by Lana Grayson
Hell, Keep didn’t even make it to the gig. I didn’t know where he was or why it was Thorne of all people who burst from his seat to shut down the man mocking my music.
They didn’t protect me now. They hadn’t protected me then.
They didn’t even know.
Didn’t even bother to look and see and wonder and ask about what was happening to me.
They didn’t stop him, but, even if they knew, was there anything they could do?
The van rumbled against the highway. I welcomed the hard grind of the suspension against the rough patches of the road. My arms wrenched behind me, and the bag covered my face. At least my scarred captor and my savior, Luke, didn’t see me cry.
Not for being kidnapped. Not for what horrible, depraved terrors awaited me.
I lived my teenage life in fear—dreading what Dad would do when the alcohol confused him, angered him, encouraged him. And I lived my life in unrepentant hope.
Maybe one day he wouldn’t wake up when he blacked out.
Maybe the district attorney would press for a life sentence.
Maybe I could escape the world and finally take that one shower that would make me feel clean and pink and rejuvenated for my admission back into a realm of law, love, and security.
The only hope I carried now was the desperation for the one thing I hated. The roar of motorcycles and the sharp popping of silenced guns. I even longed for the wild, leather, and wilderness scent of Thorne to return me to the only place in the world I feared I’d ever feel safe again. The heart of Pixie, where no one—not the law, not Exorcist—ever dared to invade.
The van doubled back twice. My stomach lurched with every U-turn, hard left, and rapid acceleration as we ducked streets and dodged highway exits. After nearly half an hour, Luke parked us in a rowdy neighborhood, snapping with music, backfiring trucks, and the humming of busted streetlights. I tensed as Scarred encroached. The scrape of a hunting knife rattled from its sheath just under my chin.
“Scream, and I’ll cut out your tongue.” Scarred leaned in too close and inhaled too deeply. “Then you won’t be singing so pretty.”
I nodded, but he didn’t care. Scarred gripped the rope around my neck and jerked me forward. I choked over the tightness and groaned as my foot slammed a rusted bit of metal poking out in the van.
My captor didn’t like that. He tossed me onto the damp cement with a profanity. Luke’s shout prevented Scarred’s kick from crushing the ribs that weren’t already bruised. I heaved but kept the sickness down.
“Jesus Christ, you’re going to kill her.” Luke picked me up from the sidewalk. I kicked, but he hauled me into his arms.
I tensed as he shouldered through a door. His steps echoed against a cement floor. Overhead, rows of florescent lights hummed an ominous welcome. He set me down on a bundle of scratchy blankets.
The rope. The blankets. The storage van. It was like the supplies for a moving company.
I didn’t know if that made me feel any better. Having a sense of the psychos who captured me was one thing. But the possibilities? The trucks and vans, bindings and wrappings, access to the town and empty buildings? Exorcist could chop me into little bitty pieces and Thorne, Brew, and Keep would find parts of me for years.
I didn’t mean to tremble, but I shook so hard my teeth chattered. Kinder fingers wove under the rope. The rancid bag over my head overwhelmed me. Darnells weren’t known for their composure under pressure. I fought against Luke. He dodged a wayward kick with a snorted laugh. The bag popped off my head.
I blinked and swore a rough profanity, something Keep taught me long ago.
Luke tucked blonde hair behind his ears. His cut fit over his broad shoulders, displaying the same design, shape, and symbols as my brothers’. The Vice-President patch didn’t feel right. Neither did his handle. Knight. Though he unraveled the rope from my neck only to bind my wrists, Luke was more Lancelot than Mordred.
His expression hardened, but I didn’t flinch when he raised a hand. He pointed at me.
“Don’t do anything stupid, and I’ll keep you alive through the night.”
His warnings practically shadowed Thorne’s promises. I nodded. The scuffling of leather and metal clink of boots forged a horrific symphony in my ears. I chanced a glance at the men who not only destroyed my family’s club but worked to kill those who remained after their uprising.
