by Marie Harte
“Said you abused him, that you were jealous of the love Danielle had for him. And that you had no idea how to hold on to a woman.”
Malcolm slapped him with the quick, vicious speed of a snake striking. Avery hadn’t seen the blow coming and knew he’d stepped into some serious shit when Malcolm waved that wicked blade in his face. The word Sangre on the blade glowed under the dim lighting with a peculiar luminescence that didn’t seem natural.
“Do you see this, Major?”
“Hold on while my vision clears.”
Malcolm chuckled. His moods ran hot and cold. Avery had to remember he dealt with someone not quite sane.
“Yeah. Espada de Sangre, right?”
“Correct.” Malcolm sounded pleased. “This is the weapon Owen Stallbridge hired your boss to retrieve. Yes, I know all about Jack Keiser and you people, his psychic puppets. I have contacts in a lot of places.”
“So I gathered.” Avery’s mind raced. They worked for Stallbridge? The multimillionaire investor who owned half of Bend? And Malcolm knew about it. Knew about Jack, about all of them. “How is it you never joined the PWP?”
Malcolm shrugged. “I would have if I hadn’t already been working for the government. My time in the army brought me to the attention of the Agency two decades ago. The rest is history.” Malcolm brought the blade to Avery’s forehead and dug into his skin.
The pain should have been light compared to the pressure on his wounded shoulder. At first, blood dripped into his eyes and made it hard to see. But then darkness seemed to lick at the wound, drawing more pain than he would have thought possible for such a superficial cut.
“Don’t you like my new toy? It surely likes you.” Malcolm tittered, and Avery shivered. The madness there couldn’t be missed. “I found it at a black market near Oaxaca, close to home. It’s like we were meant for each other.” His lips thinned. “Like Danielle and I were once paired…before she’d turned into a whore.”
“How was she a whore?”
“She was only supposed to be mine. She kept me bright, full. With her, I was real.”
Like a real boy, eh, Pinocchio? Avery wanted badly to make a comment, but he didn’t have a death wish.
“When she left me, when she was gone, I was so empty. All the days spent away from my beautiful wife were hell. And then he showed up…” Malcolm trailed off, into his own little world.
Thinking about Nathan—the same man Avery couldn’t get out of his mind. Nathan must have been worried sick. Hell, the asshole was probably coming here right now, wherever here was.
Avery took a good look around and saw nothing but crumbling wallpaper, lone lightbulbs dangling from cords overhead, and debris everywhere. The musty smell of mold and the chill of cement warned him he wasn’t going to like what he learned.
“Where are we?”
Malcolm blinked and turned his gaze toward Avery once more. “We’re home. If you belong to Nathan, it’s more than appropriate you share in his fondest memories.”
“Oh hell. We’re in Bloomville. The basement, right?”
Avery wanted nothing more than to kill this bastard. The sick fuck planned to torment Nathan to the end. If Avery succumbed to the wounds and darkness pulling him to sleep, his lover would never get over the guilt. No, Avery had to find a way to escape, to stay alive to somehow warn Nathan away.
“Now, now. Pay attention.” Malcolm gave him a disdainful once-over. “You know what we called women in the service? Split tails. To fuck one, you split her right up the middle. So is that what I should call you and your sick boyfriend?”
Ironic, this twisted fuck calling anyone else sick.
“Actually, I call myself a Marine.” He should have stopped there, but the injustice of what Malcolm had done to Nathan and still intended to do to him wouldn’t leave his mind. “Not like you pussy army fags with nothing better to do than compare dick sizes. And that’s no slam on being gay, but on you not being good enough to have made it into the right service.” Avery had done his fair share of insulting the other, more inferior branches of the military. In his experience, nothing bothered militant pukes more than being thought of as less than a U.S. Marine.
Malcolm’s cheeks flushed. He stared at Avery for a good minute, then shoved Sangre into the tender flesh of Avery’s inner thigh.
The blade shrieked with pleasure, and darkness invaded his mind, pulling him toward a black pit of despair and death, as if the sword fed off his misery. He hissed and sucked in a breath but refused to give Dixon the satisfaction of hearing him scream.
