Wicked Creatures

by Jessica Meigs

  The bathroom.

  Scott stalked to the open door leading to the attached master bathroom. A cell phone rested, screen up, among the detritus of the sink’s countertop: a couple of towels tossed haphazardly on the counter; a couple of gallon water jugs, one of them empty; and a sodden washcloth draped over the faucet. A set of dirty clothes, ones that smelled heavily of Ashton, was in a pile on the floor. As he observed this, the phone stopped ringing, and he picked it up and instinctively sniffed it. It smelled like Ashton and, inexplicably, Brandon. He held the device up so the other two could see it.

  “Anybody recognize this?” he asked.

  Zachariah gasped, the kind of sound that slipped out unwillingly, and snatched the device from Scott’s hand. “Holy shit, this is Ash’s,” he said. He woke the screen up, swiping and tapping like he was searching for something, and the phone began to ring. Zachariah, Scott, and Riley all startled, and Zachariah hesitated before pressing two buttons in quick succession: the button to answer and the one to turn the speakerphone on. “Hello?”

  “I was wondering how long it’d take for you to get around to going back to the Ninth Ward,” a voice said, and it took Scott a second to realize it was Brandon on the line. His lip curled in disgust, and he realized he was growling, deep, low, and soft in his throat. He forced himself to stop and gestured for Zachariah to continue while signaling for Riley to stay silent.

  “Where’s Ashton?” Zachariah demanded.

  “I figured you’d want to know where we took him,” Brandon said. “You two…I’ve never seen co-dependency in two agents quite like you two have.”

  “I don’t need your bullshit psychoanalysis,” Zachariah snapped. “I need you to tell me where you took him.”

  “We all need something every now and then.”

  “Damn it, Brandon!”

  The chuckle that came over the line was infuriating. “I distinctly remember overhearing him tell you not to come after him,” Brandon replied. “But I’ve never been able to resist a happy reunion. The Unnaturals headquarters building. You have until 7pm tomorrow to get here or I’ll put a bullet in his skull.”

  Scott hadn’t thought it possible, but Zachariah’s already pale skin turned even whiter as fear drained the color from his face.

  “Oh, and if the two with you have delusions of running off again and not coming with you, allow me to provide some incentive.”

  There was a rustle, and the screen of Ashton’s cellphone changed to show that they were now on a three-way call. Another rustle followed, and Brandon barked out, “Let her speak.”

  And Scott’s heart sank as a woman’s voice, young and impossibly terrified, filtered through the speaker. “H-hello? Uncle Scott?”

  Scott swallowed a lump of horror that had risen in his throat and snatched the phone from Zachariah’s hand. “Katie?” he said. “Katie, are you okay?”

  “Uncle Scott,” she said again, like his name was a talisman against hurt, “they grabbed me at work. They said it has something to do with you. I told them you were just an insurance adjuster—”

  Scott hated himself for interrupting her. “Katie, listen to me. I need you to stay calm and stay safe. Do whatever they tell you to do. Don’t fight them. You could get hurt. I’m going to come for you, okay? I’m going to get you out of there.”

  “Okay,” Katie replied. “Uncle Scott, I—”

  This time, it wasn’t Scott who cut her off. “That’s enough,” Brandon said. “Hunter, if you don’t show up with Zachariah—if you and Riley fail to show—I’ll kill your niece just as fast as I would Ashton.”

  Scott squeezed the phone so tightly he was honestly surprised it didn’t shatter under his grip. “You son of a bitch,” he snarled. “If you hurt her, if you touch a single hair on her head, I swear to everything holy I will tear you apart. And I’ll enjoy every second I spend rolling in your blood.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” Brandon replied. “Just show up with Zachariah and Riley and I’ll let little Katie Hunter go. As they say, no harm, no foul. See you at 7pm tomorrow.”

  The line disconnected.

