Angel in Black

by Fela Dawson Scott

  “Yes, I suppose you could,” Katrina agreed, her voice strong, refusing to give him the satisfaction of frightening her.

  “You’re a hell of a woman, Katrina Easton, but it would be a shame to waste your beauty and spirit on those two idiots. You may be more trouble than you’re worth, but I’m willing to take the risk. And for you, I might have to reconsider my rules about mixing business with pleasure.” Laying his knife carelessly across her throat, he bent his head and kissed the soft flesh along the curve of her neck.

  “But right now, I have business to take care of.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN she was kidnapped?” Blake grabbed Lawrence Langsford, out of control with fear and fury. Ryon pulled his brother off, knowing Blake could easily kill him in his state of mind.

  Langsford held his wounded arm and attempted to explain further. The black scowl on Blake’s face made him fidget, his nerves frayed. “The carriage was waylaid at the edge of London; our driver killed. One man threw open the door and Katrina jumped out the other side and ran. A giant of a man grabbed her and put something over her mouth causing her to black out. I thought they meant to rob us, but the big man carried her off. I attempted to stop them but the first man slashed me with his knife. In a matter of seconds, they both disappeared. I assumed their intention is to ransom my niece.”

  Blake’s voice remained hard, his eyes liquid fire. “You had no weapons to protect yourselves?”

  “Of course not,” snapped Lawrence, the defensive feeling not to his liking. “We would have caught up with the rest of our wagons in no time at all. I never dreamed we’d be attacked. We weren’t out of the city yet … and in broad daylight.”

  “What did these men look like?” Ryon asked; his tone less critical.

  Lawrence cleared his throat before he began. “The man who caught Katrina was large and stocky. I noticed he was crippled. His nose looked to have been broken and one shoulder slumped lower than the other. But most of all, he walked with a limp, one leg dragging when he walked. The other was small in comparison, but fearsome-looking. He bore a monstrous-looking scar from his chin up through his eyebrow, the eye blinded and gruesomely disfigured.”

  The room grew silent and grim. Startled, their attention turned to Blake when the glass he held shattered. “Those sons-of-whores — I’ll kill them. I will hunt them down and kill them.”

  Blake started for the door but Ryon blocked his exit and demanded, “What is it, Blake? What do you know about Katrina’s kidnappers?”

  Blake stopped dead in his tracks; agony and sorrow mixed with his fury. “Kidnappers, hell!” With a sudden helplessness, pain overwhelmed him. It took a moment before he could voice the horrendous truth out loud. “They are going to kill her.”

  Everyone stood shocked. “What do you mean, Blake?” Ryon questioned and when Blake said nothing, he prodded further. “Explain yourself.”

  “I mean those two bastards will kill her — I cannot make it any clearer.”

  Ryon looked down at his brother’s bleeding hand and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. As he wrapped it to stop the flow of blood, he asked, “How can you be so sure? Did Katrina know them?”

  Drained, Blake sank into a chair, all emotion driven from him leaving only numbness. Ryon handed him another drink. After he downed it, Blake explained. When he finished, no one spoke. Without another word, Blake strode from the room, braced to begin his desperate search.

  BY THE END OF the third day, Blake felt near insane from worry and fear. The nights proved to be worse torture than the days as dreams of his golden-haired girl haunted him. He decided it easier to avoid them and slept little, fatigue only adding to his foul, ugly mood. He ate only to satisfy Rebecca’s nagging and did not take time to shave or change his clothes; his time spent searching London for word of Katrina. Dirty and rumpled, his unshaven face hard and grim, his barely controlled violence apparent to all.

  After another futile day of searching with John and Ryon, they returned to the townhouse, exhausted. Blake sank into his chair in the quiet library, a drink in his hand. He felt numb as fatigue overcame him, leaving him vulnerable to the haunting memories of Katrina. They drifted wildly through his thoughts. Slowly, his fears overcame all and other remembrances clamored inside his dulled mind. Blake saw the giant’s hand encased about Katrina’s slender throat, crushing the life from her, easily lifting her frail form from the floor. Mack’s face tortured him; a vivid and brutal picture of Katrina being raped and beaten assaulted him. It filled him to the core with pure terror and he froze, unable to breathe, unable to move. Blake felt her degradation and an agonizing pain ripped through him. He could hear her crying; see the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Oh, God, no,” mumbled Blake. His own tears started; the unbearable despair released. He could hear Katrina’s screams of pain, heard her calling his name.

