by Lynne, Donya
With a sigh, Brak's spirit form passed through the bars of the cell.
The dreck sat up, suddenly alert. "Who's there?"
Whoever this dreck was, he couldn't see or hear Brak, but as with most of his victims, he sensed him. Much like humans sensed ghosts or when they were being watched, Brak's targets often felt when he was near.
He didn't know what this dreck had done to deserve the death sentence, and as much as it pained him, Brak pushed forward, knowing that if he didn't do this, his father would suffer. So, Brak suffered for them both.
With the ease of air passing through a door, Brak's invisible hand plunged into the dreck's chest and wrapped around his heart.
The dreck—Brak saw that his name was Grotek—jolted with a grunt, and his eyes shot wide as he clutched his chest. He clawed at Brak's ghostly, invisible hand, trying to grab it or push it away, but it was useless. Brak had Grotek in his grip, and once a victim was in his grasp, there was no escape.
Wincing, Brak squeezed harder. His instincts fought and nagged him that this wasn't how his gift should be used. Nausea roiled in his stomach, and pain shot through his head, but still, he squeezed harder as the dreck struggled. He had no choice.
"Sshh, it will be over soon," Brak whispered, more for himself than the dreck. Trying to comfort those he killed made him feel less like a monster.
Grotek's heart vibrated as if putting up one last surge of fight, and then it finally stopped beating. The dreck slumped forward and Brak let go and pulled out his hand. Grotek fell backward on the bed.
Brak didn't have time to mourn the death—and, yes, even drecks deserved to be mourned. He had to find the next target. He concentrated on the second badge, and within a split second he flashed to one cell over in the same dungeon, where another dreck—he saw his name was Chane—paced near the front of the cell. Clearly, he had heard Grotek's struggles next door.
"Grotek?" Chane called out in the dark as he stopped and peered through the bars. He stood directly in front of Brak.
"I'm sorry," Brak whispered. He reached through the bars and gripped Chane's heart.
Chane shrieked and tried to pull back, but it was too late. He gripped the bars of the cell and pushed, but Brak held strong and pulled him back, inadvertently slamming him against the bars with such force they rattled.
"Don't struggle," Brak said. "It only hurts more if you struggle."
If only his victims could hear him, he could ease them.
Unfortunately, Chane fought to free himself, causing his heart to rupture. Brak lost his grip and tore into Chane's lung as he tried to keep the dreck from falling, but all he did was create a bigger mess. Brak grimaced as Chane fell backward and crashed against the floor, his body arching in a violent show of muscular spasms as he coughed up blood. And then he fell still.
Sure, they were drecks, and they had obviously broken some law against the vampires to be locked up, but causing such horrific injuries when he should have been healing them left Brak feeling empty and horrid. He was an abomination. A freak of nature.
"Hello?"
Brak turned toward the voice that echoed quietly through the narrow aisle. Something about the voice sounded familiar.
"Who's there?" The deep male voice came from another cell.
Brak's ethereal spirit drifted, curious now about who else was in the dungeon with him who had a voice that touched him in a way that felt right…familiar…so like his own.
With a frown, Brak stopped. No. It couldn't be.
"Hello?" The male spoke again, more quietly, as if he sensed Brak, too.
With anticipation driving him, Brak whipped through the darkened aisle and around another corner until he reached the cell where the voice had come from. He peered in, and there, in the shadows…he could see…
"Traceon?"
Trace sat on the floor, his back against the wall, his pale eyes frantic as he clawed his own forearm. "Who's there?" Traceon's eyes darted back and forth, and then narrowed as he strained to see through the darkness. "I can f…feel you." He seemed agitated, and both forearms were streaked with scratch marks, as well as remnants of what appeared to be self-induced bites.
Brak passed into the cell. Was this possible? He had thought Trace lost. Dead. But here he was. His brother. His twin. His other half. The one who balanced him.
"Traceon." Brak touched his brother's face.