Stay awake and alive. And shut your trap so you can find a way to save Nathan, his subconscious warned. When Malcolm pulled the blade away, the respite was fleeting. He then dug into Avery’s belly, peeling away the skin by the wound he’d caused earlier with that fucking knife he’d left for Nathan to find.
Avery concentrated on staying aware and ignoring the pain. Nathan, please don’t be a hero. You show up by yourself, and I will personally kick your ass.
“I’m Delta Force, son. Show some respect.”
Avery hung his head, not in shame, but because he no longer possessed the strength to hold it upright. “S-sorry, s-sir. Just a jarhead being m-mouthy.”
“Much better.” Malcolm withdrew that cursed blade, and Avery bit back a groan of relief. The thing freaked him out more than Malcolm did. And damn if the thing wasn’t hungry for more of him.
* * * *
Nathan pulled into the driveway of the old house, not surprised to see a vehicle there. He gripped the wheel tight, sure of what he had to do. He hadn’t rested in two days and was on edge. He knew some agents were close behind, probably no more than a few hours away. But he had to hurry. Malcolm probably wouldn’t kill Avery until Nathan had arrived, to make sure Nathan didn’t miss the big finale. But he couldn’t be certain.
He downed another cup of coffee and slammed some caffeine pills. To beat the devil, he’d need a clear head. And two straight days of driving on top of all his worry had kicked his ass.
But now he felt ready. He gripped the KA-BAR tight, its warmth a comfort as well as a reminder. The energy in the knife revived him, and he accepted it, needing to draw on every little thing he could. He’d beaten Malcolm back once. He’d do it again. He just had to open himself up to more than the energy of the objects he touched. If he wanted to win, he had to allow himself to feel the hum of violence as well.
Somehow he needed to get his hands on Sangre and turn the fucking thing against Malcolm. He left the vehicle and climbed the steps to the porch, not trying to hide. Malcolm knew he was coming. So it was no surprise when the older man opened the door, holding Espada de Sangre by his side.
He looked different than he had the last time Nathan had seen him, some seventeen years ago. This Malcolm looked a little bit older, meaner, and devoid of any semblance of sanity. The blade in his hand seemed to purr, as if it recognized Nathan in some way. Suddenly his notion to use it against Malcolm didn’t seem like a good idea.
“Welcome home, Nathan.”
Home. What a joke.
Malcolm turned and walked into the house, expecting Nathan to follow.
And what else could he do, since the bastard had kidnapped Avery? Nathan had spent over forty-eight hours envisioning the worst. Avery tortured, bleeding, dying. Nathan’s imaginings had been nightmares; he’d envisioned his lover in pieces, his hands reaching out for Nathan, who was too far away.
Then he thought about what Avery might think of his anxiety. Avery would call him a pussy, knock him on his ass, then berate him for not having the balls to face his fears and push past them. No doubt the arrogant jerk expected a full-out rescue.
God, he loved that man.
Nathan didn’t allow himself to flinch at his worry. Instead he called on his ability and let his fingers brush everything he passed by, hoping to get a hit on Avery while he followed Malcolm deeper into the house. The walls didn’t speak, nor did the furniture. But the blood on the door frame of t
he kitchen showed Malcolm dragging Avery by one arm. Bloodied and semiconscious, Avery trailed Malcolm and slurred insults, calling Malcolm every name in the book before he’d passed out. Before Malcolm dragged him to the basement door and pulled his ass downstairs.
Nathan knew he couldn’t avoid it forever. Memories rushed back, the terror of not knowing what lay in the dark no longer resonating as it once did. Maybe because he still had a psychic hand on his surroundings, or maybe because the KA-BAR he carried reminded him he’d beaten the bastard before.
He caught sight once more of the blood-covered sword in Malcolm’s hand. It pointed toward the ground, angling in the direction of the blood smear that disappeared in the doorway to the cellar.
“Downstairs, I take it?” Nathan said with a calm he’d started to feel.
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. You first.”
