Broken Angel

by S W Vaughn

  “Do not flatter yourself,” Jenner said in a brittle tone capable of crushing diamonds. “I have no such intentions.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “I have not yet decided.”

  Jenner moved into the light, and what had seemed like a dress in shadow proved to be an Asian costume—Chinese or Japanese, he wasn’t sure which. Simple clasps held together a long jacket of pale gray silk. Black piping trimmed the sleeves, the straight collar, and the garment edges. Flowing pants matched the jacket. Yet Jenner’s aquiline nose and swarthy complexion marked him as East Indian, not oriental.

  His hair was gray, the color of brushed steel—an old man, but no other typical descriptors of age seemed to apply. Sinewy rather than gaunt. Not wizened or wrinkled, but grizzled and hard. And the eyes; pale, argent circles of smoked glass. Glittering gray, like the rest of him. How could an Indian have gray eyes? His lineage must have included Caucasian blood at some point.

  The cold glint in those eyes bound him more effectively than any rope. He couldn’t move.

  “Your determination is admirable. Few men would expend such effort to locate a mere sibling. Do you truly love your sister that much?”

  More. “None of your business.” Anger broke the spell of Jenner’s gaze. In this snake’s mouth, a reference to Lillith sounded blasphemous.

  “A shame.” Jenner placed the object he held on the floor. A black satchel. A doctor’s bag. “What did you intend to do when you found her, little guardian angel? Help her find a job, perhaps an apartment? It is far too late for that.”

  “I...she needs me.”

  “Did you ever consider that she might not want your help?”

  Disgust twisted his stomach. “Lillith isn’t like you people. She wouldn’t have become a...prostitute on her own. She has a good heart.”

  Jenner sneered. “While your sister’s clients do appreciate her many attributes, I am not certain her heart is high on their lists.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “I thought you were not interested in such activities, angel. You requested not to be touched.” Jenner’s hand slid inside his robe and reappeared gripping what looked like a collapsible radio antenna. He extended it with a flick of his wrist, and waved it at him in a dismissive gesture.

  Pain flared across his face. He flinched back with a strangled oath.

  “Your language is appalling.” Jenner collapsed the antenna. “Apologize.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Jenner arched an eyebrow and leveled an unwavering look at him. He bent and reached for his bag.

  He flew at him, but the lieutenant’s slim body weighed more than it had appeared. Still, the lunge knocked Jenner to the floor. His torn wrists screamed a protest, but he ignored the pain and wrapped his hands around the sallow throat. “Don’t touch me, and don’t talk about Lillith. I’ll kill you.”

  “Go ahead, angel.”

  “Stop calling me that!” He squeezed harder. Jenner’s skin darkened, and his breath rattled beneath his hands.

  Jenner managed a whispering wheeze. He almost seemed to be smiling. “Do it. You will be...a murderer. Even...worse...than me.”

  “Nothing is worse than you.”

  “You are forgetting...the camera.”

  “Damn it!” He released him and scrambled back, shot a panicked glance at the spot above the door. “You’re crazy. All of you. Shit!” He sat hard on the floor, drained as quickly as the rage had taken him. “Please. Don’t hurt Lillith. I’m sorry.”

  Jenner righted himself. Burgundy stains smudged his neck and the collar of his shirt—blood from his wrists. Jenner glanced down, and his mouth firmed in distaste. “It is difficult to remove bloodstains from silk. I quite liked this jacket.”

  He stared at him.

  Jenner rose and smoothed a few wrinkles in the fabric. Behind him, the door opened. Apollo strode through and headed straight for him.

  “Stop,” Jenner said.

  The giant froze.

  “What do you think you are doing?”

  Confusion furrowed Apollo’s brow. “Slade said the little bastard was acting up. He told me to teach him a lesson.”

  “Do not touch him.” A cellphone appeared in Jenner’s hand. He dialed, his features completely blank, and held the device to his ear. “Marcus. I told you I did not want any interruptions.” He paused. “No. Stop interfering with my work.”

