In the Heart of Darkness

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In the Heart of Darkness Page 12

by Reinke, Sara


  “No,” Andrei said, his brows crimping slightly. “But I can boil a pot of water. That ought to work to sterilize your tools.”

  Smart ass, Mason thought with a scowl. “How about an MRI?”

  “No. But I have a portable ultrasound for vascular imaging.”

  Mason took it from the younger man, studied it a moment, then arched his brow. “This is for animals,” he said, shoving it back at Andrei. “Veterinary grade.”

  “Beggars shouldn’t be choosers,” Andrei told him. And he had a point, Mason realized.

  Goddamn it.

  “Nikolić said you’d be helping me,” he said at last and Andrei nodded.

  “I was a combat medic for six years. Trained at the Serbian Army 512th Medical Education Center. Went to medical school for two years at the Military Academy in Belgrade before the—”

  Mason nodded, cutting him short. “Yeah, yeah. Let me see your hands.”

  Visibly puzzled, Andrei frowned. “What?”

  “Your hands,” Mason repeated. “Hold them up. Let me see them.” When Andrei complied, Mason shook his head. “Won’t work.” To Nikolić, he said more loudly, “This won’t work. His hands are as big as mine. I need someone with smaller hands to assist so they don’t get in my way.”

  “You’re wasting time, Dr. Morin,” Nikolić said.

  Mason bristled. “No, you are,” he snapped. “There’s no point in cutting on this man if I don’t have the fucking help I need to do it right. Your medic and I would just be bumping into each other left and right. I need an assistant with smaller goddamn hands if you want this to work.”

  He met Nikolić’s gaze and held it, his hands balled into fists, his brows furrowed. After a long moment—with the tension in the room ratcheted so tightly, you could’ve heard a mouse drop a shit on the tiles—Nikolić cut Andrei a glance. Andrei said something in another language that Mason didn’t understand. Nikolić, however, must have; he nodded once, then turned to Scarred Guy. He said something quietly, quickly, and Scarred Guy turned on his boot heel, hurrying from the room.

  “I’ll get you your help,” Nikolić told Mason.

  “Good,” Mason said. “Get me some goddamn soap, too. Andrei and I need to scrub up.”

  * * *

  Scarred Guy returned a few minutes later with Mason’s new “help” in tow—a young girl introduced as Sofiya. She had large, frightened eyes and a collar like the ones Mason and Edith had been forced to wear.

  “She’d a kid,” Mason said incredulously. “She’s all of…what? Twelve years old?

  “Eighteen,” Nikolić replied wanly. “All of my girls—they’re at least eighteen.”

  Mason didn’t believe him. Not for a minute. “How old are you?” he asked Sofiya. Instead of responding, she only shrank back against the nearest wall, her eyes widening all the more as she blinked up at him. Mason swung to glare at Nikolić. “She’s mute?”

  “She doesn’t speak English,” Nikolić replied. “Only Russian.”

  Great, Mason thought. This just keeps getting better and better.

  “I’ll translate for you, Dr. Morin,” Andrei offered. He’d squatted on the floor beside his oversized duffel bag, pulling out more equipment and supplies: a half dozen vials of different kinds of medicines, and IV bags of fluids in various sizes and quantities.

  Mason picked up one of the vials, surprised but impressed. “Where’d you get this?”

  “I’ve got ways,” Andrei said with a shrug.

  “Yeah?” Mason was admittedly impressed. “It’s Diprivan, a short-acting sedative. We can run this by IV drip and keep him knocked out. We don’t have a pump, so we’re going to have to count the drips manually, and use the roller clamp on the IV line to adjust the rate. Can I put you in charge of that? I’ll tell you what to set it to.”

  Andrei nodded. “Da, Dr. Morin.”

  I might have to start liking this guy, Mason thought. “Good. And you’re also in charge of keeping track of his vital signs.” He grabbed a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff from Andrei’s supplies. “Every fifteen minutes, I want you to shout out his BP, heart rate, and respirations. I’m going to be busy so I can’t remind you—it’s important, so you need to remember to do it.”

  Andrei nodded again. “Da, Doctor.”