Nathan shrugged. He walked by Malcolm with ease, content that his father wouldn’t stab him unless he could look Nathan in the eyes as he attacked. Face-to-face, horror to horror. The way he’d attempted to kill Danielle over twenty years ago. Nathan glanced over his shoulder before he stepped into the cellar doorway.
“Like old times, eh?” Malcolm’s smile held real malice. “Hurry now, boy. Your friend is downstairs waiting for you.”
Nathan squared his shoulders and walked down into the gloom. The nightmare of his past came roiling back, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a quick swipe of his forearm and shoved the memories back where they belonged. They were dead and buried, like his youth. He didn’t fear the dark, and he wouldn’t let Malcolm terrorize him any longer.
Malcolm’s voice echoed in the darkness. “The KA-BAR was a nice touch, wasn’t it? I thought you’d like that.”
Nathan left the last step into the cellar and put his back to the wall while he waited for Malcolm to join him. A dim light was the only illumination in the large basement. The corridor into which he’d walked twisted around to an open area, lined with hardy shelving holding all manner of things. At one point Malcolm had used the basement as a work space. He apparently continued to work down here…doing God knew what.
Nathan followed his father around the corner and froze. Avery sat tied to a chair, a small pool of blood beneath him. He sat so still, his head hanging low, that for a moment Nathan feared he was dead.
Then Avery groaned.
He forced himself not to react. “Well, Malcolm? Now what?” He paused. “Or should I call you Dad?”
Malcolm turned to face him, still standing between Nathan and Avery. He raised the bloody blade in his hand. “Say what you want, but I won’t be rushed. I’m going to slice you up like a turkey, boy. The way I worked your mother. But I won’t kill you. Not until I let you watch me carve up your fuck buddy, piece by piece.”
Avery moved, distracting Nathan from the anger building. “Hey. I have to piss.”
Nathan snorted. “Hold on. I need to take care of this windbag. Then I’ll untie you.”
Malcolm didn’t like being ignored. He frowned and took a step closer to Nathan. Away from Avery.
“Don’t you want to know how it went, boy? How she begged for her life, begged me to leave you alone?”
“Not really.” Nathan did his best to sound bored. “I realize you’re older now, and you’re probably starved for attention. But I’m tired, and I have things to do. Playing with an old man isn’t one of them.”
He heard Avery suck in a breath. Okay, so that might be pushing things, but he was tired of letting Malcolm call the shots.
He wasn’t prepared for the older man’s burst of speed. The blade bit into his shoulder in a flash, the burn of psychic pain one he felt to his bones.
Chapter Twelve
“How do you like that, son?” Malcolm laughed and pulled the blade back. “Sangre likes you. Yeah, it can feel the soul. And yours is one sick little ball of need.”
Nathan gripped the KA-BAR tight. “You’re kidding me, right? Talk about need? You’re so pathetic you couldn’t share your wife, a woman you supposedly loved, with her own nephew. Or should I say, son? Did you ever wonder why she gave me up? Because she knew you were crazy. That you couldn’t handle being a father. Christ. Look at you.”
This time when Malcolm came at him, he dodged the blow, using Malcolm’s own energy against him. The psychic memory stored in the KA-BAR let Nathan access Malcolm’s speed and agility. Everything Malcolm had felt and been while holding it bled into Nathan…the way the users of Sangre bled into Malcolm.
Malcolm smiled. “You might be a piece of shit, but you’re going to give me a good fight, aren’t you?”
“Well, like you said, I’m a piece of shit. A chip off the old block.” Nathan nodded at him with a similar grin.
Malcolm and he fenced and fought, but unless Nathan got his hands on a weapon with a longer reach, he wouldn’t be able to outlast Malcolm. He was wearing down, no sleep and his wounds taking their own toll. And Malcolm had the added benefit of fighting with a powerful object with a mind of its own.
Nathan bled from several cuts, intended to weaken and not kill him outright.
“Use your head, you idiot,” Avery snarled in the background. “Can’t you remember anything I taught you in the gym?”
Nathan frowned. “I could use some encouragement here.” Trust Avery to be a pain in the ass even now.
“Use it all, dimples. Hands, feet, balance.”
