by Reinke, Sara
“It burns,” he gasped, and when Nikolić turned him loose, he rolled onto his side, shuddering as he drew his knees toward his chest. “Oh…Jesus Christ, what the fuck did you put in me? It’s burning!”
But he knew what it was—the same goddamn stuff they’d put inside Piotr, the same stuff Edith had been so desperate to destroy.
It’s in me, he thought, his fingers scrabbling weakly against the tiled floor. The heat had reached his mind now, tugging at his consciousness, dragging him into shadows. He struggled to stay awake, because all at once, to his bright, growing terror, he realized if he passed out, there was a very good chance he might never wake up again. Oh, God, it’s in me now!
If it was the same as the first blood, he’d be alright. He’d seen the results of ingesting it first-hand, both with Aaron and their father. But Edith had told him she didn’t know if that’s what the vials had contained.
Phillip was a molecular virologist—he specialized in genetically reprogramming infectious agents. God only knows what he did with it from there. He could have manipulated the prions any number of ways.
Which meant what had happened to Piotr—the overwhelming hunger of the bloodlust amplified to unimaginable and unbearable degrees, and the madness that had come from trying to slake it—could very well happen to him, too. Piotr had been little more than a kid, as clumsy and unfamiliar with the need to feed as the methods of hunting and subduing his prey.
But not me, Julien realized in mounting alarm. For two centuries, he’d done nothing except master the arts of fighting and delivering death. His father had forced the instincts of a natural-born killer upon him, had brutally instilled them and made frequent, ruthless demands of them. If Phillip’s serum intensified those instincts—and his own inherent desires to satisfy them—then God help anyone who happened to be near him when the bloodlust kicked in.
Because I’ll tear them apart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The roar of the crowd had long since faded into silence. The tiered seats sat empty now, the upper level boxes abandoned and shadow-draped. The warehouse doors had been rolled down, the parking areas emptied, and the expansive concrete floors lay littered with empty bottles, cigarette butts, spent roaches, discarded condoms. The stage lights had been dimmed; the intermittent emergency bulbs winked and flickered, casting eerie glow down onto the vacant mat and steel-ringed cage below.
Mason’s footsteps echoed in this vast empty space. The sound of his ragged breath seemed unnaturally loud, even to his own sensitive ears. He watched his shadow ebb and flow in a pool beneath him as he marched along, passing beneath the overhead lights. Behind him, a pair of armed guards matched him step for step, the soles of their boots falling heavily against the floor. When they reached the ring, one of them pushed Mason face-first and spread-eagle against the chain link fencing while the other opened the gate. It squalled on its hinges, the sound like fingernails against a chalkboard, making Mason cringe.
“Come on,” the guard said to him. Or at least, something to that effect; it was hard for Mason to tell, since the guy spoke exclusively Russian. But he gleaned the guard’s meaning without a problem—the jab of the rifle muzzle between his shoulder blades needed no clarification or translation whatsoever.
Mason stepped through the gateway and into the ring. He heard the hinges creak again, and the disharmonic clang of metal on metal as the guards closed the gate. He glanced over his shoulder, then turned in a slow-moving circle, his brows narrowed as he swept his gaze around him.
He heard a metallic snap as a spotlight came on overhead. Beneath it, now framed in a bright white glow that spilled in a broad, circular circumference directly in front of him, was a large, clear plastic panel of some sort lying on the mat. Curious, he stepped closer and realized it was a plastic riot shield, the kind police and SWAT team officers used, with a sling-like strap through which he could slip his arm, and a brushed steel handle to then grip once the shield was in place.
What the hell? he thought with a frown. More lights came to life from different angles all around him, blinding him with sudden glare. Mason shrank back, drawing his hand to his face to try and shield his eyes.
“What the hell’s going on, Nikolić?” he shouted, his voice reverberating off the walls of the arena and the ceiling. “Enough games, enough fucking around!”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, Dr. Morin.”
Nikolić spoke through the loudspeaker system; his voice seemed to come from all directions at once. Mason turned, looking around for him, and found him at last, seated and seemingly comfortable in his customary box overlooking the fight ring.