  Mason walked Andrei and Sofiya through the process of sterilely draping Piotr, and prepping his skin with betadine for surgery. He showed them how to scrub up, and explained how to maintain the sterile field during the procedure. He did all of this knowing there was no way in hell it was going to work, knowing damn good and well that Piotr was, in all likelihood, going to die on that kitchen table right in front of them.

  But what choice do I have? he thought, remembering the stark terror in Edith’s face when he’d come stumbling in through the back door, thinking about how frightened she must still be feeling with Nikolić’s hench-wench glued to her side.

  “I need for you and all of these men to get out of here.” Mason pointed to Nikolić and the half-dozen or so goons hanging around in the kitchen. “And no one comes in while we’re working, you got it? We’re going to have a hell of a time keeping this even remotely sterile as it is.”

  Nikolić studied him for a moment, as if debating the wisdom of leaving Mason out of his sight.

  “I got him, šef,” Andrei said, reaching beneath his black T-shirt at the small of his back and pulling out a large, chrome-plated handgun. He held it up, thumbing the safety off noticeably for what Mason suspected was both his benefit, as well as Nikolić’s. The word šef sounded close enough to its English counterpart that, especially given the context, Mason needed no translation: chief.

  At this, Nikolić nodded in satisfied concession. “I’ll have armed men outside that door…and that…” He nodded once to indicate the back door, then again toward the door connecting the kitchen to the rest of the house. “And Andrei will keep his sidearm with him—all times.” Another pointed glance at his watch. “You have four hours, thirteen minutes remaining.”

  * * *

  Four hours later, Mason and Andrei sat beside each other on the rickety back stoop, each of them blood-splattered and exhausted. Andrei pulled a rumpled pack of cigarettes out of one of the deep pockets of his fatigue pants and shook one out, slipping it between his lips. Offering the pack to Mason, he said, “You smoke?”

  “Yeah.” Mason drew one from the pack and noticed his fingers were trembling. Pushing the Marlboro into his mouth, he rubbed his hands against his thighs, as if hoping to wipe away the tremors.

  “You did good in there.” Andrei used an old, battered Zippo to light his cigarette, then leaned over to touch the dancing flame to Mason’s.

  “Yeah?” Mason managed a weary laugh. “Tell that to my hands.”

  He drew in deeply, feeling the coarse scrape of smoke against the back of his throat, the bitter taste of it against his tongue. It had been awhile since he’d last smoked tobacco; in a vain effort to kick the habit altogether, he’d switched over to clove cigarettes of late. But old habits died hard, and old vices, even harder, and he had to admit, in that moment, the Marlboro tasted good. And felt even better.

  “He’s still alive,” Andrei remarked pointedly, taking in a long drag from his own cigarette.

  “For now, yeah. There’s that,” Mason agreed. And Edith still has all of her fingers, he added in his mind. “Thanks for your help. I’m sorry about earlier. I…was an asshole. I guess I underestimated you.”

  Andrei shrugged. “That’s alright. You aren’t what I expected, either…for what you are.”

  Mason cocked his brow, puzzled. “What?”

  “You know.” Andrei hooked his hands like claws and pretended to snarl. “Strigoi,” he said, an unfamiliar word to Mason. In translation, Andrei said, “A vampire.”

  Mason choked on smoke, nearly dropping the cigarette altogether in his surprise. “You mean, Nikolić told you?” he croaked once he’d reclaimed his breath.

  His reaction apparent
ly amused Andrei, who tipped his head back and chuckled. “Sure,” he said. “And I’ve met others like you before.”

  Others? Mason thought—and then he realized. The Davenants.

  “But they’re different,” Andrei continued. “When they look at you, you can feel them thinking about it…wanting to feed from you. They remind me of a karakurt…a type of spider from my country. They look at you like you’re…food. But you seem almost human.”

  “Thanks. I think.” Mason raised his brow. “So do you.” He looked over his shoulder. “Where did Sofiya go?”

  The girl had surprised Mason during the surgery. She hadn’t as much as flinched even once and had never questioned his instructions or failed to do what he needed of her. But as soon as they’d finished, Sofiya went calmly over to the nearest trash can, leaned over, and vomited. Mason still felt bad about that; he’d underestimated her, too. Once or twice during the surgery, he’d managed to coax a smile from her, but these had been reluctant sorts, guarded—as if she’d expected him to follow up his kind words with a physical blow.

