Return of the Assassin (All the King's Men)

by Lynne, Donya

  "Can you hear me? Maddox? I'm a friend of Trace's. Your son?"

  Maddox blinked, shifted his eyes toward Micah, and with a deathly quiet hiss, drew back his lips to expose two impressive sets of Slavic fangs.

  Micah narrowed his eyes at the unusual reaction. "So, you can hear me."

  Another hiss, this one louder.

  "I'm not your enemy, Maddox."

  This time Maddox growled, and the muscles in his arms corded as he clenched his fists.

  "Okay, so you're not ready to talk." Micah backed away.

  He wasn't scared of Maddox, he just didn't want to upset him.

  The door opened, and Micah turned as the doctor entered.

  "Why is he restrained?" Micah asked, not at all pleased that Trace's father was being treated like an animal at the zoo.

  "Our guest became a bit…agitated when he woke up." The doctor gestured around the room.

  That's when Micah noticed the broken glass in the cabinets, holes in the wall by the door, and a couple of snapped shelves.

  Ooohhh. Okay. "I see." He glanced back at Maddox, whose gaze was locked on the doctor. And not in a good way. More like a you're-dead-if-you-get-any-closer kind of way. Talk about your evil stares. Maddox could have turned Medusa into stone.

  "He went crazy. Tossed two of my nurses aside like they weighed no more than feathers."

  Micah didn't know what to make of this. What had they gotten themselves into with Trace's father? "Any idea why?"

  "No." The doctor shook his head. "He just went berserk, yelling in some odd language as he tore up the place."

  "He's an ancient." Micah looked back at Maddox. "He was probably speaking in his native language."

  "Well, whatever language he was speaking, we couldn't understand him, and we weren't about to call for a translator. We finally subdued and tranquilized him. I'm here to give him another so he doesn't rip out of his bindings."

  Micah shook his head. "You can't keep him tied down like that."

  The doctor waved his arm around the room. "Tell it to my staff, Micah. We can't have him running around like a savage, tearing up the entire building and killing God only knows how many in the process, either."

  Frustration didn't begin to describe how Micah felt about the situation. Maddox didn't seem intentionally dangerous. Scared? Wary? Absolutely. But they weren't going to acclimatize him to the new world he'd awakened to by treating him like he was a prisoner in a barbaric dungeon. Maddox needed to trust them, and strapping him down wasn't the way to go about gaining his trust.

  "I want him taken to the new facility then," Micah said. "Place him inside one of the new Plexiglas rooms, but I don't want him tied down like this." He pointed at the restraints. "Do you understand me? Fuck, but a prison cell would be better than this bullshit. He's Trace's goddamn father and an ancient who's been in hibernation for God knows how long. He's not a fucking animal." The more he talked, the angrier he grew. "I don't care about your busted up room, and I don't care if your staff is afraid of him or that you think he's a savage. I will not come back here and see this shit again. You got me!"

  An amused chuckle rumbled from the bed, and Micah turned to see Maddox grinning from ear to ear, his gaze trained on Micah.

  So, Trace's father could understand English just fine, could he?

  "You ass." Micah smirked and shook his head. He liked this guy.

  Maddox's reply was to chuckle louder.

  Stepping up to the side of the bed, Micah met Maddox's gaze. "Fine. Don't talk. But I know you can understand me."

  Maddox stopped laughing, but a shit-eating grin stayed plastered on his puss as his eyes narrowed. He looked almost insane. And who knew? Maybe he was.

  "I'm going to have you transferred to another facility," Micah said. "Someplace where you won't be restrained like this." He tapped his fingers on the heavy leather binding around Maddox's wrist. "But I won't tolerate any more outbursts. No more making like a gladiator and busting shit up. This is the twenty-first century, not medieval times. We clear?" Until he got answers about how long Maddox had been hibernating, he would have to assume the worst about the last time Maddox had set waking eyes on the world. "You deserve better treatment than this."

  Maddox frowned and looked away as if he was uncomfortable with Micah's compassion.