“Where’s Sofiya?” Mason snapped. “You son of a bitch, if you’ve hurt her—!”
Nikolić laughed. “I assure you, she is very much alive and well and where she belongs. I sent her back to the house to be punished for her…misbehavior. But don’t worry. I’ve found new dates for us both.”
As he spoke, Anna strolled forward from the back of the booth. She took a seat beside Nikolić, resting her head on his shoulder while she nursed a glass of champagne. On his opposite side, secured with handcuffs to the brass railing of the booth, duct tape covering her mouth, Edith stood wide-eyed and squirming.
“Edith…!” Mason closed his hands into fists, his brows narrowing. “What the fuck do you want? Why is she here?”
“The same reason you are, Dr. Morin,” Nikolić replied, drawing the slim microphone to his mouth and speaking with an unmistakable smirk. “Dr. Averay has a lesson to learn tonight. A very important one.” Unfurling his legs, he rose from his seat and gazed imperiously down at the stage. “Tell me, have you ever seen a dog fight?”
Mason’s frown deepened. “No. I’m more of a soccer guy.”
Nikolić chuckled, low and rumbling through the loudspeakers. “It’s not uncommon for fighting dogs to train in the same rings in which they fight. They practice by using what is known as bait—weaker animals, usually strays, but sometimes dogs of a finer…how do you say? Pedigree.” With a pointed look at Mason, he added, “Ones that are stolen from their homes.”
“What the hell are you…?” Mason began, but when he heard the screech of the gate hinges behind him again, he turned around. Two more guards stood on the other side of the chain link fence, pushing a hooded figure through the opened threshold. They slammed the gate quickly, loudly, and clapped a heavy padlock in place, locking them in.
“Julien?” Mason couldn’t be certain, not at first, and not just because the man wore the tight-fitting leather mask fashioned like a dog’s head, obscuring his face from view. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the tattoos on the man’s back and arms, Mason wouldn’t have recognized him at all. Gone was the strong, poised champion he’d seen earlier in the ring; this man stood somewhat hunched over, his knees bowed, his arms drawn in toward his midriff in a strange, almost guarded posture.
“Julien?” he said again, more loudly this time, and Julien turned his face in Mason’s direction. The blindfold panel was in place, and he reached up, pawing clumsily at the mask, trying to take it off. “Holy God, what has that son of a bitch done to you? Here…”
Mason hurried across the ring to him. From above, he heard Edith utter a muffled mewling sound, one that seemed to grow shriller and more urgent the closer he got to Julien. Julien reacted to his approach, as well; he froze, again jerking his head around to face Mason. His entire body went rigid, the muscles bridging his neck and shoulders taut and strained. Mason could hear him breathing, a labored, snuffling sound from inside the mask, but more than this—it sounded almost like Julien was sniffing, or rather snorting loudly. Not struggling to breathe, but…
Smelling. Like he’s a dog or something…
He didn’t have time to even finish the thought. Edith’s voice ripped up into a frantic, muffled scream as Julien suddenly sprang at Mason, cat-like and unexpected, knocking him backwards, flat on his back. Mason landed hard, the breath crushed from him as Julien fell
atop him, lunging for his neck.
He straddled Mason’s chest, clamping his hands against Mason’s shoulders to hold him down as he mashed the snout of his mask directly into Mason’s throat. From beneath the confines of the mask came horrible sounds—though nothing resembling words—and through the thick leather, Mason could feel Julien’s mouth moving over and over, the sharp edges of his teeth digging repeatedly into his skin before slipping loose and losing purchase.
He’s trying to bite me! he thought in confused alarm, trying vainly to shove Julien away from him. “Julien, stop,” he exclaimed. “It’s me! What are you—oooowwww!”
Julien’s teeth cut into his flesh deep enough to draw blood, despite the leather mask between them. Even though he was blindfolded, he must have smelled this, because he suddenly became ravenous, shoving down with his face hard enough against Mason’s throat to push against his windpipe. Mason struggled beneath him, driving his fists into Julien’s arms, his shoulders and side. He bucked his hips, trying to throw him off, but to no avail.
