Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  Nothing, he replied, awarding her a curious glance. Should I?

  According to the FBI, you’re neck-deep in all of them, she said.

  His brows raised in tandem. Where on earth would the FBI get such a ridiculous notion?

  I don’t know. You tell me, she said with a frown. I have it on pretty good authority that they’ve been keeping an eye on you and your financial activities for awhile now. Sounds like they have some pretty strong evidence connecting you to some serious illegal activity.

  Such as the sort you just mentioned, Augustus remarked, and it was his turn to frown. I can assure you, Angelina, that I am not. However, since Martin Davenant was able to fraudulently alter financial records at Bloodhorse to implicate me in a rather sizable embezzlement scheme, I’d put nothing past them.

  Financial crimes aren’t exactly hard to prove, Lina said. Either you can track where the money goes, or you can’t. She’d learned this from her former partner, Rene Morin, who—unbeknownst to most of the other cops with whom they’d worked—had owned controlling interest in a Gulf shore oil company. He’d told her once about an incident in which one of his accountants had remitted payments on falsified invoices into a private account. He’d managed to steal nearly a half-million dollars from Rene before being discovered.

  Oh, I can track where the money went, Augustus told her. Lamar and Allistair Davenant used it to create a company called Diadem Global. It’s grown to become one of the largest military and security force subcontractors in the world. Not off my dime, mind you—Bloodhorse money was used as the investment capital. The bulk of its growth came straight out of Lamar Davenant’s own pocket—presumably from profitable but illegal undertakings such as…what did you say? Off-shore bank accounts, weapons acquisitions, human trafficking and drugs.

  Lina was quiet for a moment, considering.

  I can’t prove any of this, of course, Augustus said. The company is headed by an executive team of dummies—dummy names, pseudonyms and aliases. None of them traceable.

  The more they talked, the more Lina began to believe his account of things. Brandon had told her about Martin Davenant trying to frame Augustus for the embezzlement he’d mentioned; Allistair had used this alleged theft as the premise for stripping Augustus of his authority over the Brethren clans. It made sense to her that the Davenants would have had an ulterior motive for doctoring the Bloodhorse books—or perhaps setting Augustus up had been the secondary motive all along. Staking a claim on their own financial fortune—albeit an illegal one—had been their ultimate objective.

  There’s something I need to show you, Lina said. She’d been debating about whether or not to confide in Augustus and still wasn’t sure if she should. But her gut instinct told her he was telling the truth about the Davenants and Diadem Global. Being truthful and being trustworthy were two completely different animals, but at the moment, it was all she had to go on. It would have to be enough. It’s at my mother’s house. Pilar asked me to keep it safe.

  When he blinked at her, clearly as surprised as she had been that Pilar would have come to her, entrusted her with anything, she nodded once.

  I think Brandon was just collateral damage, she said. They didn’t come here looking for him, but they couldn’t leave a witness, either. I know what they were really after.

  * * *

  “She called it a wayob,” Lina said, seated next to Augustus on the couch in her mother’s living room. She tried not to think about the fact that the man owned one of the largest private residences in the continental United States, second only to the Biltmore Estate in square footage. Latisha’s entire bungalow could have probably fit in his master bathroom.

  She’d taken the shoe box out of its hiding place, and unfolded the towels to reveal the small, seemingly innocuous statue inside. Augustus made a thoughtful murmuring sound in the back of his throat.

  “May I…?” he asked, reaching for the carving.

  “By all means, sure,” Lina said, watching with a curious sort of fascination as he lifted it. She’d been hesitant to touch the wayob, if only because, like Pilar, she couldn’t understand what made it so important. However, also like Pilar, Lina understood instinctively that it was important, and powerful, too. It had to be for so many to go to such great lengths to either possess or protect it.

  As he turned it this way and that, she relayed the story Pilar had told her of the wayob as best as she could remember it.

  “Among the Brethren, we have similar stories of such creatures,” Augustus said when she had finished. “And similar depictions, or so it would seem, in the pages of our clan Tomes, the written narrative of our family histories—drawings and etchings made during the Middle Ages that look remarkably like this sculpture.”

  Lina frowned. “You’re saying the Brethren ancestors were visited in medieval France by Mayan jaguar gods.”

  “Not precisely.” Augustus seemed too preoccupied with the statue to be antagonized by her sarcasm. He held the wayob up, studying its underside, then turned it over again, as if searching for something.

  “Among my people, these creatures are called le Abominacion—the Abomination,” he continued, and Lina remembered his reaction when she’d used that word earlier that night at his hotel suite.

  We have called many things abomination in my lifetime, most of which have been unduly so.

  “Although there are many stories of how our bloodlines came about from the Abominations, Michel always theorized that it was the smell of death during the plague that had drawn the otherwise reclusive beasts into contact with humans. There was not enough room to bury all of the victims of the blight. There would have been bodies left to rot outside of village walls, in open fields, wherever they could find room. Maybe the creatures were immune to the disease. If we are descended from them, then surely they shared our innate healing ability, our enhanced immunity.” With a sideways glance at Lina, he added, “Maybe humans took notice of this, as well.”