  “Katrina,” Blake screamed as the rush of emotions gripped him, agony and horror deep in the tone.

  “Blake,” Ryon yelled.

  Blake’s senses cleared and he realized Ryon called his name, not Katrina. The screaming and crying — it all was so real. Blake tensed when he heard the sound of weeping clearly. He jumped from his chair and turned to face his brother. All the blood drained from his face and a cold chill swept through him, leaving him physically weak. The look on Ryon’s face was more than he could bear.

  “I heard a scream?” whispered Blake.

  “It was Jenny,” Ryon croaked and looked away. “A messenger just came, Blake. They found Katrina.” His voice broke and he searched for the right words to say, but none came.

  Blake bolted for the door. “I must go to her.”

  “No,” Ryon grabbed him, forced him to remain. “Blake, I’m sorry. Katrina’s dead.”

  Blake looked at his younger brother in disbelief, the words echoed in his crazed mind. Katrina’s dead … Katrina’s dead.

  “Nooo …” The cry erupted from deep within him, like the howl of an injured animal. Blake lost all control as the tension of the past week boiled to the surface in a violent storm. He knew only immense rage, the hurt excruciating from the two words he could not bear to hear.

  Blake shoved Ryon aside and bellowed like a madman, headed for the door. When he flew past his brother, David and John met him. The violence on his face caused both to jump him in an attempt to calm him. He threw them off as if they were nothing.

  “Nooo …” He continued to yell, the sound echoing through the townhouse. “She’s not dead. Not my Katrina.”

  They all piled on him as he fought blindly, fiercely, not understanding why he wanted to hurt them. He only knew he must go to Katrina and they were trying to stop him. She needed him — she needed him to ease her pain. No … no … his mind reeled. Maybe he was wrong — he needed her to ease his pain.

  Yes, he thought, Katrina would ease his pain. They were lying to him … Oh, God … they were lying.

  They pulled Blake to the ground, but he continued to struggle. He must free himself — he must go to her. His mind blurred as he fought with reality and pain. Quite suddenly, the rage dissipated, leaving Blake lifeless and drained. They let him go and he made no move, his eyes stared blankly seeing no one.

  “Blake,” Ryon whispered fearful. “Are you all right?” He helped Blake stand, but his brother made no reply. Silent, Blake returned to the library. Everyone followed, uncertain of what to do.

  Blake stared into the flames of the fire as sanity flooded back. The ordeal left him spent and worn, to speak difficult. When he did, it came out a hoarse whisper, barely audible. “Where is she?”

  Ryon glanced about at the others, doubting he was up to seeing her. “At the palace chapel — the King ordered she be taken there.”

  “I must go to her,” Blake said, simple and direct.

  Ryon shook his head and looked with sympathy at his older brother. If only he could spare him this agony. “No, Blake. I think it best you do not. Not now. You have
had a tremendous shock, you could not take another.”

  “Another?” Blake turned a puzzled look on him. “Tell me, Ryon, what could I not take?”

  The lieutenant stepped in, seeing Ryon’s despair, and explained, “She was beaten badly, to the point of being unrecognizable, Blake.”

  “How can they be certain it is Katrina?” Blake queried, desperate hope in the question.

  “It is Kat, Blake. She had on the dress she wore the day she left,” replied John, his own grief lining his strained face.

  Determined, Blake turned to them. “I must see her.”

  A MOAN ESCAPED BLAKE when the cloth covering Katrina was removed, revealing a battered and broken woman, beaten beyond recognition. Each bloody mark told him of the horrors she endured before death released her from the pain. He saw the bruises and red marks where the giant’s hand strangled her before he finally broke her neck. Blake’s eyes were drawn to her cheeks, covered in grime, a trail of tears streaked down the bruised and marred flesh. There was no longer any evidence of the beauty she once possessed. Pain ripped through him again and again as he relived each moment of agony Katrina must have experienced.