Trace visibly calmed, and the agitation left him as he sighed. This was what they did for each other. They brought balance to each other's power. Brak allowed Trace to heal his deep-seated depravity, and Trace allowed Brak to embrace something darker without the nasty side effects he would no doubt experience as soon as he returned to his body. But he and Trace needed to be together for the fusion of their power to be effective. Together, they were more powerful than any creature known on earth. Mother had seen to that from their conception. It was her way to protect them.
"I'm here. You can't hear me, but you can feel me, can't you?" Brak brushed his hand down one of Trace's forearms, and then the other. The cuts and fading scars disappeared. How perfect it felt to heal, not hurt. This was what he was made for. Kneeling down, he placed his invisible hand on Trace's forehead. "Find peace, my brother."
Trace's power required constant maintenance to keep from blowing out of proportion and tipping the scale toward mutancy. How had Trace survived this long away from him? Without Brak, Trace should have been dead by now. Unless he had found another way to control his power.
The idea of what it took for Trace to stay under control sent a shiver through Brak's ethereal manifestation.
"Brak?" Trace lifted his arm and stared at his now-healed skin.
Brak had to hurry. His time was running out. With a leap, he entered Trace's body. Trace sucked in a loud gasp, and his body jerked violently as he accepted his brother's spirit inside him.
It had been too long since they had joined like this, and in Trace's weakened condition, the fusion was hard on his body. But it was the quickest way to collect information.
What Brak found hurt his heart.
Sorrow…pain…suffering…loneliness. Trace had spent the last two hundred years in a living hell. He blamed himself for Mother's death. He tortured himself and lived in constant agony, and his power was a scourge to his existence. God! The depraved acts Trace had subjected himself to in order not to lose control of his power made Brak sick. He had failed his brother by not being there. How had Trace survived?
Brak pushed forward into the present and saw friends. Close friends. One named Micah and another named Sam. They were important to Trace. Very important. Especially Micah. They saved him. Somehow, they kept Trace safe now.
So, where was he? Where was this dungeon Trace was held in? Brak dug deeper and saw Chicago. Trace was an enforcer in Chicago and had been arrested. Why? What had happened? This didn't make sense. What had Trace done to deserve this punishment?
He invaded Trace's mind further in an attempt to find the answer, but his search ended abruptly as he hit a memory he hadn't expected to find. What the fuck? Fury rose like a violent storm. So fierce was the rush of outrage that Brak was flung from Trace's body, and his ghostly visage slingshot past the walls of the dungeon and away from his brother as he careened out of control in a whirlwind of rage.
He might be the gentle twin, but that didn't mean he didn't have his moments. And as soon as he found Jacob and Haslet, they would know just how bad shit got when he had a moment.
They had lied to him. His father was no longer in their care. Trace had found him in some kind of lab and stolen him back to Chicago.
Which meant Jacob and Haslet were as good as dead.
* * *
Trace gasped and sucked in rapid gulps of air as Brak's presence shot from his body.
"Brak!"
He was alive. His twin was alive. For so long he had tried to find him, and even though he had still been able to feel Brak's life force on occasion, he had begun to think it was all in his imag
ination and that Brak was dead. Along with his father. But in a matter of days, he found out he had been wrong. Both his father and his brother still lived.
"Brak!" He shot up from the floor in his cell and gripped the bars that kept him prisoner just as guards rushed into the cellblock to his left, bringing with them a din of commotion.
The scent of death hung like fog in the closed-in space, and metal clanged against metal as two cell doors slid open. He couldn't see them, but he could hear them, and now that he was lucid and no longer hanging by his last thread of sanity—thanks to his brother's ability to cleanse him—he realized that the two drecks who had been his neighbors since the day after he went into lockup were dead. Something—or someone—had killed them.
Brak.
But that wasn't Brak's purpose. Why would he kill?
The slow, measured clack…clack…clack of high-heeled boots made their way toward his cell, and when he glanced up, that bitch Cordray slinked around the corner. Her long, black hair was braided in about a hundred tiny braids that swished as she walked, and a black, sleeveless tank that shimmered and hung loosely over her large breasts showed off the multihued tattoos across her chest and down both arms. He growled and stepped away from the bars. He didn't want to be anywhere near her.