  “Son of a bitch!” Scott yelled. He threw the phone across the room; it clattered into the bathtub, the sound echoing against the tiles. He grasped his head in his hands, tugging at his hair in anger and frustration. “I can’t do this again,” he said, leaning over before he even realized he’d done it. “I can’t be responsible for another member of my family dying.”

  “We’re not asking you for that,” Riley said softly. “All you have to do is show up. Z and I will deal with everything after that. All you’ll have to do is take care of Katie.”

  “We know how to handle Brandon,” Zachariah added. “He handled both of us for years. I’m sure by this point, we can read him like a book.” He dug his own cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number as Scott slumped against the sink.

  “Who are you calling?” Scott asked, surprised by how tired his voice sounded.

  “Angelique,” Zachariah replied. “I think it’s about time I called her in.”

  Damon startled awake, blinking in the darkness as he tried to get his brain functioning and remember where he was. Somewhere in Tennessee—Memphis, maybe, or near the outskirts of it—in a reasonably comfortable hotel that wasn’t too pricey. Something had shoved him rudely into wakefulness, and he wanted to find whatever it was and punch it.

  A ringtone, his brain finally registered. A cell phone was ringing. Not his, though—his didn’t have some obnoxious ‘80s song about a woman named Eileen set as the ringtone.

  Beside him, her face buried against his chest—she must have rolled over against him in her sleep—Angelique let out a low, irritated groan.

  “Your phone is ringing,” Damon told her, his voice hoarse with sleep. “And I can’t answer it. I’m dead, remember?”

  Angelique sighed, rolled off him, and answered the phone. “Hello?” she said in mid-yawn, like she was trying to emphasize the rudeness of getting woken up by a phone call so early in the morning. As she spoke to whoever had called her, Damon glanced at the time on the hotel-supplied alarm clock and scowled. It was after midnight. Who the hell was calling her so damn early?

  The wound in his leg throbbed as if in agreement.

  “Wait, slow down,” Angelique was saying when he focused on her side of the conversation. Even in the dark of the hotel room, he could see the crease of concern on her forehead and had the sudden, irrational impulse to rub it away. “Brandon did what?” she exclaimed, sitting up straight in a flurry of bedsheets. Damon ended up with a face full of comforter in the process. “He took Ashton and who?” She reached for the light, even as she scrambled out of bed. Damon shielded his eyes as she turned on the bedside table lamp. “How old is she?” A pause and then, “That stupid cock-sucking, motherfucking son of a horse’s ass!”

  Damon raised an eyebrow, impressed. He knew sailors who had trouble swearing so fluently.

  “Where?” Angelique demanded. She snatched the notepad and pen from beside the phone, scribbled something down, and tore it from the pad, passing it to him wordlessly. He squinted at it then reached for his glasses. The paper said, “Meeting at Unnaturals HQ.” “We’re in Memphis right now,” she said then winced and corrected, “I’m in Memphis. You can meet me here.” Then she rattled off the address for the hotel from a placard by the room’s phone and added, “Room 421.”

  When she hung up, Angelique tossed the phone on the bed, slumped onto the end of the mattress, and buried her face in her hands. “Why does everything always go to shit right when I’m handed a breather?” she mumbled.

  “What’s going on?” Damon asked.

  “Oh, Brandon’s up to his usual bullshit,” she said. “He’s kidnapped not only Ashton—who can mostly handle himself—but Scott’s niece Katie—who is seventeen and definitely cannot handle herself. He wants them to meet him at The Unnaturals headquarters,” she motioned to the paper still in his hand, “or he’ll kill Ashton and K
atie.” She shook her head and sighed. “There was also a whole lot of shit about a harlot and someone named Ahm.”

  Damon massaged his temples. “So what’s the plan? I’m sure there is one.”

