Broken Angel

by S W Vaughn

  Words formed a swirling pattern over his back.

  LOSER AFRAID DIRECTIONLESS FAILURE ENJOYS PAIN WORTHLESS STUPID BOY

  He bit down hard to keep from screaming. The accusations shouted at him, echoes of memories. The words held truth. Every one of them. Jenner had somehow mined his soul and dragged what he found there to the surface. If he had intended to batter his mind into submission, he’d succeeded. How could he resist an enemy who knew his thoughts, his deeds...his darkest secrets?

  Jenner circled behind him. A soft click sounded, the scrape of wood on wood. With his sight limited to the floor beneath him and the mirror above, he couldn’t see what the lieutenant was doing. The rattling roll of metal on concrete announced Jenner wheeling the stool to his side. A rustling crinkle and snap followed. Gloves? Cool pressure on his back and a look in the mirror confirmed the deduction.

  Jenner inhaled and released a small sigh of satisfaction. In a near whisper, he said, “This is going to hurt.”

  His other hand drifted into view. In it, he held one of the wooden sticks that had been in the jar on the table. A paintbrush. The bristles glistened with black ink. Its point applied the fluid to the letters of his name, guided by a steady hand. The last letter complete, the hand left, and returned with one of the clawed bamboo rods.

  Jesus. It was a fucking tattoo needle.

  Jenner drove the points home. One hand steadied the implement, the other manipulated the needles with almost careless precision. He traced the ‘G’ in rapid, rhythmic motion. The spikes danced across his skin and hammered the same spots over and over with disconcerting clicks. Drilling ink into him. Marking him forever. A faint and sickening pop echoed through his head every time a needle pierced him, and the pain stung his eyes with moisture he refused to let fall.

  Jenner alternately guided the needles and wiped away the excess ink with a moist cloth. He did not pause until he’d finished GABRIEL JOSEPH MORGAN.

  When Jenner stood to rinse the cloth and replenish the ink brush, he studied his back in the mirror. The rest of the words appeared dull and faded next to his name, scored in glossy black letters and surrounded with red, irritated skin that had begun to bruise. Already the pain ensured he wouldn’t rest his back against anything in the near future. He could only imagine how it would feel if Jenner continued the tattooing process.

  Hours later, he no longer had to imagine.

  The constant click-pop of the needles filled the room, his head—the only sound other than his occasional strangled gasp. Needle jabbed bone, and the impact escalated from pinprick to hornet sting. His high school dropout status was next to become a physical permanence. His hands clamped the steel rods tight, and his teeth seemed to recede into his gums from the pressure of his efforts to remain silent.

  Jenner didn’t stop until every word had been etched into flesh. When at last he laid the needles to rest, dawn stained the dungeon’s single window.

  His back burned bright as his pride over the humiliation of being branded like a helpless calf. He lay motionless and spent, dimly aware that Jenner had released the straps binding him to the table.

  “The good doctor wishes to see you,” Jenner said, his voice filtering through his exhausted haze. The derision in his tone implied he cared no more for Doc than Doc did for him. “Apollo is on his way to bring you to him. I do not expect you to walk upstairs in your condition.”

  Sadistic bastard. He would anyway—for spite, and to maintain the shred of dignity he still possessed. He’d get up if it killed him.

  He tensed and began the laborious process of extricating his body from the table, maneuvered himself into a seated position on the edge of the bench and paused to catch his breath.

  Jenner, however, stood a few feet in front of him, his bland expression unchanged. The discarded shirt dangled from one outstretched hand.

  Realization dawned, and with it came fury. The son of a bitch knew he would get up. Hell, he’d goaded him into it.

  “Very good, angel.” Jenner tossed him the shirt. He made a reflexive grab and snatched it in mid-flight. “And in case you are wondering, we will see to the penance for your temper on our next meeting.”

  A pool of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He’d forgotten the promise of further punishment. He met Jenner’s eyes—that fathomless gaze, so deceptively tender—and shuddered.