  Blake’s own tears ran down his bristled cheeks, unheeded. He did not care if the whole world witnessed his sorrow — nothing and no one existed but the defiled woman lying dead before him.

  “I will kill the bastards.” Hatred burned inside Blake, giving him the will to go on. “I will find them and kill them both.”

  Blake bent and tenderly kissed what remained of his Katrina’s cheek, and left her there, knowing what he had seen would haunt him forever.

  HERA TORE ACROSS THE countryside, Blake leaning low over her neck, the wind on his face. His head cleared, but his heart felt no ease of the constant pain. The funeral of his beloved Katrina left him empty, and a tremendous loneliness descended upon him. Unable to bear it any longer, Blake started back to London. The scene he left behind forever imprinted on his mind — the small chapel at Camray filled with grieving people, more waited outside.

  Many loved Katrina and her violent death came as a tremendous shock to them all. The love and devotion Blake witnessed touched him deeply. Now, more than nine years later, Katrina was laid to rest in the empty grave beside her mother and father — she was finally home.

  Blake rode straight through to London, stopping only to feed and rest Hera. He pushed himself to the point of exhaustion, making it easier to sleep. Memories during his waking hours were enough to endure without the dreams that visited in his sleep — dreams so realistic they left him shaking when he wakened.

  Once in London, he found it impossible to live with her haunting memory and brandy became his medicine to numb his pain. Nights were torturous, so Blake spent them gambling and drinking in a desperate attempt to forget, the oblivion welcome when he could find it. But, nothing worked to permanently dispel his memories, for Katrina’s spirit was always with him, her soul destined to haunt him forever more.

  Weeks passed in a blur and Blake drowned himself in self-pity. One night, Lieutenant Greerson came across his friend in a tavern and stopped at the table where Blake worked on drinking himself into a stupor. “Don’t you think it is time to head home, Blake? You look like you have had enough.”

  Blake stared back, red, bloodshot eyes seeming to look right through him. “No,” he mumbled, his speech slurred. “No, David lad, I have not had enough — not until I pass out will it be enough. Maybe then she won’t come to me.” He took another swig and slammed the glass down on the table, swearing. “Damn her — damn the witch for haunting me.”

  “Come on, Blake,” David coaxed. He held a hand out to help his drunken friend to stand.

  “Leave me be,” Blake shoved the hand away. “She was a witch, you know. From the first time I saw her I knew it. She bewitched me, weaving her spells on me — just like she did on those damn animals. Katrina was a witch, I say.”

  David frowned at Blake’s mutterings, relieved there was no one around to hear his blasphemous words. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re drunk.”

  “Hell, I do know what I am saying. I can’t get her out of my mind. How do you break the spell of a dead woman? Am I to live with this torture for the rest of my life? Each day that passes, the pain grows in intensity, it does not lesson. She is with me every moment. God, sometimes I see her as clearly as I see you, David. But when I reach out to touch her, she’s gone — the witch disappears, leaving me alone, and empty. Katrina said her soul was mine, to guard it carefully, but instead, she has taken mine.”

  “And you think this brandy will make you forget her?” David asked, angry. He pushed the bottle away in disgust. “It’s a good thing Katrina can’t see you now — you would disappoint her. You’re wallowing in self-pity, Blake, something I never thought I would see. Personally, I find it sickening.”

  Blake jumped up and grabbed his friend by the collar; slammed him against the tavern wall. “I should break your head,” Blake muttered. But, instead, he released his old friend and shoved him aside. “You can’t understand because she didn’t love you. She loved me.”

  He saw the flash of hurt in Greerson’s eyes. “Go away and leave me alone.”

  David straightened his clothes, picked up his hat and redingote. “With pleasure.”

  He left Blake, who sat staring at the back of the uniform walking away. “Dear God, how can I learn to live with the pain? How can I live without my Katrina?” No answer came, no comfort or peace. Unsteady, Blake stood, tossed a handful of coins onto the table, and left the smoke-filled club. He took a deep breath, the air cool and crisp. He felt his head clear a little and hailed a hack cab.