  “They have until 7pm to get there,” Angelique said. “They’re swinging through here on their way from New Orleans to D.C. They’ll be here in about five or six more hours. From there, we’ll all hoof it to D.C., which should take about twelve or thirteen hours.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know exactly how long it takes to drive from here to D.C.,” Damon replied. He had, after all, endured every second of it with a bullet hole in his leg. He flung the covers off himself and slowly climbed out of bed, testing his weight on his injured leg. It hurt something fierce, and he wouldn’t exactly be running any marathons anytime soon, but he’d survive. Lord knew he’d had worse in his time doing field work.

  “You’re going to be useless on this,” Angelique commented as he wobbled on his feet. “You know that, right?”

  “I won’t be charging straight in there,” Damon told her. “I’m going to be the one hanging back with a sniper rifle to take out anything they can’t handle.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve handled a sniper rifle?” she asked.

  “A while, but not so long that I don’t know what I’m doing,” Damon replied. He raised an eyebrow, shifted his weight carefully from one leg to the other, and added, “Are you questioning my abilities? I mean, I didn’t rise to the directorship because I have a pretty face.” When she twitched slightly like she was nervous, he grinned. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I promise I’m tougher than I look.”

  “I sincerely hope so.” Angelique paused, her shoulders rising and falling slowly under the thin straps of her tank top. “You know that, obviously, Zachariah, Scott, and Riley are going to find out you’re alive.”

  “Yeah, I kind of figured that when you invited them here.” He shoved a hand through his already messy hair and sighed. “Do you think they know I’ve been listed KIA?”

  “Knowing Brandon, if he thinks you’re dead, he’s going to lord that fact over one or all of them,” Angelique mused, “especially Riley and Zachariah. Assholes like him want to feel like they have all the power or that they have hidden aces tucked up their sleeves.”

  “Too bad he’s not aware that we’re about to hand Riley and Zachariah a much bigger ace to play with,” he said. “I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out I’m still alive.” He paused a moment then said in a much quieter voice, “I hope they don’t hate me too much.”

  “Why? Because you only just told them they’re your kids?” He nodded, and she sighed. “Look, I can’t say I really know you that well,” she started. “Hell, this is probably the most time I’ve ever spent with you. But one thing I do know about you is that everything you choose to do, you do with careful deliberation. You have reasons for your choices; you don’t take action blindly. You’re their father, and it’s your job to protect them. That includes from hard truths they might not be ready to hear yet.”

  He gave her a tight smile. “Dare I ask how you got so wise?”

  She shook her head and flopped back onto the bed, laying on her back with her legs still hanging off the edge, her arms stretched over her head. “Not something I particularly want to get into.”

  Damon stepped toward the bed, intending to get back in between the sheets and get a little more sleep since Riley, Zachariah, and Scott wouldn’t be there for at least five more hours, but he stopped short as he looked at Angelique, really looked at her. Against the hotel-regulation white sheets and comforter and in the soft light from the bedside lamp, Angelique’s already dark skin looked even darker, and her smile was borderline mischievous as she lolled her head to the side to look at him.

  “See something you like?” she asked, her tone lilting toward teasing. Despite the suggestion that she wasn’t serious, her breathing had picked up, just enough to be perceptible, and her pupils had dilated. Clearly, she was thinking something totally inappropriate, and judging by the way she was eyeballing him, that something obviously involved him.

  It wouldn’t be the first time in the past ten years that a woman made a blatant pass at him. And it probably wouldn’t be the last, either. But he’d gone almost ten years without female companionship, and it wasn’t going to pain him to go without even longer. Especially not when what was on offer was a one-night stand, something he’d never indulged in.

  He cleared his throat and aborted his movement to the bed. “No, thank you,” he said, quietly but firmly. He hoped his tone conveyed that there was no negotiation over the matter.

  Thankfully, Angelique didn’t seem bothered by his rejection. She gave him a one-shouldered shrug that looked odd, as she still had her arms above her head. His brain threw in a wholly inappropriate image of its own, one that involved him pinning those long arms against the bed as he thrust into her, hard and fast. “Hm. That’s okay,” she replied, arching her back into a stretch. “I was just looking for a way to pass the time while we waited for the others.”