  “You will need some ointment on that before you get dressed, unless you wish to experience the joy of a massive bacterial infection. Sit there on that stool and I will apply it.”

  He sat with a grimace, clenched his jaw tight and held his breath. Cool hands smoothed a thick, greasy substance over the mangled surface of his back. The lieutenant finished and circled him, regarded him with a hooded expression.

  “I would put that on now.” Jenner nodded at the shirt still crumpled in his hands. “Though I am certain Apollo would enjoy reading your little story.”

  Cringing at the scrape of rough fabric on his skin, he donned the shirt and stood. Just as his feet touched ground, the door opened and Apollo lumbered through.

  Jenner ignored the intrusion. He surged forward, stopped with his face inches away and leaned toward his ear. “Until next time, angel,” he whispered. He stepped back, caught his gaze and held it before he turned to leave. The long plait of his steely hair swayed in slow rhythm against his retreating back.

  The scowling giant gave the lieutenant a wide berth. He was coming to collect him.

  Fueled by pure adrenalin, he marched across the cement floor and began to make his way upstairs, to Doc and temporary safety.

  * * * *

  The gnawing ache in Gabriel’s stomach overrode the fire in his muscles and forced him into consciousness. For one suspended moment, he knew nothing, then flashes of events tore through him and resurrected cruel reality.

  Jenner. And needles.

  Afterward, he’d collapsed halfway up the stairs. Apollo had dragged him up the remaining steps and through the second-floor hallway. Curious feminine faces flushed with sleep peered out at the spectacle. Apollo had heaved him into Doc’s office, sent him crashing into the desk. While Doc spouted obscenities at the giant, he had slumped to the floor and let the blackness take him.

  Now he lay face down, spread-eagled but not chained, on a large bed in darkened quarters. His vision focused, blurred, refocused with the pounding of his heart.

  From what he could see, the place seemed sterile and devoid of personality—bare walls, flat nylon carpet, a lamp perched on a small two-drawer stand next to the bed. A single window obscured by wide vertical blinds graced the far wall. No pictures or knick-knacks, no books on the nightstand. Nothing to indicate anyone used this room.

  A soft beep sounded to his right. He raised his head, rotated his stiff neck. A tall white pole stood beside him with two hooks at the top, each supporting a bag of clear fluid. Further down the pole, a small box with a keypad, switches, and an LED window displayed red numbers. It took a moment for him to recognize the contraption: a hospital-style IV.

  Horrified, his gaze followed the vinyl tube down from one of the bags. It ended in a needle plunged into the juncture of his right arm, held in place with gauze and surgical tape. He ignored the pain movement caused him and bolted upright, pawed at the tape with his free hand. It refused to come off. He grasped the line and pulled. The tube separated, but the needle remained in place. Fluid drained from the end of the damaged tube and darkened the blanket beneath him.

  “Kid, you really shouldn’t sit up just yet... What the hell?” The voice startled him from his panic-induced trance. The lamp beside the bed sprang to blinding life. “Jesus, you really are anti-drugs, aren’t you?”

  He focused on the shadow at his side. Doc shimmered into sight, shaking his head, his arms crossed in front of him. The doctor sighed and perched on the mattress between him and the IV. He reached for his arm.

  “Relax, kid.” Doc unwound the tape. “Welcome to my humble abode. It was just a glucose drip. Ke
pt you hydrated.” He pulled the needle free and looked at him, at once serious. “You’ve been out for twenty-six hours.”

  He gaped. “Christ,” he tried to say, but his voice emerged a rusty croak. Doc reached past the IV stand to another, smaller table, where a plastic pitcher stood next to a stack of paper cups, poured water into one of them and offered it to him. He took it and drank greedily.

  “Slow down. You’ll give yourself abdominal cramps. That’s just what you need on top of everything else.”

  He nodded and sipped at the water, feeling every drop glide down his parched throat to be absorbed by his shriveled stomach. After a minute, Doc rose and walked into the other room. He returned with a folding tray containing saltine crackers, a small cup of green gelatin and a plain white thermos.

