Infernal: Bite The Bullet

by Black, Paula

  It was grainy. They all were, I discovered when I dared to flick through them, just as they all had time stamps printed on the bottom, along with the words Gilles de Rais.

  Gilles.

  That was the name of the person Konstantyn had said would kill me.

  Taking a breath, I gathered the photographs into a pile and made myself really look, even though, deep down, I was only searching for one face. They were stills taken from video footage, I realised, full-face and body shots, chosen to best identify the victims.

  It was painful to concentrate on the people in them. Young, beautiful, naked and bound. Men and women, their tortured eyes stared out at me, their bodies marked with that same symbol I’d seen on Daniel’s neck, and on Lazarenko’s arm. The peace symbol, that maybe wasn’t a peace sign at all, but something much more sinister, because there were other patterns too, cut into their skin. The whole scene reeked of an occult ritual.

  Each victim had been spread out on a strange metal contraption, and it took flicking through a few different angled shots to get a clear view of what they were bound to: a seven-pointed star. Their limbs were locked down to four points, and on the remaining three… a candle and some serious hardware I didn’t even have names for.

  In some of the shots, I could make out other people, mostly blurred figures on the periphery, but I could see enough to tell they were shirtless, and wore horned eye-masks and gut-churning smiles.

  One photo captured the frozen scream of a woman as a thick-set man thrust between her thighs. Her chest was splattered with a dark substance I could only assume was wax, though for all I knew, it might have been congealed blood.

  I shut my eyes. Swallowed hard. Carried on.

  There were more shots of the same scene, taken from an angle that illuminated something through the coarse thatch of hair on the masked abuser’s back, something that was familiar in the worst possible way: It was Konstantyn’s back tattoo, inked on another man’s skin. My soul shivered at the sight. Lazarenko was in this deeper than he’d admitted. If he bore the marks of both the victims and the abusers, where exactly did that put him on the scale of good versus evil?

  Through the silent, angry tears welling in my eyes, the images began to blur into one another, that damned seven-pointed star the focus of every shot, keeping the victim locked into frame, no matter how they positioned them on it. There was no escaping the pain in the photos, and no escape for the victims in them. None at all. Not from the camera, and not from the abusers.

  Blinking to clear my vision, I picked up another bundle of photographs. I was so engrossed in the details that even though I’d known his picture was in here somewhere, Daniel’s face came as a surprise.

  As I looked down at the image I’d dreaded finding, I felt as though my chest cavity was being prised open. Shocked, I saw that just like the others, his skin had been defiled with bloody symbols. Yet there had been no mention of them in the pathology report Oliver Dalton showed me. How was that possible, unless Lazarenko was right, and the detective was somehow involved?

  My tears splashed onto the picture and the bundle fell from my hands, scattering on the bedspread. This was my kid brother, who’d covered over the cracks in our lives with laughter. Who used to overeat because our mum was never there for us, and then got bullied for his weight. The ugly duckling who grew into a handsome swan.

  Was this how he died?

  Were all these people dead? Or were they somewhere, suffering? For the first time, I began to wonder if death wasn’t the kinder outcome.

  Is this what Konstantyn Lazarenko feared his sister had been dragged into? No wonder he was going to any lengths to find her.

  I scrubbed the wet tracks from my cheeks with the back of my hand and opened Konstantyn’s laptop. The thing took forever to boot up, and when it did, I was met with a formidable looking log-in screen. No surprise it would be encrypted. Flexing my fingers, I tried a few passwords: Mariya, Lazarenko, a few serial killer names for good measure. Every variant I could think of. Nothing. I scrunched up my face in frustration, ready to give up, when I decided to take one last shot. I typed in Gilles de Rais. Nope. Still locked out and all my attempts had frozen the screen. I snapped down the lid of Lazarenko’s laptop and reached for my own.

