from the looks of the flies. Jacquelyn swallowed against the rising bile in her throat. “Fuck,” she whispered. “Where the hell are you, Bree?”

  Creeping toward the patio doors, she abandoned her search of the house. This seemed to be the best lead—she couldn’t imagine someone as anal as Bree leaving the doors wide open as an invitation to god-knew-how-many bugs. She could just picture Bre
e’s cringe of disgust as she looked at the fly-covered plates of uneaten food. Hope you get the chance to see it, Jacquelyn thought as she stepped down onto the patio.

  Bright yellow rays of early morning sun beat down on the concrete, steam rising from the frost slowly evaporating under the heat. At first, the only sounds to reach her ears were the dull roar of far-off traffic and a few squirrels chattering in the trees. But soon, a buzzing undercurrent gained her attention and Jacquelyn focused on the sound. Flies. Hundreds of them, not far off.

  Bree’s backyard was just as immaculate as everything else at her house. The grass had begun to yellow with the onset of cooler autumn weather, but it had been mowed one last time and the flowerbeds tended, the plants and bushes pruned and tied up before winter. Beyond the yard, the manicured landscape gave way to the forest, stands of aspen and spruce, the tall field grass tawny and mashed down forming a trail out into the trees.

  Like a stalking cat, Jacquelyn followed the trail and the buzzing that made her cringe, careful to not make a sound. A dark substance stained the grass, a drop here and there, and a few feet later, started up again. Blood. Why couldn’t her intuition just one time been wrong? She picked up the pace, following the trail, the sound, the drops of blood. Her hand shook around the grip of the Glock as she rounded the rotting stump of a tree that had blown over years ago. Just behind the fallen branches, a body lay twisted and gruesome, and cloud of flies swarmed around the bloodied mess. The corpse’s eyes stared blindly at the sky, her mouth a twisted grimace of immortal pain.

  Jacquelyn flung her chest over the edge of the fallen tree, as she spun away, and the gun dropped at her side while her hands steadied her. Her stomach wouldn’t stop heaving and she retched again and again until nothing but dry heaves racked her throat and chest. Bree was dead. Dead. Ripped apart, violated, and left like trash in the woods. Jacquelyn tried to draw in a deep breath, her head spun wildly but her lungs wouldn’t work right and she found that the air stilled in her chest. Dropping to her knees, brittle bark scraped at her arms, but the pain barely registered. She forced herself to breathe, taking shallow gulps of air until the threat of passing out subsided and black spots no longer swam in her vision. “Finn,” she gasped. “No. Please tell me you’re not involved in this. Oh my god.”

  She sat for what seemed like hours, her head dipped between her knees while she fought hyperventilation. Her chest ached with the intense beating of her heart, her blood swirling through her body like liquid fire. Though she’d never seen Willie Carmichael’s body, she could guess what he’d looked like. Ravaged, bathed in blood, and disregarded like a kill not worthy of the meal. No wonder the police suspected an animal attack. Because nothing human could have done the damage evident on Bree’s poor body.

  Hands shaking, it took three tries to fish her cell phone out of her pocket. She couldn’t even get her fingers to hit the right buttons and she forced strength into every fiber of her being before she dialed again. Jacquelyn took a deep breath and pulled her shit together before she could speak.

  “Grind,” Cassy answered.

  “It’s Jax,” she said, willing her voice not to quaver.

  “Is everything okay? Did you find Bree?”

  “I’ll be over in an hour or so to explain everything. Cassy, is there a guy in there this morning? Buzzed hair, olive skin, brown eyes?”

  “Yeah,” she answered slowly. “He’s super cute, too. Been here since eight. Says he’s waiting for you.”

  “Can I please talk to him?”

  “Sure, Jax,” Cassy said with concern. “Hang on.”

  “Hello?” Micah’s voice had a touch of urgency to it and Jacquelyn wondered if he could sense her distress from so far away.

  “Micah, I need you meet me at 724 Cottonwood Street, it’s off of Warren Wagon Road, a right turn if you’re coming from town. Do you think you can find it?”

  “Sure. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m all right.” She wondered at the truth of that statement. “But someone’s been killed. Just like Willie Carmichael. I need you.”

  “Are you safe?”

  A wave of warmth blossomed from her stomach and she pushed the sensation away. This wasn’t the time for feeling soft emotion. “I’m fine. But I need a Bearer, the police will be here soon to take the body. I—Micah, I don’t know… It looks like…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, admit to anyone else her suspicions of Finn. The words were blasphemous in her mouth.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Micah said. “Sit tight.”

  Jacquelyn glanced to the mangled heap of Bree’s body, fighting another bout of nausea. She sat, staring into space for a good ten minutes, giving Micah plenty of time to get there before she dialed 911 and quickly instructed the dispatcher to send the sheriff and an ambulance to Bree’s house. She knew the coroner would have to be called in once the EMT’s had done their thing, but she’d leave that for them to handle. She ended the call and closed her eyes, wishing for the millionth time that she was thousands of miles away living a peaceful life far from the influence of evil.