  “Don’t know.” Andrei blew a stream of smoke out of his nose. “She probably found something else to get into. Nikolić keeps about a dozen like her around here. They help with different things—laundry, cooking, cleaning. Whatever.” He shrugged.

  It was the whatever part that worried Mason. He’d seen TV newscasts about young girls bought and sold into sexual slavery. There seemed no other likely explanation for Sofiya’s presence among such rough company.

  “Why the collar?” Mason asked. “She’s not…what did you call my kind?”

  “Strigoi,” Andrei supplied helpfully and Mason nodded. “She’s not, no. But hers is different. It’s a shock collar.” When Mason’s eyes widened, he had the decency to at least look sheepish. “All of the girls wear them here. Keeps them under control, Vladan says. Stops them from trying to run away.”

  “Nikolić said she only speaks Russian,” Mason said. “Is that where you’re from, too—you and Nikolić? You’re Russian?”

  Andrei laughed. “Fuck, no,” he said. “Draško Radojević—Vladan’s uncle—is head of the Žarkovo branch of the Serbian mob back in Belgrade.”

  “You’re Serbian?” Mason asked and Andrei nodded. “What are you doing stateside then?”

  And how the hell did Phillip and the Davenants wind up involved with you?

  Andrei looked away, his gaze traveling out across the back alley as he drew in again on his cigarette. “Vlad and I…we served together in the Serbian Army during the Yugoslav wars. The Psi Rata, they called our unit.” For Mason’s benefit, he added by way of translation, “The Dogs of War.” Smoke trailed from his nostrils in thin, lazy wisps and his expression grew distant, almost melancholy. “We were just kids back then. You know how kids can be…the crazy shit they do.”

  Before Mason could ask about the sort of crazy shit Andrei had in mind—crazy enough, apparently, to leave the so-called Dogs of War living on the legal down-low, at least from the looks of things—the back door swung open, creaking on its rusty hinges and Nikolić tromped outside. Scarred Guy trailed behind him, carrying an assault rifle unslung and in his hands.

  Nikolić held a cellphone to his ear and when his gaze settled on Mason, his smile widened. “…the man of the hour right now,” he was saying. “There was no way they could save the arm, ljubavi, but Dr. Morin assures me that Piotr will survive.”

  Mason stiffened, the cigarette tumbling from his fingers in his surprise. “What? I never—” he began, but when both the guard behind Nikolić and Scarred Guy suddenly ratcheted their guns, Mason didn’t miss the unspoken implication: Shut the fuck up.

  “Yes, Anna, the doctor’s personal guarantee,” Nikolić continued, his dark eyes boring into Mason. “Yes, I think he understands what will happen if he’s wrong.” Lowering the phone from his face for a moment, he said, “Andrei, take the good doctor to his room. See that he’s made comfortable and wants for nothing we can reasonably provide. In fact, give him the grand tour. After all…” His smile stretched all the wider. “He’s going to be with us for a while.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  September, 1792

  “It’s about bloody time you arrived.” Mason pretended to scowl, his arms folded across his chest, as Julien rode up to the springhouse.

  “What? Have you been waiting long?” Julien asked with a grin, swinging his leg around the saddle crest and dismounting before his sorrel mare had even come to a halt. He slapped the horse lightly in the rump to send her on into the woods, snuffling along the ground, and walked toward Mason, his gait leisurely, his stride long.

  As soon as the younger man came within arm’s length, Mason reached out, clasping him by the back of the head. Julien’s smile widened as Mason drew him forward; it widened all the more as Mason leaned down, pressing his lips to Julien’s. The kiss lingered, then deepened, Mason’s tongue delving between Julien’s lips.

  “Did you miss me?” Julien whispered as they drew apart.

  “Always.” Mason cradled his face between his hands, brushing the tip of his nose lightly against Julien’s. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

  Julien smiled again. “Speaking of which…” he said, his eyebrow arching slightly. His hands fell between them and Mason felt him tugging at the waist cord of his breeches, untying them.

  “Julien,” he whispered, draping his hands atop the younger man’s. “Wait.”

  “I think I’ve kept you waiting long enough for one day.” Julien lowered himself to his knees, the pine needles and fallen leaves crumpling beneath him. As he moved, he hooked his fingers beneath the waist of Mason’s breeches, tugging them down, leaving Mason’s cock, already stirring with arousal, exposed.