  Another pause. Jenner’s clear gray gaze shifted and withered him. “Of course I let him. His limits must be tested.” Silence again. “Not yet. He will pay for this transgression himself. Save the girl for...special occasions.”

  He bit down hard against a rising scream. His fists clenched and his nails dug his palms. The pressure forced new blood from his wrists.

  “Fine. Do not interrupt us again. In fact, turn the blasted camera off.” Jenner thumbed a button and returned the phone to his robe. He glanced at Apollo. “Your services are not needed. You may go.”

  Apollo hesitated. “But Slade said—”

  “Get out.”

  The look in Jenner’s eyes seemed to make the giant reconsider. Apollo left.

  Jenner turned his scathing stare on him. “Stand.”

  Terror tied knots in his gut, but he obeyed. He decided he’d rather have let Apollo beat him into the ground than face Jenner alone.

  “You will learn to control yourself.” Jenner fingered the hem of his jacket. His skin crawled at the idea of the man touching him, even through his clothes. “Remove this.”

  “No.”

  “Every time you refuse me, you are one step closer to hurting your precious sister. Remove your jacket.”

  “Please...”

  “Do not beg me. I am not your father.”

  “What?” His throat clenched. “How could you know...”

  “Your sister has wasted no opportunity to seek sympathy for her tragic childhood. You are both disgustingly typical. Your father abused you, and would have abused your sister had you not insisted on playing the whipping boy to her. You are ashamed. You carry your guilt like a mantle, and it has brought you here to save her again. Shall I go on?”

  Shock seemed to have stapled his tongue in place.

  “Your jacket, angel. Remove it. I will not repeat this again.”

  He couldn’t move. Fear for Lillith broke his paralysis, and he eased his arms out and let the jacket fall.

  “Now your shirt.”

  He swallowed a moan. The shirt joined his jacket on the floor. His back rippled with the ghosts of past beatings. It wouldn’t surprise him if Jenner pulled out a belt or a strap. Or something worse.

  Jenner reached into the bag.

  Please don’t...

  He came up with a small, white object. A roll of gauze.

  “Hold out your wrist. Either one.”

  He extended his left arm. Jenner wrapped the entire roll around the injured area and tied the ends together when he finished. “Your strength is impressive, but you apply it to the wrong tasks. This was foolish.” As Jenner turned and extracted a fresh roll, he didn’t wait for the order to offer his right wrist.

  A small, cynical smile formed on Jenner’s face. “You do learn. Eventually.” He bound the right wrist, released his arm and stepped back. “Such a shame that you did not learn fast enough this time.”

  Jenner’s silvered eyes riveted to his, and he wondered absurdly if the man was going to kiss him.

  A torrent of agony seared his chest. All thought left him. A glance down revealed something long and slender skewering his nipple. His breath hissed through his teeth and his arm shot out to clutch Jenner, whose features remained impassive.

  “Move to the wall,” Jenner commanded, and his feet obeyed automatically. Anything to stop the pain spreading through him like molten lead. His back came into contact with cold cement, and Jenner motioned upward with his head. “Put them on.”

  Biting back a refusal, he raised his arms and felt along the wall until he found th
e restraints there. He buckled one leather circlet around his left wrist. There was no way he could close the other. Panic set in. “I...I can’t...”

  “Shall I do it for you, then?”

  The word “yes” would not form. He nodded. Jenner reached with one hand, leaving the other pressed against the spear of agony in his breast, and tightened the remaining cuff with a practiced motion. “And what do you say, little angel?”

  “Thank you.” The words were a gasp.

  “Very good.” Jenner leaned back and at last withdrew the long silver needle.

  His legs trembled, but he willed them to hold him up. If he collapsed, he’d wrench his shoulder joints, and the pain would be unbearable.

  “I recommend that you do not fall asleep.” Jenner retrieved his bag and strode to the exit. “Good night, angel.” He flipped a wall switch and plunged the room into darkness.

  Chapter 4

  The hours lasted longer than a Chinese dynasty. Kingdoms rose and fell while Gabriel stood chained to the wall. Exhaustion hung over him, a haze weighing his limbs. His body grew heavier with each passing moment. He wanted to scream, beat the wall, thrash against the restraints. To die.