  I got into my own easy enough and ran a search on Gilles de Rais. Wikipedia threw up a detailed article about a French aristocrat from the time of Joan of Arc. Some dude from the fourteen-hundreds wasn’t going to help me. Except as I read through, it became apparent this wealthy Baron and his sidekick priest had dabbled in alchemy and witchcraft, and had sexually assaulted, tortured and butchered hundreds of innocent children in the hope of summoning a demon named Barron.

  That was just creepy as fu –

  My apartment buzzer went off and I yelped, leaping out of my skin and off the bed in a scatter of photos. My heart thudded hard as I crept out of my room to the video entry monitor.

  Oh, shit.

  The screen showed Detective Dalton standing on the porch, looking twitchy.

  He pressed the bell again, and again more urgently, and I jumped every time. Twitchy was contagious and I was already on edge.

  What the hell did I do now?

  I was going to have to answer the thing, before he broke down the door and caught me red-handed with Konstantyn’s pictures. I double checked the lock on my door, just in case, before pressing my finger to the intercom button.

  “Detective,” I said. “Sorry, I was in the bath. This isn’t a good time.”

  He looked up and I could see his eyes seeking the camera on the porch. When he found it, he looked straight into it, and my spine shivered at the mask of concern on his face.

  “Neva, I got your voicemail. I called you right back, but you weren’t answering your phone.”

  That was a lie. He hadn’t called right back. There’d been no call-back in the time between my leaving the message and the police bearing down on us. It was as though they’d been lying in wait all along. Damn it.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I seem to have lost my phone.” I laughed airily, while cursing Konstantyn for making me apparently justifiably paranoid. “But I’m fine, really.”

  “You mentioned a name? A possible suspect?”

  “Yeah, about that,” I said, forcing some embarrassment into my voice. “I may have overreacted. My dance instructor, Konstantyn, invited me back to his place for a drink after work. I showed him a picture of Daniel and he said he had videos of him. I realise now, I totally flew off the handle. He obviously meant the MTV videos my brother danced in.” I sighed, like I was the stupidest girl in the world, while my heart was twisting into a knot.

  “I see.” Did he sound disappointed? He was frowning again and he seemed to realise it, his face composing itself right in front of my eyes. “So he didn’t show you pictures of Daniel?”

  “No. I panicked and ran. I feel like such a fool now, honestly. He won’t get into any trouble, will he?” Like you beating on him? Whatever the police had done to him, I didn’t think it would be just an interrogation. Not from the sounds of things before I’d fled.

  “Not if he’s done nothing wrong,” Dalton replied, his jaw sticking out like he was grinding his teeth. “We’ve taken him in for questioning, and if we find anything relating to Daniel, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “I appreciate that, Detective. What will happen to him?” My hand shook on the button as I waited for the response. Surely they couldn’t kill him? Even dirty cops had limits.

  Dalton ran a hand through his hair. “If his story checks out, and you’re not prepared to press charges, then we’ll have no option but to release him.”

  “That’s good,” I said, trying to disguise the relief in my voice. “I don’t want to press any charges.”

  He breathed heavily and the sound was a hiss through the intercom. “I suggest you stay away from that man.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.” I shook my head even though he couldn’t see it, but
he arched a brow at me through the monitor. “He kicked me out of the dance troupe,” I explained, and strangely, that didn’t sting as much as it had done. “I didn’t make the cut.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m sorry.” Detective Dalton nodded but he didn’t move, and his presence was grating on my nerves. What did he want from me? I had to get rid of him.

  “I think the offer of a drink was his way of letting me down easy,” I said.

  I was itching to confront the detective about those symbols cut into Daniel’s skin, and ask why they’d been absent from the pathology report he’d shown me. At the morgue, he’d been the one to stop me from looking beneath that sheet. And when I’d asked about the peace symbol, he’d passed it off a popular tattoo that probably meant nothing. He’d said the symbol was popular with Gay Pride supporters. I was formulating the questions in my mind, but how could I ask, without giving both myself and Konstantyn away? “Look, I’m sorry,” I said eventually, “but I’m dripping all over the floor here. Was there anything else?”