“Julien, stop!” Choked for breath, he rammed his fist directly into Julien’s ribcage, the still raw and wounded place where Anna had stabbed him—and where he now sported broken ribs. He heard Julien utter a low cry and he fell sideways. Mason shoved him, knocking him away, then rolled onto his side, gasping for breath and clutching at his throat. The bite wound was shallow, but hurt like hell. His eyes watering as he gulped in air, he glanced over his shoulder in bewildered shock, looking back at Julien.
The younger man had crawled away from Mason toward the far corner of the ring, again crutching his wounded side with his hand.
“What are you doing?” Mason cried at him, his voice hoarse and strained. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Again Julien reached up, grabbing at his mask. He shook his head furiously, a garble of inarticulate noises that sounded for all the world like growling escaping from beneath the confines of the leather. When he managed to hook his fingertips beneath the edge of the leather in the back, he clawed at it, jerking and tugging until at last he wrenched it loose. With a cry, he threw the mask aside, then stumbled to his feet. His back was to Mason, the gate in front of them. The two guards remained on the other side, close enough so that when Julien sprang forward, leaping at the gate, they didn’t have time to do more than cry out in startled fright and manage a single, stumbling step back from the threshold apiece before Julien hit the fence. Hooking his fingers and toes through the chain links, he shoved his arm through the narrow opening between the gate and the support post. His fingers were splayed wide, hooked like talons, and he grabbed one of the guards by the front of his T-shirt, jerking him forward with a single, forceful yank.
Oh, Jesus, Mason thought, and the guard began to scream, thrashing against the gate as Julien bit him. He managed to gnash his teeth through the wire fencing, tearing into the man’s flesh, and ripping back a long, bloody flap of skin to expose the raw, red flesh beneath.
“Help me!” the man shrieked, punching and clawing at Julien as his comrade turned tail and ran like hell. “Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, help meeeeEEEEE!”
Mason could see that the hooked lengths of Julien’s fangs had dropped all of the way from the recesses of his upper gum, and he buried them now in the side of the guard’s throat. He could hear the wet, sickening, slurping sounds as he fed; unable to clamp his mouth down fully because of the chain links, it was a gory affair, with blood spraying in all directions, and the guard’s struggles weakening, his frantic efforts waning within moments.
When he’d finished, Julien let the guard fall to the ground outside the gate. He turned, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken, his pupils fully engorged and black. Blood had smeared all over his chin and cheeks; it dripped from his chin and splattered onto his chest. There was no semblance of humanity left in his face, nothing but vicious, primal, bestial hunger. He wasn’t just in the throes of the bloodlust—he’d succumbed completely to it, like Piotr had back at the brothel.
“Oh, God, what did he do to you?” Turning his face up toward the stands, Mason screamed at Nikolić in furious dismay. “What the fuck did you do to him?”
But he knew. Nikolić had given Julien the same shit that had made Piotr go out of control. This was his lesson, then; his punishment for helping Sofiya try to escape. Nikolić had made Julien crazed with the bloodlust—and sicced him against Mason.
The bait, he thought grimly, watching as Julien prowled the outermost perimeter of the ring, his eyes locked on Mason. The riot shield lay between them, and now Mason had a pretty good idea what it was there for, as well. When he stepped forward, however, moving to retrieve it, Julien bared his fangs, his lips wrinkling back in a vicious sneer, and growled at him.
“Julien, it’s me.” Holding out his hands, he tried to reach him somehow. “It’s Mason.”
With a furious screech—something hideous, raw, and inhuman—Julien charged at him. Mason dove out of the way, ducking his head and rolling forward, scrambling to reach the shield. He grabbed it just in time; he shoved his arm through the sling and spun around and Julien was on him, crashing into him headlong and knocking him down to the mat again.
He uttered a hoarse cry through gritted teeth, planting his free hand against the inner basin of the shield and holding it with all of his might as Julien bore down against it from above. Like a deranged animal, he tore at it, scratching, punching, clawing, scrabbling, and again and again, he snapped at Mason’s face through it, his fangs gnashing, blood and spittle flying in a frothy spray from his mouth. When he managed to grasp the underside of the shield, he started yanking on it, a vicious game of tug-of-war between them as Mason fought to keep his grasp.