  He couldn’t. Lillith needed him.

  Her dependence had kept him alive. Victor Morgan’s answer to even the slightest infraction had been physical punishment. Their father had been fanatical, almost ritualistic, in administering discipline. Victor kept a library of instruments in his study, and he’d spent more time in that dark and suffocating room, either waiting for a beating or enduring one, than he had in his own bedroom.

  Often, Lillith had been with him. He’d always insisted on taking the blame for whatever their father imagined Lillith had done, and Victor had been happy to oblige by beating him all the more. But whenever Lillith had been originally accused of wrongdoing, she’d been required to watch.

  She had seen him naked, battered and bleeding. She’d watched him hold his tongue, bite it, pound the desk he’d been ordered to bend over, all to deny their father the pleasure of voicing his pain. Had heard, on the occasions when his tricks didn’t work, the screams wrenched from his lips with every blow.

  He and Lillith escaped when he was seventeen, on the wake of a vicious thrashing that had nearly killed him. His error, as usual, had been fighting. He’d rarely started the fights he’d been involved in at school, but he always finished them. Victor hadn’t cared who started what. To him, his son’s behavior had been a disgrace to his name.

  It was almost funny. In order to save Lillith now, he had to fight.

  The memories of life with their father burdened him more than the effort to stay on his feet. His eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled back. Sleep sunk claws into his mind, demanding entrance. He lifted an arm and deliberately smacked it against the wall behind him. Pain jerked him back to lucidity. Better a brief flare than the agony he would experience if he lost consciousness and his body’s weight dragged against the cuffs. Once he went down, he wouldn’t be able to stand again. At least the gauze Jenner had wrapped his wrists with provided some cushioning, though a few thin ribbons of blood had drizzled down his arms despite the protection.

  How had this happened? He still couldn’t understand why Lillith was with Slade. Had she run out of money, made a stupid mistake? Or had Slade just grabbed her off the street?

  She’d come to New York to interview for the graduate program at Adelphi and never returned. He’d reported her missing, but the police had been little help. She was an adult, after all. There had been a search, but finding a single person in a city of eight million was like looking for one particular jellyfish in the Atlantic. The police relegated the case to extremely low priority, which he had translated to “who cares.” So he’d set off on his own.

  He’d found her. And once again, would have to rescue her from a sadistic keeper who preferred to hurt him in her stead. The prospect failed to relieve him.

  He lost all sense of time. Remaining on his feet consumed every resource left to him. Head lowered, he stared at the floor. Would anyone come for him? Maybe they’d decided he wasn’t worth the trouble and had left him here to rot.

  At last the door opened and closed with a hollow bang. Not Jenner. Please, not Jenner.

  Hating the weakness his fear implied, he forced himself to raise his head and face the approaching figure.

  “Good morning, Mr. Morgan.”

  The formal name and steel tone informed him it was Slade—thank God, not Jenner—before he made out the man’s features. His captor walked the length of the room and stood in front of him. The smug look on Slade’s face provoked an urge to throttle the bastard. He couldn’t do anything but glare. Renewed rage drove some of the lassitude from him and fostered new strength.

  “Well,” Slade said after a pause. “I see your long night hasn’t improved your temper.”

  He replied with silence.

  “All right. There are other ways to get respect from you.” Slade’s hand slid inside his jacket and came out holding a cellphone.

  A growl escaped him.

  Slade laughed. “Don’t worry, little one. For now, your sister is safe.” With a wry gaze fixed on him, Slade dialed. The call was answered quickly.

  “Send Apollo down here.” Slade disconnected and replaced the device in his jacket. Arms crossed, he nodded up at the manacles. “I’m going to open those.” He stepped forward, reached up, and unfastened the first of the restraints.

  His arm dropped to his side. He braced himself, knowing damned well he’d end up on the floor once nothing held him upright.