  He frowned with a shake of his head and then offered a smile up to the camera. “No, Neva. You take care, and get yourself a new phone, okay.” Lifting his hand in a wave, he finally stepped off the porch and I slid down the door with a hard, shaking exhale.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After I’d stuffed all of the evidence back in the pillowcase and hid it under my bed, I decided to have the bath I’d lied to Dalton about taking. The revelations of the night had left me feeling cold and unclean. An hour later I emerged from the steamy bathroom wearing fresh yoga pants and a purple tank top, and I was finger-drying my hair when I realised something was moving in my hallway. A slow drip, drip sound – like the rain had come in from the outside – preceded a shuffling step across the rug in front of the door.

  Shit. I had locked it, hadn’t I?

  I palmed the gun I’d taken from Konstantyn and crept forwards. Paused. Rethought what my fear had me doing. I was arming myself with a weapon I didn’t know how to use, against an intruder I hadn’t identified, and I really was stupid.

  If it was Detective Dalton coming back to unpick the lame story I’d fed him, then greeting him stolen gun in hand wasn’t going to help my case.

  I peeked around the wall, bringing the gun up quickly as I confronted the man slumped against my door jamb.

  It wasn’t the Detective.

  “How the hell did you get in?” I demanded.

  My hands shook and I was swallowing my tongue in a bid to get some kind of threat out.

  He beat me to it, his accent rumbling through the quiet of my apartment.

  “Put the gun down, Neva. I just came for my things and I’ll be out of your life for good,” Konstantyn said.

  That’s what every murderer said, right before he had his hands wrapped around your throat. But his voice did make me lower my gun. It was broken and ragged, and I frowned, peering closer. I flicked on the hallway lamp but immediately regretted it.

  “Oh my God. What happened? You’re bleeding.” The man before me was badly beaten, his clothes torn, and he was dripping blood as well as rainwater on my welcome rug.

  Shit.

  Konstantyn weaved on his feet, and that was the decider. I set the gun on the hall table and moved towards him, one palm pushing the door shut as my other hand gripped his arm in a paltry show of support. He was clearly weakened, the strength that normally radiated from him now puddling in a crimson stain on my floor.

  “Come on,” I said gently, trying to lead him inside. It was like moving a bull, even weak as he was. He shrugged me off, and my hand came away bloody.

  “It’s not safe for you with me. I take the stuff and go.”

  “You won’t make it past the threshold. Now sit down before you keel over.” This time when I tugged at him, he let me get him as far as the living room before he put the brakes on.

  “I will ruin your couch,” he said. He held out his hands to me and they were red, wet. I was probably insane, but my heart clenched in sympathy for the pain he must be in, for the pain he was hiding.

  “Here.” I grabbed the throw from the back of the sofa and flicked it out to cover the cushions. “I’ll use it to wrap your body if you die on me.”

  That got me a smirk. It was a comforting sight. If he was strong enough to be amused, hopefully he was strong enough to not die on me. Moving his body would be a bitch.

  Reluctantly, he sat down.

  “Let me look.” I motioned at the blood seeping through his t-shirt, the same one he’d had on from earlier.

  “It’s nothing,” he gruffed. “Superficial wounds.”

  My ass they were superficial. “Who did this to you? We have laws in this country about police brutality, you know.”

  He shook his head and his soft smile told me I was being stupid, like he’d dealt with this before. “Dante respects no law but his own.”

  “And who is Dante?” I probed at a bleeding patch and he hissed, batting me away.

  “An old friend.”

  Right. Most friends went out for drinks. “A friend? So what, you decided to carve each other up for old times’ sake? We need to get you to a hospital.” From what I’d seen, he needed to be professionally tended, and I’d only caught a glimpse of what lay beneath his shirt.

  “No hospitals,” he said roughly, twitching away from my hands again. “He wasn’t trying to have me killed. They let me go with just a reminder.”