  He climbed inside and ordered the man to drive about, anywhere, not wishing to go home to an empty bed, but most of all, not wishing to face the memories invariably waiting for him. Blake leaned back and watched out the carriage window, the horses lumbering down the narrow, cobbled streets of London. It was not so late; Blake started his drinking early. There were plenty of places he could go, but he was not in the mood to be around people. The brandy loosened its hold on him, clearing his head of the numbness he experienced earlier. Time passed as the coach wound through the dark streets, its passenger melancholy.

  Unexpectedly, the carriage jolted to a stop, careening from side to side. “What the hell,” Blake scowled and looked out the window. Two men jumped from the deadly path of the horses and bellowed angry obscenities at the driver.

  Unconcerned, Blake started to lean back again when the street lantern illuminated their faces. A foreboding chill passed through Blake and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He held his breath, unable to believe his eyes as he watched the two men disappear down the street. The coach started up again and turned at the next corner.

  “Stop,” Blake called out and jumped from the still moving vehicle. He shoved money at the man and ran back around the corner. Blake followed the men.

  After several blocks, he was able to see them clearly and, without a doubt, recognized who they were. Boldly he followed and allowed them the chance to see they were being pursued. Aware of his presence now, Mack and Ralph deliberately led him toward the docks.

  Blake’s outward appearance was calm and he blatantly trailed them, knowing full well where they were leading him. Like a wolf on the hunt, Blake moved through the mass of buildings, all his senses alert. He stalked them like game, and nothing would keep him from his prey.

  Mack and Ralph darted down an alley and waited, ready to spring on the stranger, but no one appeared. Mack shrugged and looked at Ralph. “Where the hell did he go?” he mumbled. He carefully peeked out of the alley and down the street where the man had been only moments before. It stood empty.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Not yet.” Blake stood behind them in the darkness. Surprised, the two men turned to face him in unison. He leaned against the building, his arms folded across his chest in a casual manner.

  “What do you want?” ye
lled Mack, his hand wrapped about the knife handle in his belt.

  “I want you two,” Blake said evenly, calmly.

  Confused, it was clear Mack did not recognize him. “What for?”

  A flicker of light fell across Mack’s face and Blake saw the hideous scar Katrina had given him. As they shuffled a couple of steps closer, he answered, “I’m going to kill you bastards; so say your prayers.”

  The scarred man moved forward, recognition finally dawning. “Ralph, ‘tis the gent from the inn. He’s the one who sent you crashin’ through the window.”

  Mack laughed, the nervous cackle echoed in the still alley. “You may have saved the li’tle bitch that night, but we got her anyways. Didn’t we, Ralph? She knew how to pleasure a man right enough, but I’m sure you knew it already. Ain’t no man goin’ t’ plough her again, though. Me an’ me mate here made sure of it. Aye, we done her up fine, we did. The whore’s face looked worse than me own when we got done with her!”

  His words were like a sharp knife twisted into Blake’s gut. He moved forward, his eyes ablaze with hatred. “I’m going to kill you — you sons-of-bitches,” he yelled. In a single, powerful leap, he flew through the air and tackled Mack to the ground before the man could react. He lifted Mack by the collar of his shirt and smashed his fist into Mack’s face, jolting his whole head back from the blow. Blake dropped him and stepped back just in time to dodge Ralph’s clumsy charge, bringing his knee up sharply into his unprotected stomach. When the giant doubled over in pain, he clobbered him between the shoulder blades, both hands clasped for power and strength, the giant sprawling face-first among the trash and filth.

  Mack jumped at Blake’s back, his knife slashing. Blake twisted away from Mack’s attack; his blade missed its mark and cut his arm instead. Without losing a beat, Blake grabbed Mack’s wrist and snapped it like a brittle twig. The knife fell to the ground as Mack screamed in pain. From behind, Ralph seized Blake in a tremendous bear hug; the giant’s massive arms squeezed the air from his lungs. When Mack realized Blake was firmly encased by Ralph’s deadly hold, he slammed his good fist into his stomach. He pulled back to strike a second blow when Blake kicked out, landing both feet squarely in the center of Mack’s chest. He wrapped his hands around Ralph’s head and threw the big man over his head and into the stone wall.