  How strange. But then, for a vampire as old as Maddox, who had obviously been someone of power and influence at one time, he might still hold old codes of honor. One of which could include shying away from pity.

  Mental note made. No more pity for the big guy. He turned toward the doctor, who remained a few steps away. "Get him out of these goddamn restraints and moved to the new facility now or, so help me God, I'll see you on shit duty for a month."

  Without another glance toward Maddox, he marched out the door and down toward the trauma unit. No doubt the two victims from the lab had been taken there, where they would be under constant surveillance.

  He passed through the double doors and stopped at the front desk. "I want to see the two vics brought in from Arizona earlier this evening."

  With a nod, the nurse on duty buzzed for a doctor.

  This was the wing where enforcers went when shit got bad in the field. Severin had done his time here after Gina shot him, and Sam had started out here after he changed her into an immortal. Princess Miriam had even paid the unit a visit after her first cobalt overdose, before she stabilized and was moved to a room where she met Io. Hell, was it some kind of requirement that relationships had to start inside the walls of the trauma unit? Did death have to seem imminent for a mating to take place? It sure looked that way if recent history was any indication, but damn, there had to be a better, easier way.

  One of the doctors who had treated Samantha through her transformation approached him. "Hello again, Micah," she said. "How's Sam?" Her name badge read Dr. Fae Snow.

  "She's good."

  "I'm glad to hear it. I hear you want to see our two new guests, is that right?" Dr. Snow was all business. Efficient.

  "Yes, please."

  She was already leading him down the hall. "We've got them in induced comas," she said as she walked briskly through a set of doors, along a short hall, and into a round room. In the center sat an array of desks, personnel, and monitors. The patient rooms were situated on the periphery, with nothing but windows so that each patient never lacked eyes on him or her.

  Dr. Snow led him to a room on the right. "This is Kieran. That's as much as we know about his identity."

  "What the hell?" Micah stared at Kieran's exposed arms and torso. His beige skin was covered in dark—almost black—tattoos. As if they had been burned into his skin.

  "I know," Dr. Snow said. "That's some impressive artwork he's sporting, isn't it?"

  "I'll say." He peered closer and cocked his head to one side. These weren't ordinary tattoos. If he wasn't mistaken, they were warnings, but in a primitive language he'd only seen a handful of times. But clearly, Kieran was marked as an outcast. Ostracized from his clan.

  Micah needed to do some research, but it looked like Kieran held some interesting powers that had spooked his clan badly enough to brand him.

  Dr. Snow checked his vitals. "He was belligerent when they brought him in, suffering from hardcore cobalt withdrawal like nothing I've ever seen. We're keeping him in the coma until we've cleansed his tissues of the worst of it." Dr. Snow placed her hand on Micah's shoulder to get his attention. "Let me show you the other one. He's much worse."

  Micah followed her to the next room over, and his heart broke. This one was merely a boy, not even through his transition to adulthood. He was tall and lanky, with dark hair and tender features. He couldn't have been older than nineteen or twenty and looked like he was being held together by a thick, white bandage. Crimson bled through from, what appeared to be, a gaping wound that started at his sternum and ran down his torso. He imagined the wound extended to the boy's groin, but the sheet was drawn up to keep him covered.

&
nbsp; "What happened to him?"

  Dr. Snow shook her head and bit her lip. Clearly, whatever the boy had endured was gruesome. "It looked like they had begun to dissect him or something. He had been cut open. I have no idea how he survived this long, and it will take a miracle for him to live."

  "I believe in miracles," Micah said. "What do you need to make sure he makes it?"

  With a huff of frustration, Dr. Snow shrugged. "Blood, and lots of it."

  "Done. I'll donate some now and tell everyone on my team to come and do likewise."

  Vampires didn't have blood types. Theirs was universal, even for the mixed-bloods, which this boy was. Micah sensed he was half-human.

  "Do you have a name for him?" he asked.