  Slade released the other cuff, and he collapsed at his feet with a groan. “I did warn you to cooperate with Jenner,” Slade said. “Next time you’ll listen, won’t you?”

  He tried to answer, but returning circulation sent streams of pins and needles through his arms and torso, stealing his focus.

  Slade prodded his shoulder hard with a foot. The pins and needles became knives and daggers. “Won’t you?”

  “Yes,” he gasped. “Damn it, yes!”

  “Get up. You need to move. I don’t have all day to supervise you.”

  Maybe you shouldn’t have kidnapped me then, you dumb son of a bitch. He gritted his teeth and attempted to push his upper body from the floor. His wrists throbbed and buckled. Fresh blood created wet spots on the dark, stiffened gauze encircling them. His face barely missed smashing on the concrete. He stilled, drew a breath and rolled on his side. After several tries, he sat with his back against the wall. He inched up the surface, shuffled his feet back each time he gained height.

  He straightened at last. Bastard. “Happy now?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  The door opened and drew their attention to the end of the room.

  “Apollo.” Slade gestured impatiently.

  Apollo walked toward them and offered a bundle of black cloth with one meaty hand, passed it to his boss, and shot him a look of pure venom. The mouth twisted in a snarl that transformed the squashed face into an ugly mask. He returned the distaste full force.

  Slade ignored the tension between them and deposited the bundle at his feet. “Put these on and leave your shoes here. You’ll have another pair later.”

  He didn’t move.

  “What are you waiting for? I said get dressed. Now.”

  “Make me, you sick fuck.”

  Apollo lunged. Slade held out a hand and stopped him in mid-action. One step brought Slade so close he could feel the heat of his breath, but he refused to back down.

  “Don’t try me, boy. Or have you already forgotten whose life depends on your actions?”

  Lillith. He drew a long breath, forced hands clenched in involuntary fists to relax and dropped his gaze to the ground. Apparent resignation seemed the only way to mollify the man.

  “That’s better.” Slade stepped back and gave him room to follow orders.

  He crouched to remove his battered sneakers. His muscles screamed in protest. He wrestled the sn
eakers off, pushed them away and picked up the first item in the pile at his feet: a plain black long-sleeved shirt. As quickly as his strained shoulders would allow, he pulled it on over his head.

  The pants, also black, were thin sweat suit material with a drawstring waist. He peeled off his jeans using the wall to support his back, kicked free of the garment and stopped. Gasping for breath, he regained enough control to put on the sweats.

  When he’d finished, Slade nodded to Apollo. The big man reached into a back pocket. A cascade of metallic rattling sounded, and Apollo produced a set of shining steel-blue handcuffs.

  Slade took them and turned to him. “Arms forward, Mr. Morgan.”

  Hatred knifed his gut as he obeyed. He hissed when the metal bit his abraded wrists through the gauze, then waited for his captor to make the next move.

  “Follow me.” Slade headed for the door, and he trailed him with hesitant steps. His legs burned with the effort of movement.

  Apollo fell in behind and pulled the door closed when they left the dungeon.

  The heavy steel had slammed shut on everything he had been. For six months he’d carried everything he owned, never staying long in one place during the relentless search for his sister. Now, his wallet, his clothes...his life...lay in a crumpled heap behind that door.

  He didn’t look forward to discovering what waited on this side.

  Chapter 5

  Slade led them through a narrow hall and up a flight of stairs. At the top, a door opened on a darkened room that appeared to be a storage closet. Another door waited on the opposite wall. Slade threw it back, and light flooded through to sear Gabriel’s gloom-accustomed eyes.

  He stumbled after his captor into a hotel lobby furnished in extravagance. The small, round light fixtures recessed into the ceiling were almost invisible, and the cream-colored walls seemed to cast a glow of their own. Clusters of velvet couches, overstuffed chairs and low, burnished maple coffee tables lent the impression of an upscale coffee house or a sitting room in a mansion.

  Opulence and wealth surrounded him: the deep carpet felt plush on his bare feet, the rich exotic scent of flowers and coconut oil permeated the air. He noted the windows and remembered possible escape routes.