Images of him and Avery grappling came back to him, and as he danced out of the way of Malcolm’s reach once more, he realized the only way to beat the man would be hand-to-hand. No more weapons.
The next time his father came at him, he ducked and advanced. He took a fist to the face and a slice to his arm in order to knock Malcolm to the ground. But through it all, Nathan held on to his knife. A short stab to the man’s side satisfied, but it was a means to an end. To distract Malcolm long enough to grab on to that fucking sword.
The moment Nathan’s hands wrapped around his father’s and the hilt of Espada de Sangre, he tensed. Images and feelings not his own poured into him like poison.
“Nathan, fucking fight it!” Avery sounded far in the distance.
The rush of so many kills tasted sweet, and he suddenly understood Malcolm as he never had before.
“You need this. Energy, power. It fills you up.”
Malcolm stared into his eyes, and it was like looking into a mirror. The man faltered in his answer, as if seeing Nathan for the first time. “Yes. Fills me up. The way your mother used to.”
Nathan felt Malcolm’s loneliness, his antipathy toward everything. Only murder gave him the highs away from a monotonous existence. Because his time away from his wife had been hell. The constant kills, the work with so many deadly weapons, had eroded Malcolm’s ability to feel. His returns to Danielle had made life bearable, because only with her had he felt the love that brought him back to himself. But he’d been so greedy, so damn needy, that he’d refused to allow for the possibility of sharing her attention.
Michelle hadn’t been welcome. Nor had any of Danielle’s friends. They’d lived in virtual solitude for so long, and Malcolm had hated it. Hated what he was doing to her, but he couldn’t help it. And eventually he’d stopped hating their isolation and longed for it with every breath in his body. And then Nathan had arrived. A soft-spoken, handsome young boy just as deprived as Malcolm.
He’d hated Nathan, because in Nathan he saw himself. And now Nathan knew why.
Nathan yanked the sword from his hand and stood, leaving his father to grab the KA-BAR next to him.
“You can feel me in that, can’t you?” he asked Malcolm.
Malcolm nodded, his eyes wide. “You’re just like me.”
“No, he’s not,” Avery said in a hoarse voice. “Little bastard likes to think he can do anything, but he’s not a killer like you. He’s got the power, but he’s also got heart.”
Because I had the love of a great woman. Because I’ve got you, Nathan thought but didn�
�t say. It was a struggle to remain separate from the blade. The thing wanted blood. It wanted to kill. And it didn’t much care who sated that need. Overcome with exhaustion, it was all Nathan could do not to lean completely on it for strength.
Malcolm blinked rapidly. “I don’t care. You’re the reason Danielle left me. Because of you.” He stepped forward with the KA-BAR, a deadly killer with or without the cursed blade. He lunged.
Nathan managed to block his attack, but the deflection allowed Malcolm to slice into his side.
“Fuck.” Fury boiled over him, and he struck out. The blade found Malcolm’s weakness with ease, sliding between his father’s ribs and then again into his thigh through the femoral artery. It sang as it drank, letting the blood ease into the nicks and crevices of the ancient steel.
“Even the touch of it feels right,” Malcolm said with a sigh. The man didn’t act as if he felt pain. He came at Nathan again, graceful in step and form.
They fought for what felt like hours. Nathan couldn’t believe how powerful Malcolm was. Despite his age and injuries, he moved like a man possessed.
“For nearly thirty years, I’ve been dancing with death. You think you can take me, boy?” Malcolm attacked with well-oiled precision. He darted away to stand by Avery and stabbed into his bloody shoulder, no doubt hoping for a reaction.
Avery didn’t give him one, so Nathan wouldn’t either. But he needed to put himself between Malcolm and his lover. God, Avery hadn’t made a sound. Because he was disciplined or passed out? Because he was dead?
“Shit. Hurry the hell up,” he slurred, and Nathan breathed a sigh of relief.
Malcolm grinned. “In other circumstances, I might like the major. But I want my blade back before I finish our fight.”
And maybe that would be his downfall. Nathan tuned out the blade’s need for more blood and zeroed in on his father’s inability to work on his own. He needed to be filled, to work with an external device, a distraction that could cost him.