  "Intel matched up facial indicators to a record of a kid attending the University of Chicago named Savill Hawke. Real loner. Not a lot of friends. The file says he's a musical prodigy. He's in the music program and hasn't been to any classes in about a week. One of the day staff checked out his apartment but no one answered. I'd say he's our boy, but I'm not positive."

  "Have you contacted the parents to see if they can confirm ID?" Micah said.

  "We've tried, but we can't reach them. They're in Europe on some kind of tour."

  "Keep trying. In the meantime, let's go pull some of my blood."

  They left the broken boy behind, and she led him to a small room in back, slipped on gloves, and prepared him.

  As his blood flowed through a tube into a collection bag, Micah stared up at the pocked, white ceiling. He had a lot to chew on. Malek, Gina, Lakota, Sev, and now it looked like Chicago had been used as a collection center for lab rats in Bishop's experiments. He thought about the broken boy, Savill, hooked up to machines, traumatized so violently he had to be placed in an induced coma. In the very next room, a mysterious, marked male recovered from God only knew what. And more victims were on their way, and who knew what ailments and afflictions they would bring with them. On top of that, Trace was still sitting in the king's dungeon, and Micah had no idea whether he was surviving or if his power was slowly eating him alive.

  As Dr. Snow removed the tube and bandaged his arm, he sat up and combed his fingers through his hair.

  "Thank you, Micah," Dr. Snow said as he slipped out the door.

  Micah was a tough-assed male, but even he had limits. He pulled out his phone and called Sam. She was his anchor. His life's blood. The one person who aligned his mind, body, and soul in the midst of chaos. Just her voice would make everything right, even if only for a few minutes.

  "Hi, baby. I was just thinking about you," she said.

  "Hey you. Anything good?"

  "It's always good when I think about you." She laughed that effervescent laugh that was uniquely hers.

  In an instant, his heart mended…and he took his first real breath all night.

  And that was what a mate did for a male. Made him whole. If only Malek would realize that.

  CHAPTER 7

  Led Zeppelin blasted through the sound system in the seven-thousand-square-foot basement Brak had called home for the past twenty-six years, four months, and nine days. But who was counting? He had no windows or exposure to the outside world, and the basement was more a prison than a home, despite its luxury accommodations, but it was better than the last hole he had been relegated to by his keepers.

  Jacob and Haslet were two vampires who, if Brak was given the chance, he would love to destroy. And that was saying something, given that he hated killing. Ironic since that was exactly what his keepers made him do whenever they felt the whim. He didn't have a choice, though. If he refused, they would hurt his father, and Brak wasn't about to lose the only family he had left. If using his power for harm was what it took to keep his father safe and hope alive that one day they would be free again, then he would do it, even though it mentally and physically devastated him.

  Brak set down the set of one-hundred-seventy-five-pound dumbbells he'd just shredded his last set of biceps curls with, snagged his towel off the bench, chugged the last of his bottle of water, and shut off "Kashmir." As he crossed the room to the kitchen, he wiped the sweat off his chest and arms, and grabbed another bottle of water from the fridge, which was growing empty. No worries, though. Another delivery of groceries was due in a couple of days.

  He downed the water by the time he kicked off his shoes and made his way to his studio table. A grand piano rested in the open space a few feet away, and a pair of guitars sat on stands along the wall. He sat down behind his massive studio table, with its computers, mixers, and equipment, and slipped on his headphones. The only thing that made his isolated imprisonment tolerable was his music, his art, and books. And surfing the Internet.

  The world sure had changed since he'd been captured and made into a slave, and he often fantasized what it would be like to see with his own eyes the cities that had sprung up like lighted forests all over the planet. All he knew of this new world, besides what little he saw while he was set loose to work for his keepers, was what he had learned through reading books or on sites such as Wikipedia. Well, and what Cynthia told him. Cynthia was his friend. She watched over him while he recovered from his servitude.

  He was lucky his keepers even granted him access to this new thing called the Internet. For over ten years he had surfed and learned like a sponge, enraptured by the wondrous images on his monitors. He even watched movies. Real movies. His favorites were science fiction and romance, which he had learned from Cynthia was strange. Most men don't enjoy romance, she'd said. But Brak wasn't like most men. He was innately gentle, with simple wants, and a desire for the kind of companionship the men in the movies he watched found with their women.