  “I’ll leave you to your feast.” Doc smirked at him. “Sorry, kid, doctor’s orders. You have to wait at least a few hours before you can handle solid food. See if you can keep this down first.”

  “Great.” He grimaced at the tray. Doc stood and approached the curtained doorway, and he called after him, “Hey, Doc?”

  Doc turned and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Thanks. Again.”

  Doc merely nodded and left, without letting him see his face.

  Chapter 9

  Days blended into weeks, and Gabriel’s existence settled into miserable routine. Each morning Slade came to his room with one of the awful protein shakes. He was escorted to Doc’s office afterward and left there for half an hour.

  Doc fussed over him. He changed bandages, slathered ointment, fed him vitamins and Tylenol and cigarettes—and provided the sole companionship he had in this place.

  When Slade returned to collect him, he delivered him to the basement, where Sol and Apollo waited. Training consisted of a grueling two to three hour regimen: weightlifting, punching bag exercises—often without gloves—and sparring with Apollo in the makeshift ring. His strength and skill increased daily. He learned both the boxing methods Sol imparted and the dirty, underhanded tactics Apollo favored.

  They would break for lunch. A slender, flame-haired girl, whom he eventually learned was called Rose, delivered a tray of food to the basement each afternoon. The brothers left him during this time, locked in the gym for an hour of solitude. On their return they put him through another round of training.

  He would be allowed to shower, after which Apollo shepherded him back to Doc’s office, where he stayed for nearly an hour. Most of these times Doc had a pot of coffee brewing. There was more bandage-changing and ointment application. They sat and talked over coffee and smokes, and carefully avoided those subjects that caused them both pain. Finally, Slade would come to bring him upstairs and lock him in for the night. His exhausted body devoured sleep like a junkie in a crack factory.

  Each evening, he asked to see Lillith. Slade denied him every time.

  The unpleasant reason behind his extended night visits with Doc quickly became apparent. Every third day, in lieu of the second training session, Apollo tossed him into the dungeon. The tattoo bench remained, but the mirrors had been removed. In fact, every mirror in his limited range of existence was gone—from the locker room, the bathroom off the hotel’s lobby, even Doc’s patient washroom.

  Apparently, Jenner didn’t want him to see the results of their sessions.

  The lieutenant materialized exactly five minutes after he entered the dungeon, every time. From the first visit, Jenner made it clear he was to be in position when he arrived.

  That first session after the initial marathon also dispensed retribution for his flaring temper. Jenner continued the tattooing, but instead of clearing the excess ink with water, used a cloth soaked in rubbing alcohol.

  His back burned for days afterward. He made no further attempts to resist.

  Worse than those agonizing sessions with the sadistic lieutenant were the beatings he suffered during his “sparring” rounds with Apollo. Most of the time, Sol’s presence seemed to temper his brother’s rage.

  One day, around two months into his captivity, he entered the training room and found Apollo waiting for him alone.

  “Sol’s fighting tonight.” A sickly-sweet grin split Apollo’s wide face. “So it’s just you an’ me, pretty boy.”

  “Well, then. I guess we can rule out intelligent conversation.”

  Apollo’s features twisted with the rage of a gathering storm. “Get in the ring, smartass.”

  He took his time strolling across the floor to the far corner of the room, regretting his little outburst with every step. By the time he climbed onto the platform, his muscles quivered in anticipation of blows to come.

  The bigger man leapt neatly up and rushed him. He found himself flat on the floor, his head ringing from a powerful right hook. He shook himself, started to get up—and knuckles rammed the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch.

  “Sud of a bidch!” He clamped a hand to his face, a futile attempt to stem the blood gushing from his nostrils. He gained his footing and wavered. “You broke my fuckid dose!”

  Apollo raised his clenched fist, lifted two fingers and grinned. A glint of metal shone there, nestled in his palm: an iron weight, small enough to conceal and heavy enough to devastate.

  He was trying to kill him. His stomach contorted. Positive the thug wasn’t allowed to do this, he met Apollo’s eyes. “Fuck you,” he said, and walked away.