Many bikers desired a shroud of evil for their own reputations and acknowledgement of their lawless bravery.
Exorcist pummeled those demons from lesser men, freed them from their mortal prison, and welcomed every rampaging monster of hatred, anguish, and torment to blacken his own soul.
I only met him once, and even my father warned me to stay away.
Dad wasn’t here now. It might have been the only time I missed him.
“Rosie.” Ex sang my name, a minor key that corroded my bones in shivers. “You’re bleeding.”
The hulking man didn’t care. After so many baptisms in blood, he was probably immune to the pain of others.
I tilted my head to meet his gaze, though only an uncompromising rage stared back.
Black. Dark. Calculating.
Age hadn’t slowed his ambition or his hate. Graying hair only meant he had survived. He still stood tall and broad, but he didn’t need to raise his own fists. Enough leering minions lingered in the halls of the empty shop and within the greasy, exhaust-pooling garage. Ex relied on his command to do his bidding.
His men kidnapped me and knocked me to my knees before him.
“You will take me home,” I said. “Immediately.”
He smiled, surprisingly compassionate and warm, in the way only a true sociopath grinned.
“You aren’t living at home anymore, little girl. You’re staying at Pixie now.”
“I don’t want to be at Pixie either,” I said. “You’ve got the wrong Darnell. I have nothing to do with Anathema.”
“And that’s why I wanted you.”
I didn’t dare look away. “Wanted me for what?”
“A favor.”
“No.”
Ex tilted his head. “You aren’t in a position to compromise.”
“I saw the type of favor your club wants.” I scowled as I stared at my scarred kidnapper. “I refused him. I’ll refuse you.”
Scarred didn’t like that. He swore, but Ex shook his head. I stilled my breath as he crossed before me. He knelt down and reached under his vest. I braced myself for a gun.
Instead, he handed me a picture.
An old photo. Something yellowing and folded, covered in grease and handled too many times. He pressed it into my hand.
“Go ahead.” His voice gentled. “Take it. It’s yours.”
My fingers trembled against the once glossy paper. I didn’t trust tearing my eyes from Ex, but I fought to drop my gaze to the photo.
The folded parts stuck together, and I had to force the halves apart. I frowned.
Someone had just glued the edges together.
My stomach heaved.
No. It wasn’t glue.
It wasn’t a picture anyone, ever, should have seen.
And no child should ever have had it taken.
I dropped the twisted memory to the ground, but the flash of my dark hair, the naked baby-smooth skin, and my uncertain smile faced upwards. I stomped on the picture and flipped it over before anyone saw the disgusting image or Ex’s vile message dripping from the photo. It wasn’t just a crime for the picture to be taken or to be in his possession.
It was cruel.
My voice wavered, just as scared as the five year old in the picture.
“Where did you get that?” I whispered.
“My secret.”
Exorcist picked up the photo and held it next to my face. The men snickered. Luke looked away.
“You’ve grown up, Rose,” Ex said. “Just as beautiful. Not as delicate, but far more....mature.”
“What do you want with me?”
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“Would you like to take a picture to match? Before and after?”
I shook my head if only to clear away my mercifully fading vision.
“Should I just order the hit on your brothers then?”
A sob escaped my throat. “No.”
He slapped my cheek, hard, stealing my breath and knocking me to the ground. “You’re going to do me a favor. In return...” He folded the picture into his pocket. “No one has to know what Daddy did.”
I didn’t rub where he struck me. My lip immediately puffed, but I worried more for the searing pain in my cheek. I’d bruise, and I’d be lucky if that was my only injury.
“Blade was important to Anathema. He fostered some very influential relationships that were useful to the club and our businesses. Do you know what those relationships were?”
I swallowed, but I tasted blood. A cut on the inside of my mouth.
“Drugs. Dad handled the drug trade.”
“Right. You’re not as far removed from Anathema as you pretend.”
“I want nothing to do with the club.”
“That’s too bad, baby. You’re mine.”