She stopped in front of his cell. Her eyes were such a bright blue, they cut through the darkness and practically glowed. "Hello, Trace. Hear or see anything interesting lately?" She tapped the nail of her index finger against one of the bars.
"No." He took to the shadows in the back of his cell and sat down on the floor in the corner but kept his eyes glued to hers.
She knelt down on her haunches. "Are you sure?"
"Positive." The word oozed from his lips like a lethal hiss.
Her eyes narrowed and her red lips curled into a tight smile. "You seem…better." She tilted her head to one side as if studying him. "The last time I saw you, you were a bit of a mess, Trace. Your skin mangled by your own fingernails…" She waved one elegant hand. "Bite marks up and down both arms…" She took a slow breath. "You were rocking like Rain Man. Now…" she nodded toward his pristine arms. "You look perfectly fine, not a scratch on you. I wonder, Trace, if this has anything to do with the two dead drecks down the passage. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? By the way, who's Brak?"
Trace bared his fangs and hissed. He. Did. Not. Like. This. Bitch.
"Now, that's not very nice." She clucked her tongue as she raised her hand and curled her fingers in such a way as to appear she was holding the bar, but the silver glint of a razor caught his eye. She lowered her voice to a whisper so quiet no surveillance camera would pick it up. "Especially since I come bearing gifts."
The razor called to him. Brak had tamped down his power for now, but it was only a matter of time before he would need a way to keep his power at bay again. The razor would help. But why had she brought it to him?
Wary of her intentions, Trace crab-walked to the bars and reached for the tiny piece of sharp metal.
His gaze met Cordray's when their fingers touched, and he growled at her.
"Don't worry, asshole, the feeling's mutual," she whispered and released the slice of metal so he could take it.
He snarled and folded his hand around the blade. "Why the gift?"
"Because I refuse to see you go mutant this close to the king's family."
The dungeon was connected to the royal home by way of a series of underground tunnels, so her fears were founded.
"Why don't you just bring Micah to me and save yourself the trouble," he whispered back as he tucked the razor into his pocket. Micah could take care of Trace's needs. He would know just what to do to keep Trace's power at bay. "Better yet, release me to his care. He can lock me down inside AKM and take care of me there."
Cordray scowled. "Sorry. No can do. You'll just have to wait to kiss your boyfriend until after you're released."
Trace arched his eyebrow. "Jealous much?"
"You wish."
They were practically nose-to-nose at the bars of his cell as the guards down the way shouted out orders and made enough noise to drown out Niagara Falls.
"You're not my type." Trace sneered and stared her down as if she were prey.
"You got that right." She met his gaze without flinching, throwing a few eye daggers back at him while she was at it.
"You'll never be anyone's type. You're just a cold, frigid bitch."
Cordray smiled and showed her fangs. "Awe, flattery will get you nowhere."
They sat and glared at each other a moment longer, and then Cordray pushed away and stood up. "I'd love to stay and insult you longer, but I have a mystery to solve about how someone stole into our dungeon and killed two drecks and left not a…trace…of himself. You sure you don't want to tell me who Brak is?"
Trace rose to his full height and leveled her with an icy stare. "I have no clue what you're talking about."
"Uh-huh." She tapped her temple with her index finger and gave him a cozy grin. "I'll bet."
That bitch. She had dug into his mind and gathered everything she needed about his brother, and he hadn't even felt her, too busy fronting than to notice the sensation of crawling worms inside his head. A sensation he now felt cease as she pulled herself from his thoughts. How the hell did she do that, anyway? Not even Micah could drill through his mental defenses, and that guy saw all.
He lunged for the bars and shot his arm out with such speed Cordray couldn't get away. His fist latched on to a handful of braids and yanked her back. "You leave Brak out of this, or I swear to God, I will kill you first chance I get."
She hissed and snarled at him. "Do I look scared?"