  Chapter 18

  MICAH STOPPED SHORT of the house to find Jacquelyn sitting on the front steps, her head resting in her hands. She looked up, her expression unreadable, her body sagging with a recognizable weariness. He jumped out of the truck and kept his pace slow, as if she’d bolt if he came upon her too quickly. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, her mouth drawn in a thin, hard line, transforming her usually soft features into something angry and bitter.

  “I didn’t hear anything last night,” she said, her voice hollow. “This is the second time. First with Willie and now… Why not? She always wails before the death.”

  “What do you mean?” Micah asked softly. “Who?”

  “The Banshee,” Jacquelyn said. “She didn’t scream. Not once. Not for Willie, not for Bree.”

  “I can’t tell you why,” Micah answered, though he wished like hell he could. “Maybe there are special circumstances…or something.” Great answer. It sounded lame even to him. “We’ll figure it out, but right now maybe I’d better go look around before someone shows up and gets suspicious.”

  She stood, dusting off her jeans and stretched her neck from side to side. Before thinking better of it, Micah reached out, cupping the back of her neck with his palms. He massaged in slow, gentle circles, wanting nothing more than to erase the tension so obvious on her body. Her eyes drifted shut and she sighed.

  “Feels good,” she murmured.

  Micah cleared his throat, reveling in the opportunity to let his eyes roam while she wasn’t looking. His gaze traced the details of her face, explored the curls of her hair and the delicate lines defining the muscles of her arms. “Anything I can do to help.” He paused, knowing what he could do to truly help her but unsure if he should offer. “If you want,” he said, “I could do more.”

  “Like a full body massage?” Jacquelyn asked. “You do that and I might never let you leave town.”

  Micah’s pulse jumped at the mental image of her lying spread out across his bed, probably a little racier than what she had in mind. “No.” He cleared his throat, as he tried to banish the sensual image from his brain. “I mean, I can feel that you’re really shaken up. I could…you know…take that away for you.”

  Jacquelyn’s eyes snapped open and she grabbed his wrists, lowering his hands to his sides. “No,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair to Bree, or to Willie for that matter, to let me be numb after they’ve suffered.” She rotated her shoulders and turned. “The scene’s out back.”

  He could do it without her permission. The power rose up in him like a swelling tide, and a surge of confidence built up inside of Micah as he took control of the abilities he’d shunned for so long. Funny how it came to him intuitively in her presence. He knew she’d consider his interference a violation, though and he couldn’t do that to her. So much of her life had been out of Jacquelyn’s control, he would allow her any bit of autonomy
she could get.

  Jacquelyn led the way through the back yard and he followed her down the winding path that led into the trees. Something dark passed this trail, singular in mind and hell-bent on destruction. The malicious intent sat heavy on Micah’s tongue like honey, cloying and too sweet. He cleared his throat and swallowed against the thickness, his vision blurring as the boiling panic of the woman’s death threatened to engulf him. “Are we almost there?” The words slurred as he fought for lucidity.

  “Just over that fallen tree,” Jacquelyn answered. “Are you all right, Micah? You don’t sound so good. We can take a minute if you need it.”

  “No.” He pressed forward. The faster he could do his job and leave, the better. He wiped at his eyes, watering with the fetid stench of death. “I can feel something evil here, same as the place Trish took me to. When did she die?”

  “Last night. I don’t know what time exactly, but last night for sure.”

  Maybe that explained the intensity of the emotions that assaulted him. The previous murder scene had either been older by the time he’d gotten to it, or the killer’s appetite had become more voracious, though none of that mattered in the wake of these people’s deaths. Swinging his leg over the tree, Micah dropped on the other side, near the pool of drying blood and swarm of flies that swirled and buzzed in orbit around his head. He kept his gaze averted, refusing to look at the body not three feet from him. No way did he want a detailed image of the dead woman burned into his memory.

  “Same as before?” he asked.

  “That’s why you’re here,” Jacquelyn said. “I don’t know. You tell me, Bearer. Who,” she paused, turning her head to look away, “or what killed Bree?”

  Micah drew a deep breath, choking on the rotten smell as he exhaled. He pulled his t-shirt up over his nose and cleansed his nasal passages with a few inhalations of warm, stifled air. The drying blood had become almost black, deep crimson, toward the center of the pool that spread out from the body. He swallowed against the knot in his throat, not wanting to touch, but at the same time, drawn to the fluid that connected him to the memories of victim and murderer. Micah rubbed his palm across his forehead and then over his jeans before he knelt low to the ground, his hand outstretched toward the stained autumn grass. A reassuring touch warmed his shoulder through his shirt and his heartbeat slowed, giving him the courage to follow through on his promise to help her.