“Julien, please!” he screamed, but it was no use. There was nothing he could do, no way he could fight back, no way to match Julien in physical strength or prowess. He needed his telekinesis—and for that, he needed to get the goddamn collar off.
The collar! Gritting his teeth, he moved his hand, fumbling for the pocket of his jeans—and the remote control device Andrei had given him. He cried out as Julien gave a furious shove, mashing the shield down against him, and damn near shattering the bones in his arm in the process. He grabbed the controller, jerking it out. He didn’t know how it worked, except for one button—the shock trigger. With another hoarse yell, he jammed his thumb down on it hard and held it there, hoping like all hell it was set to the channel for Julien’s collar and not his own.
Julien immediately twisted, throwing his head back, jerking in a violent series of spasms. His voice escaped him in a choked series of birdlike cries and he toppled sideways, crashing down onto the mat. Mason sat up and kicked with his feet, scrabbling away from him, keeping the riot shield hoisted between them.
With a groan, Julien tried to sit up. Turning his head, he glared at Mason, his black eyes spearing into him, his upper lip curling back as he once more bared his fangs. He hissed at Mason, hunching his shoulders and back so that he looked and sounded for all the world like a pissed-off cat, and then Mason stunned him again. He convulsed wildly, then crumpled again, lying in a shuddering, panting heap against the mat when Mason released the trigger.
“Stay down,” Mason begged, scooting backwards, staring at him, stricken, through the battered shield. “Stay down, Julien—God, please!”
“Help me…”
Julien was face-down on the ground, shoving himself up when Mason heard his voice, a faint, feeble groan. This time when Julien lifted his head, his pupils had receded somewhat, enough for a ring of pearlescent blue to again be visible in his irises. He stared at Mason, frightened and pleading, his breath shuddering from him in ragged gasps.
“Mason, please,” he gasped, reaching out in desperate implore. “Please…!”
He uttered a breathless cry, twisting as if with pain, and then his eyes blackened again. Another horrible, ragged growl emanated from him as he bared his fangs and lunged at Mason again.
“Julien!” Mason scrambled backwa
rd, just barely swinging the shield between them before Julien crashed into it. The remote control fell from his hand, skittering across the mat as they spilled backwards, with Julien landing atop the shield. Mason tried to brace it with his free hand as Julien’s weight, and the ferocity of his struggles, bore down against his forearm, the strap of the shield, threatening to snap bones from the strain. Julien gnashed at the shield; he punched and clawed at it, his legs slipping and sliding for purchase on the slick surface.
“Goddamn it!” Mason screamed, giving a mighty heave and managing to throw Julien sideways. He slipped on the side of the shield, then crashed to the mat and Mason scrambled to reach the remote. Julien grabbed him by the ankle, his fingers closing fiercely as he tried to yank him backwards. Brows furrowed, Mason kicked at him with his free leg.
“Let go of me!” he roared, and then he rolled over, sitting up to use the shield as a weapon. He swung it at Julien, bashing him in the head with it, then rearing it back and swinging it down again. “Let go of me, goddammit!”
When he felt Julien’s fingers slip away, he scuttled frantically forward, practically leaping onto the fallen controller, his hand outstretched to grab it. He whirled, sitting on his ass and backpedaling with his feet, putting as much distance as he could between him and Julien. The shield was now blood-smeared and battered, with cracks intersecting its thick polymer plate, but he held it up nonetheless, his arm aching and shaking from the strain.
“Stay back!” he shouted, his voice little more than a rough-hewn scrape. “I mean it, goddammit! Stay away from me!”
Julien looked up, poised on his hands and knees as he panted for breath. His nose had been bloodied, as well as his mouth; blood dripped from his chin and pattered to the floor in a dark, glistening pool.
“Julien, fight it!” Moved with pity, torn with anguish, Mason cried out to him. “You can beat it, control it. I know you can!”