"You should be." He yanked her closer. So close he could feel her blood coursing through her carotid…smell its lustrous scent. He needed to feed, and she smelled heavenly.
"Those drecks could have led us back to Bishop." She bit the words at him like an accusation. "Now they're dead before I could get more out of them. Your goddamn brother is to blame. He's interfered with a top priority royal investigation and will fry once Bain gets hold of him."
"You leave him alone. If he did this, he had good reason." Desperation tugged at Trace's heart. He couldn't let Brak suffer for what he had done. There had to be a good reason why Brak had turned to killing. He never would have done it otherwise.
"Oh yeah? Well, I can't wait to talk to him to find out what that reason is."
His right hand twitched. All it would take to protect his brother would be to close his hand into a fist, and he could crush her heart. Or her brain. Or her spine. He could kill her so easily in so many ways…right now…with nothing more than a thought.
Sudden fear shone in her eyes. She could sense how close to death she was. Well, goody for her. Now maybe she would understand just who she was fucking with and think twice before going all Lewis and Clark through his thoughts.
Even though the thought of killing her to shut her up was tempting, he couldn't. He just couldn't. The will was there, but the follow-through wasn't. For some reason he wasn't able to put a finger on, he knew killing her would be a colossal mistake, and not just because she had some tight-and-cozy relationship with the king, who held her in the highest regard and would surely execute Trace if he murdered her. No. There was something else. A feeling…a mental nudge of warning that said he would regret killing her on a scale so large he couldn't even fathom it.
He let go of her hair and shoved her away.
She spun, hit the opposite wall, and then stared back at him as if she couldn't believe he had let go.
After several long, terse seconds, Cordray finally huffed and took a wary step forward. "Okay fine, asshole. Play this your way." She jabbed her finger at him. "I'll keep my mouth shut. For now. But when you're out of here, you and I will have a little date with your brother. If I'm not impressed, his ass is mine. So you'd better hope to God he impresses me." She spun on her heel and stormed down the passageway in those sexy stilet
to boots of hers as if she was late for a pressing engagement, leaving Trace alone with thoughts of his brother, a razor…and a raging hard-on.
Fuck me.
How that female always managed to scare his power into oblivion and leave him in a state of amplified arousal was a mindfuck greater than the mindfuck Micah had worked on him at Mistress Diamond's scene party weeks ago. Now if he could just bottle that shit and dose on it whenever he needed a fix, he wouldn't need the goddamn razor in his pocket. And he wouldn't need to see her again.
Bitch.
CHAPTER 8
Sweat poured out Malek's body as he unloaded another volley of roundhouses, cross-jabs, and uppercuts on the four punching bags hanging in a quadrangle in the corner of the training center inside AKM. He'd been at it for over an hour, with no sign of letting up. His lungs burned, his muscles ached, but he couldn't stop. Not when The Voice still heckled him.
I told you she was dead.
Shut up.
But you had to go and think that image in your dining room was real.
Shut the fuck up.
If you would just accept that Carmen's gone, everything will be fine.
Fuck you. It will not be fine.
I'm not going anywhere until you get your head out of your ass or die, asshole, so deal with me. She. Is. Dead. And Gina is the solution.
"I said, shut up!" Malek flung himself at one of the punching bags, unloading enough aggression through his fists and legs that the leather, already duct-taped several times to hold the damn thing together, ripped apart.
Malek lowered his arms and backed away, watching sand spill from the tear like blood from a wound. Good. One enemy down, three to go.
Now I know you're losing your mind. You think a punching bag is the enemy.
Let's pretend it was you. Does that make you feel better?
The question is, does it make you feel better?
"Fuckin' A, it does." The grin that spread over Malek's face could only be described as psychopathic.
After his ghostly encounter with Carmen's hallucination this morning—and his subsequent meltdown—he had come into AKM before the sun rose, got about a minute of sleep in his dorm, then hit the training center. That had been hours ago. He had run twenty miles on a treadmill, rode another twenty on a bike, then hit the weights for an hour or so, went back to the treadmill, and then moved on to the punching bags.