  He reached the edge of the platform before Apollo grabbed him by the hair and dragged him back.

  “Where d’ya think you’re goin’, boy?” The weighted fist plowed between his shoulder blades. His knees buckled, but Apollo maintained the grip on his hair as he went down. The giant circled him, wrenching his scalp, and drew him back up on his feet.

  “Today’s lesson is how to lose.” Three fierce jabs to his midsection left him gasping for breath. “Don’t worry—” wham! “—I’ll tell you when you’ve learned it.”

  He blacked out long before the blows stopped coming.

  * * * *

  From Slade’s office, Sol watched his brother’s vicious performance on the monitoring system with rage that his placid features did not betray. After the boy went down, he switched off the system and headed to the fight. Some part of him insisted Apollo pay for his overt cruelty—but not yet. Patience was a virtue.

  Jenner had taught him the lesson, and he had learned it well.

  * * * *

  Slade allowed Gabriel one whole day to recover from Apollo’s beating. The bastard hadn’t broken anything, but he still felt like he’d taken on a city bus and lost. On the way down to the morning session he remembered with pathetic gratitude that he didn’t have to see Jenner that afternoon.

  He entered the training room to find Sol waiting for him. With Jenner. His hope for respite guttered and died.

  “Hello, angel.”

  He couldn’t return a greeting. Instead, he glanced around the room and muttered, “Where’s Apollo?”

  “He is otherwise engaged.”

  “Great. Does that mean you’re taking his place?” Bitterness laced his tone, and he surrendered to the inevitable pain.

  Sol stepped forward, exhibiting real emotion for the first time—fury.

  He drew back. What had he done?

  Jenner placed a hand on Sol’s arm. The trainer calmed instantly.

  “Do not be irritated with the boy, Sol. Concern yourself only with his body. His mind will require some time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

  “Control, angel. You lack it completely.” Jenner shook his head. “Your rage and your strength will take you only so far. Without control, you will fail.”

  He huffed. “I suppose you’re going to teach it to me.”

  “You are not ready to learn.”

  “I—” He stopped himself from insisting he was ready. Another trick. Jenner trying to manipulate him into asking for pain.

  “You what?”

  “Nothing.”r />
  “As I said. You are not ready.” Jenner glanced at Sol, nodded. “I will take my leave now.”

  “What, you aren’t going to stay and watch me suffer?”

  “No, angel. Not today.” A small smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “After all, you are mine tomorrow. I am content to remain patient until then.”

  Bastard. Watching Jenner leave, his quiet mockery only served to fuel his resolve. He almost looked forward to training today.

  Sol made an expectant sound, and he turned to face him.

  “One hundred push-ups.” Sol pointed to the mat.

  “But...”

  “Your arms are—”

  “No. They’re not broken.” He exhaled sharply and headed for the mat. For the moment, he wasn’t sure who he hated more.

  * * * *

  Gabriel’s body became conditioned to constant pain and duress. Long nights with nothing to do, no one to talk to, gave way to deep reflection. He paced his room or lay on his stomach on the floor next to his cot, a practice begun after the first night he spent waking every time the rough canvas brushed the bruised skin of his back.

  He’d long since given up keeping track of days, and so had no clue how long it had been when one afternoon the dungeon yielded a chilling sight.

  The mirrors were back.

  He approached the bench on trembling legs. He had no desire to discover how Jenner had desecrated him. He’d extracted a promise from Doc not to talk about what he saw. True to his word, the doctor never disclosed the secrets seared into his skin.

  Now he was only postponing the inevitable. Jenner wanted him to see. Therefore, he would. He climbed onto the bench, fit his head in the brace—and swallowed an anguished cry.

  Wings. The bastard had given him wings.

  The sleek black design spread in graceful sweeping lines. It tapered gradually from the widest point across his shoulder blades to a gentle fringe at the base of his spine. Though more Eastern than angelic, the image could not be mistaken for anything but what it was.