I shook my head. “Then kill me now, because I will never help you.”
Exorcist reached for his gun. He flipped the safety and aimed. Luke leapt forward.
“For Christ’s sake!” Luke knocked Ex’s hand away. “Tell her what she needs to do. She’s just a kid. She doesn’t understand.”
“She understands,” Ex said. The gun clenched in his hand. “I don’t think she’ll do it.”
“She will.”
Ex eyed me. “There’s a lot of money riding on this favor. You get me?”
“And it’ll work.” Luke nodded. “Better than any other idea we’ve got.”
“Better than Sorceress, you mean.” The gun shifted, waved at Luke. He watched the barrel, but he didn’t flinch. “You’re getting my money from that whore. You hear me?”
Luke’s jaw tightened. The regal blue of his eyes hardened into a righteous stare.
“Lyn isn’t a whore.”
“She isn’t paying me either,” Exorcist said. “You get money from Lyn, and little Rosie does her part, and we’ll all be one happy club.”
Luke held Ex’s glare. I flinched as the cell in Luke’s pocket buzzed. He studied the number and nodded to Ex.
“It’s a pre-pay,” he said. “Bet it’s Thorne.”
“Excellent.” Ex grabbed the phone from Luke, answered the call, and tossed it on the floor beside me. He aimed the gun. “Give him a hello, Rose.”
The gun cocked, and I screamed as two shots blistered through the cell no more than a foot from my legs. I sprawled backwards only to collide with the leather pants of my scarred captor. He sneered and kicked me toward Ex.
“Guessing we only have a little time now.” He handed the broken bits to Luke. “Sorry about the phone, but that message was easier than a text. Arthritis. Thumbs don’t work like they used to.”
I trembled as Ex circled my blanket. The gun holstered, but it didn’t relieve me. Whatever he expected was worse than a quick shot through my head and my body tossed at the doorstep of Pixie.
“Rose, your father worked with a fellow club called Temple. Their president, Toviel Aren, refuses to do business with anyone from any charter of Anathema…except for Blade. We hope to change their mind. As your father’s daughter, the mantle falls to you.”
“I am not my father,” I said.
“But you two were close,” Ex sneered. “So very, very close, isn’t that right?”
“You disgust me.”
“What a man does in the comfort of his own home or the darkness of his little girl’s room…” Ex held his arms up. “Doesn’t matter. If I could deliver Temple a pint of your blood as a show of good faith, I’d do it. But they want the blood inside your body, and they want the blessing of Daddy to do it.”
“I haven’t talked to my father since he was arrested.”
“You don’t need to talk to him. All we need is for Temple to assume Daddy offered his support.” Ex leaned down, his black eyes as empty and threatening as Hell. “You are going to take some money to Temple. Then you are going to pick up the merchandise and deliver it to us.” Ex lowered his voice. “No police. No Anathema. No brothers, no Thorne, no talking. You do as we say, and we’ll be forever in your debt.”
“How do I know you won’t kill me?”
Ex smirked. “Those are the types of questions that get big brothers in trouble. You don’t guess. You don’t think. You don’t ask. You just do. That way no one gets hurt. You got it?”
I nodded. Ex snapped his fingers, and Scarred ran to fetch him a chair.
“Then you better pay attention, Rose,” he said. “You have one chance to get this right, and you don’t want to see what happens if you piss me off.”
I would fucking kill Exorcist.
Bloody. Raw. His death would be violent, broken by defiled misery and horror.
Hell reserved two prisons specifically for us. Molten chains to lash our hides. Boiling pitch under our heads as we slept. Enough hellfire and sulfur to purge away our humanity and render us demon incarnate while we became the very anathema patched onto our vests.
Hell waited for us both.
But Exorcist stole Rose.
And that meant he’d die first.
Brew met me in the hall. Blood poured from his nose, but I figured he looked better than the son of a bitch who jumped him. He swore and knocked over Rose’s guitar. The gentle scent of polished wood and sweet apple wafted from the instrument. Brew’s kick crushed the corner of the case. He quickly knelt and punched out the notch. It closed with a soft click.