  Sadly, that wasn't meant to be his life.

  For an hour, he got lost in his music before checking the balance of the bank account Cynthia had helped him set up. She shouldn't have, but she was always helping him do things his keepers didn't want him doing. Sshh. Just between us, she would say, holding her index finger in front of her lips. Brak got the distinct feeling Cynthia wanted to help free him, and when she talked about the outside world, she always seemed to be teaching him what he needed to know to survive. She browsed the Internet with him, showed him maps of the world, taught him the names of all the states, and explained that all the different lines were roads or what she called highways. She showed him pictures of cities, and how they had grown up from before he was imprisoned. And she had taught him about banking and investing, which he was able to do online.

  Brak thought her instruction was odd, given that he was locked in enslavement for God only knew how much longer, but he loved talking to her. He felt like they were conspiring to break him loose, even though he knew there was no way that would ever happen. He would never leave his father behind and in danger like that, so as long as Jacob and Haslet had his father, Brak was relegated to be their puppet.

  "Brak." Jacob's voice barked over the speakers in his cell, loud enough to be heard even though Brak was wearing headphones.

  He slid the headphones back on his head so that they rested around his neck. "Yes?" Oppression weighed down his voice. There was only one reason why his keepers spoke to him. They had a job for him to do.

  "Time to earn your keep," Jacob said.

  Burden weighed on his heart, but Brak set the headphones aside and pulled his long hair back before securing an elastic band around it. He had his father's features, built tall and muscular, with a strong angular face and wavy, dark brown hair. But Cynthia said it was his smile she liked best. Not that he smiled much. He didn't have much reason to smile, except when Cynthia was around. She made him laugh. When she was in his prison home, he felt his spirits lift. The only good thing about these jobs he performed for his keepers was that he got to see her.

  But that was the only good thing. Talk about a Catch-22. To receive a little ray of sunshine, Brak had to go through hell.

  "Fine. Send her in." Brak sat down on his bed, and he rubbed his sweaty pa
lms up and down his thighs as he mentally fortified himself.

  His powers had never been intended for this purpose. Trace was the destroyer. Brak was supposed to be the healer. And together they were yin and yang. Two halves that made a whole. But now Brak had to play destroyer, and his other half was gone. He had never learned what had happened to Trace after the death of their mother. All he knew was that after she died, Trace was gone and Father fell into suffering that led to a coma induced by their mother's magic.

  The door opened and Cynthia walked in and smiled, her brown eyes twinkling. She was a sweet girl, the daughter of his last attendant, who had retired from her role of service.

  "Hi, dahlin'." Her Southern accent brought an instant sense of calm over him.

  "Hi." Brak rubbed his hands over his thighs again. He hated that he had to do this.

  Jacob's voice came over the speaker. "The usual protocol."

  The usual protocol: Kill the targets and return in thirty minutes or less…or else his father would be hurt.

  He exchanged glances with Cynthia, who sat down next to him, her face the picture of compassion. She knew how much he hated the way his life had turned out.

  Brak held out his hand as he usually did and waited for her to give him what he needed.

  She opened her canvas satchel and pulled out a wrapped bundle, which she unfolded until she set two metal badges in his palm. They looked like officer's badges. "Chicago Police" was written on both.

  Brak sighed, lay back, and closed his eyes as he caressed the first badge with his thumb and forefinger.

  His mind raced across the miles, so fast he couldn't focus on the blur of trees, cars, houses, buildings, and past doors. Within seconds, he was standing outside a dark cell in what looked like some kind of modern-day dungeon. Inside, a dreck lay on a small, lumpy mattress.

  At least the target was a dreck. His keepers usually sent him after vampires or humans. Still, his power was meant to heal, not kill, and he would suffer the consequences of abusing what his mother had bestowed upon him in the womb. He always suffered from using his power, but misusing it made the sickness worse.