  “Someone might see…” Mason began, but his voice faded, along with his protests, as Julien curled his fingers around his thick shaft. Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes and uttered a low, breathless groan as Julien took him into his mouth.

  Mason was large; it wasn’t anything he bragged about, but simply a matter of genetics. His father had been tall; he was tall. Everything about his anatomy was appropriately proportionate. In past trysts, whenever lovers had tried to please him with their mouth, the effort to accommodate him had choked them. But Julien had never had this problem; he didn’t seem to have a gag reflex at all. As Mason’s arousal grew, his cock growing harder, thicker, longer, he felt himself slide down into the snug sheath of Julien’s throat not just once or twice, but again and again, as Julien drew him in and out, guiding him with his tongue.

  “God Almighty,” Mason whispered, tangling his fingers in Julien’s hair, rocking his hips forward to match him stroke for stroke. Sometimes he would let Julien finish him that way, but that afternoon, he wanted more than the younger man’s mouth.

  Though it was nearly agonizing to do so, he stepped back, drawing away from Julien. Gasping softly for breath, Julien blinked up at him, his blue eyes hooded and hungry. Mason knelt before him, grabbing the nape of his neck once more and jerking him forward, kissing him fiercely. Their tongues tangled, and Julien shrugged his shoulders, helping as Mason shoved his jacket away. He raised his hips as Mason fumbled with the ties to his breeches, pushing them down, wrenching his shirt tails loose.

  Julien turned around on his knees, presenting his back to Mason. Leaning into him, Mason eased him down to all fours against the carpeting of leaves on the forest floor. He kissed Julien’s ear, the slope of his neck, his shoulder. He then drew his fingertips to his mouth, dampening them with his saliva, and reached between them, positioning the thick head of his arousal against Julien’s threshold. Using the saliva to ease his entry, he slowly sank into the younger man’s incredible warmth, inch by needful inch.

  Julien’s breath shuddered from him, his fingers hooking into the dirt as Mason filled him, sliding all of the way to the base of his cock, the flat plane of his groin coming to rest against Julien’s buttocks. He uttered a low groan as Mason dr
ew back, slowly, gently, then another as he sank into him again, a quicker, harder thrust this time.

  God, I could never grow tired of making love to you, Mason thought, drawing Julien onto his knees again, leaning him back against his chest. Julien rolled his hips, moving Mason in and out, as he tilted his head back into Mason’s shoulder. Mason wrapped his hand around Julien’s cock and began to stroke him, matching the rhythm he set with his hips.

  He loved the sound of Julien’s sharp, urgent gasps, his low, breathless groans as the younger man neared climax. Within moments, Julien reached up, tangling his fingers in Mason’s hair, clutching at him as he found release. His back arched and he cried out softly, hoarsely against Mason’s ear as his seed—hot, thick, and wet—spattered against Mason’s hand and wrist.

  That’s it, Mason whispered to him telepathically. He pushed Julien onto the ground again, then rolled him onto his back. One at a time, he removed Julien’s riding boots, then pulled his breeches fully down and away from him. As he lowered himself, leaning over, Julien wrapped his legs around his waist, lifting his hips. Mason folded himself over Julien, kissing him fiercely, feeling Julien’s fingers tangle in his hair as he again slid past the younger man’s threshold, settling into his warm, tight sheath.

  Julien moaned against his mouth as he began to move. “Look at me,” Mason pleaded breathlessly. “Open your eyes…look at me…”

  He cupped his hands together behind Julien’s head, resting his weight against them as he fell into a vigorous rhythm. Julien looked up at him, his blue eyes piercing, his lips parted slightly, his breath shuddering from him with each pounding thrust. His cheeks were flushed, his hair sweat-dampened, his skin dewy with a light sheen of perspiration.

  “You’re so beautiful,” Mason gasped, kissing him again. God Almighty, Julien, don’t you realize…? You’re so beautiful to me…

  He cried out sharply as he came, the shock of pleasure stripping the breath from him. Trembling and spent in the wake of his release, he crumpled against Julien’s chest. For the longest time, they remained that way, unmoving in each other’s arms, and then Julien canted his head, turning his face down so he could brush his lips lightly against Mason’s.

 

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