“They’ll fucking hurt her.” Brew didn’t look at me. He ran a hand through hair that grayed as the seconds passed. “Jesus Christ.”
I reached for my gun as a shuffle of footsteps burst through the door.
Gold looked from Brew to me. “Bud?”
I spat the word. “Gone.”
“We gotta be too. Cops are on their way.”
Brew sprinted through the club. I gritted my teeth and followed. The fucking ache in my head felt like I cracked my skull open and poured in whatever alcohol they stocked in the bar. Then lit it on fire. Then fucking stomped it out.
The manager cowered behind the bar when I approached. I tossed a fistful of hundred dollar bills in his blurry direction.
“Forget what we looked like for a couple minutes,” I growled. “Then maybe we won’t come back and burn this shithole to the ground.”
I slammed a hand on the bar. The crack echoed in my ears and pissed off everything shaken loose inside me. I made it outside before keeling over in the bushes. Only my stomach blitzkrieged its way out of my body. I expected the rest of my guts to follow. I tossed my gimp ass over my bike.
“You okay?” Gold shouted over the roar of his engine.
“He hit you hard enough to rattle my teeth,” Scotch said.
Brew buckled his helmet and scowled at the old man. “At least you didn’t leave them on your nightstand.”
“Christ, Brew,” Scotch said.
“Yeah, Christ.” Brew stared him down. “That motherfucker has my Rose. You didn’t even try to get cracked in the head instead of bending over and letting them take her—”
Scotch pointed a steady finger in Brew’s face. “That motherfucker has my goddaughter.”
“Let’s go.” I clenched my teeth to keep them from rattling around in my skull. The helmet tightened over my head. If nothing else, it would keep the blood from pouring out of my ears. “We get back to Pixie, round up our guys, and we’ll go collect what’s ours.”
Brew’s eyes narrowed. “We collect what’s fucking mine.”
The rage poisoning my blood, razoring my teeth, and pummeling my fists blinded me to all but the territorial urgency in Brew’s voice.
He wanted his sister.
But she wasn’t his anymore.
She was mine.
She was my opportunity to rid the filth from my club.
And Exorcist grabbed her first.
If she was that valuable to me, I had no fucking idea what he planned for her.
Concussions didn’t bleed. They didn’t swell, didn’t protrude any bones, and didn’t tattoo someone’s exposed flesh with cinders from the road. It was a bullshit injury, and I ignored it.
My bike peeled out from the parking lot before the psychedelic red and blue flashing of three cruisers tucked into the spaces out front of the bar. I pointed to Gold.
“Check out their district. Find where they took her.”
Gold saluted and burst out the opposite direction, lane-splitting the closing distance between a police car and a confused minivan. I led Brew, Scotch, and the two prospects away from Exorcist’s territory and back to Pixie. Either the nausea, the frenzy, or the absolute spine-twisting terror coated my tongue with bile.
A half-hour passed before we made it to Pixie and into the safety of the warehouse. I knew enough things Ex would do to a woman in half an hour. Killing her was too merciful, but that fucking lunatic didn’t understand the concept of mercy anyway.
Ex knew war.
He knew what kidnapping the daughter of one of Anathema’s most respected men and the sister of two standing officers would mean for the streets of the valley.
Blood.
Bullet casings.
Dead little sisters.
I burst through the doors and tossed my phone to Scotch.
“Every-fucking-one.” I busted the chapel’s door open with a kick. “I want every single man we got. Tell them to bring weapons and to kiss their families goodbye.”
Scotch was already dialing. Brew shoved past him and ripped open a false electrical box. A crate lid slammed against the wall. He grabbed the first AK to brush his hand. The clip snapped into the gun with a bite of hatred. Brew’s sneer darkened with as much agony as what burst through my head. Except he wasn’t cracked with the butt of Priest’s gun.