  “A reminder of what?” I wrapped my fingers in a shred of his shirt to hold him still.

  He glared at me, but didn’t move. “That I belong to him.”

  “Belong? Like a slave?”

  He sucked in a breath as I peeled back the fabric of his shirt. Crusting blood had made it stick to his skin in spots.

  “Oh my God.” I wished I hadn’t pushed him into letting me see, because the damaged they’d done made my gorge rise. Carved in his abs was that same symbol I’d seen on all the victims in those photographs. An obscene, blood-drawn corruption of a symbol of peace. My mind flashed to those pictures of my brother, and if I’d had anything in my stomach, I would have lost it.

  Focus, Neva. This man is not your brother.

  Black bruising spread over his skin in blotches, worse than I’d imagined, ink-blot stains on his ribs and stomach that churned up my worry.

  Judging by the grazes on his knuckles, he hadn’t let them do this to him willingly. He’d taken a hell of a beating. I wondered how many men it would have taken to subdue a body like his. I eased more fabric away from his skin and discovered other scars, ones I hadn’t noticed before: puckered circles that looked like they might be long-healed gunshot wounds. God. His body was a map of violence, and it only got worse when I got a closer look at the fresh lacerations.

  They’d used a box-cutter or a razor blade to mutilate him. The wounds were shallow but oozing, and I ghosted my fingers over the mark they’d engraved across his stomach.

  “What does this mean?” I asked quietly. He didn’t move, just sat, breathing shallowly while I inspected him.

  “The broken cross is Gilles’ calling card.” Konstantyn twitched when I accidentally touched the curve of the cross, and I whipped my hand back.

  “Gilles de Rais? From those photos? Who is Gilles?”

  “Not who. What. A secret occult society, led by Dante.”

  “Charming. I bet there’s a waiting list out the door to join that little fraternity.”

  He almost smiled.

  “Does it hurt?”

  He shrugged.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  He smirked a little at that.

  I rolled my eyes and held my hand out until he peeled the shirt carefully over his head and gave it to me.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  Oh yeah.

  Wait, no. He was hurt, and I was not perving.

  “Better give me your pants too. They’re ruined. You go walking the streets looking like a deranged butcher, you’ll j
ust get picked up again. I’ll put them in the washer-dryer, they’ll be clean and dry in a couple of hours.”

  “I should go now,” he said, eyeing the door like he wasn’t sure why he’d let me drag him inside in the first place.

  “This is non-negotiable,” I replied. “I called Dalton on you. The least I can do is help you get cleaned up.” Besides, having seen those photographs, and now the same symbol on him, and this new information about the society, I knew I was on the verge of discovering who’d killed Daniel. Whether I liked where it was going, or not.

  He nodded and held my eyes as he unbelted, popped the buttons and slid the combats down his hips.

  Aww crap. Trust him to be going Commando. It took every ounce of my self-restraint not to stare, but I still got a good eyeful of what I’d been ogling at the club. He was even more impressive in the flesh.

  I was mortified, he was cool as a breeze. Cheeks blazing, I averted my eyes and tossed a cushion in the direction of his groin. He caught it and covered himself with a low laugh. I got a faceful of his pants in return.

  Scowling, I bundled up his clothes. “You lie down. I have a first aid kit, let me go get it, okay?” I waited until he obeyed.

  Eventually, he sprawled out with a bitten-off curse.

  Leaving him there on the couch, and hoping he didn’t die before I returned, I shoved his clothes into the washing machine. They smelled good, in spite of the blood. I peered back out into the living room to check he was still breathing, and then went to the bathroom.

  Braced on the sink, I took a moment to look at my shocked face in the mirror and wondered what the hell I was getting myself into. I couldn’t just turn the man out on the street. I’d been responsible for him getting taken into custody. Splashing some water on my face, I wiped off on a towel and opened the mirrored cabinet. I retrieved the red first-aid box and some aspirin, and filled a glass of water from the sink, before heading back out to the man on my couch.