  Damon grabbed the blankets and flung them back as much as Angelique’s body on top of them would allow. “Our best—and only—option is more sleep,” he told her, flopping onto his side of the bed. His leg let out a sharp stab of pain, and he hissed involuntarily and reflexively lurched toward it.

  Angelique leaped off the bed and circled around to his side before he realized she’d even moved. She knelt at his feet, taking his leg in her hands and gently peeling the bandage back from his gunshot wound. “I swear, if you busted one of my stitches, I’ll smack the shit out of you,” she threatened, but her tone didn’t sound like she really meant it.

  Fortunately, he hadn’t. Angelique set about tending to the wound, injecting him with a painkiller and putting fresh bandages over the stitches. By the time she was done, sleep had begun to sneak back up on him, most likely assisted by the painkillers, and he was practically dozing off where he sat.

  “Come on, boss man, back to bed with you,” Angelique said, nudging him to lay down against his pillows and dragging the bedsheet and comforter over him. “We’ll need you well rested if you’re going to play sniper later.”

  “‘M not the boss anymore,” Damon muttered, his words almost slurring, but he fell into sleep before he could hear Angelique’s response.

  Zachariah was the one who drove to Memphis. He was too hopped up on adrenaline, too anxious to sleep, and not having something to do with his hands would drive him insane in a hurry.

  Scott was in the backseat, sprawled across the leather, breathing slowly and deeply in sleep. Riley had opted for sleep in the passenger seat, her head resting against the window as she dozed, her body as relaxed as Zachariah had ever seen it.

  This wasn’t right. Ashton was supposed to be beside him, not Riley. Ashton was supposed to be examining the map book for him when he came up on construction zones, finding ways around them. He was supposed to be keeping up the chatter that kept Zachariah awake, flirting—in the rare instances that he bothered—with him and making plans for their day. Not sitting in God-only-knew-what circumstances while Zachariah was hundreds of miles away with no clue how he was going to get him back.

  “You look…pissed,” a voice said, and it took him a second to realize that Riley had woken up and was watching him with no small amount of curiosity. “You okay?”

  “I’m not going to dignify that question with an answer,” he muttered, changing lanes to pass a slow-moving semi.

  “Okay, fine, it was a stupid question,” she acknowledged. “I’m just worried. About you, Ashton, Scott’s niece…” She trailed off, staring out the window for a moment, then sighed. It was a sad, lonely sound, almost regretful, and it distracted him from his thoughts about Ashton enough to raise an eyebrow at her, prompting her to continue. “Do you think…do you think Damon is really dead?”

  Zachariah glanced at her and saw that a crease had formed in her forehead, and she still wasn’t look
ing at him. “Scott thinks he is,” he answered.

  “But do you think he is?” she persisted.

  He sighed and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “I mean, according to Scott, he had a house dropped on him. Last I checked, not very many people survive something like that. Then again, you know, it’s Damon. He’s a legend. He’s survived all sorts of shit that would kill any other person. Maybe he didn’t die in his house. Hell, maybe he had some sort of crazy escape hatch in a closet or something.”

  Riley snorted, but it didn’t sound like it had much mirth in it. “That would be like him, wouldn’t it?” she said. “Always with some way out, no matter what the situation is.” She looked down at her hands, twisting them together, and added quietly, “I’m not sure if I even want him to still be alive.”

  Those words surprised Zachariah, so much so that he almost pulled onto the side of the road. “Are you…” he stammered then trailed off. “Why would you say something like that?”

  Riley shrugged, and the expression on her face spoke of sadness. “What was your life like growing up?” she asked quietly. “I bet it was nice, right? I bet you had a mom and a dad who supported you and were there for you when you needed them to be, right?”

  Zachariah thought back to his childhood and all the events his parents had shown up for while he was growing up: the baseball games and soccer matches he’d played in all the way through his senior year of high school, drama productions, awards ceremonies, graduation… “Yeah,” he finally said. “I had a pretty good childhood.”