  “And what?” Lina asked.

  Augustus shrugged. “Michel used to think the only way for specific genetic traits inherent to the creatures to be transferred to humans was through the natural conception and bearing of offspring.”

  “You mean people mated with these things to try and avoid getting the plague?” Lina wrinkled her nose. “I think I’d have preferred the plague.”

  Augustus chuckled. “I’m not so sure that would have been necessary,” he remarked. He held the wayob by the head with one hand, the haunches by the other, and gave each a slight twist in opposing directions. Concerned that he’d snap the thing right in two, Lina sucked in a hissing breath through her teeth, but then Augustus said, “Ah!” and his smile widened as the head began to move, unscrewing from the body of the statue.

  “It opens,” Lina exclaimed in surprise.

  “Yes. I believe whoever took Brandon wasn’t looking as much for this statue, per se, as what’s inside of it.” Augustus lifted the wayob’s head off and handed it to her. “Voila.”

  He turned the headless statue over, his free hand open underneath it. Something dropped out of the wayob’s hollow belly—a little terra cotta bottle, no bigger than two inches tall, and half that in width.

  “What is it?” Lina whispered, leaning over.

  “Something more precious than gold,” Augustus murmured, his tone nearly reverent. “This, my dear Angelina, is the blood of the Abomination, the Mayan wayob. It’s called the first blood, and it’s what made my species what we are.”

  * * *

  “Wait a minute,” Lina said. “You just said Michel thought your species came about because people in the Middle Ages mated with these things to see if it would protect them from the plague.”

  “Not them. Their offspring,” Augustus corrected. “And I said Michel used to think that. It was a sound enough theory, but it never quite made sense, even to him—because it goes against human nature; indeed, the most primal instinct of all living things—that of self-preservation. People would
have wanted to protect themselves from the Black Death. Mating with the creatures wouldn’t have accomplished this.”

  “So they…what?” Lina shook her head, puzzled. “Drank the blood?”

  “I don’t know,” Augustus admitted. “Possibly that, or they killed the creatures, ate their flesh… It’s not unheard of for primitive people to consume the flesh of revered animals in the belief that it gives them the animal’s more desirable strengths.”

  “Jesus.” Lina wrinkled her nose.

  “Michel had been working on synthetic versions of what’s in this vial—the blood of our ancestors, and most specifically, their genetic healing factors,” Augustus said. “But to date, he had been unsuccessful in those attempts.” He started to place the vial back inside the hollow compartment of the wayob statue, but Lina caught his hand, stopping him.

  “No,” she said. “You hang onto it. I think it will be safer with you.”

  Even twelve hours ago, she would have considered herself crazy for saying such a thing—in essence, that she trusted Augustus. Someone pinch me, she thought. I must be dreaming.

  She tried but was unable to stifle a yawn with the back of her hand. It was nearly morning; she’d been up all night, and all at once, despite her fascination with the topic of conversation, the weight of her exhaustion seemed overwhelming.

  Augustus smiled. “You need to rest.”

  Lina shook her head. “No. We need to get back out and start searching for Brandon.”

  Augustus arched his eyebrow. “And where should we begin? You told me that you and your police partner had been unable to track down Tejano Cervantes’s whereabouts in Bayshore to date.”

  She folded her arms. “Maybe you could sense him if we drove around enough, hit as much of town as we can before dawn.” It was a ridiculous notion and she knew it, like suggesting they search for a needle in a haystack using a refrigerator magnet.

  “I’m as anxious to find Brandon as you are,” Augustus told her. “And as worried about him. But I think it would be prudent to rest before we begin again, to review our evidence and…as you call them in your line of work…our leads with fresh eyes in the morning. Neither one of us will be doing Brandon—or ourselves—any good if we’re exhausted.”

  He had a point, Lina realized. Goddamn it.

  “Fine. I'll get my keys.” She'd played chauffeur for the evening, in part because she knew her way around town and Augustus didn't, and in part because she'd still worried about him being drunk when they'd left the hotel. He'd insisted that he was fine—and he'd seemed fine, his accelerated metabolism having eliminated any hint of the brandy's effects—but she still hadn't wanted to take any chances.

  “I can call for a cab.”

  “Are you kidding? They'll rip you off blind. You have rich-and-from-out-of-town written all over you.”

  Augustus glanced down at the front of his shirt, his brow raised speculatively. “It’s probably not safe for you to be driving when you’re fatigued,” he said. “Statistically, isn’t it as dangerous as driving while impaired by alcohol?”

  He sounded innocent enough, but she didn’t miss his pointed gaze. She’d used the alcohol argument against him earlier at his hotel, when he’d insisted he was alright to drive. And she knew he was right; she’d been a cop long enough to be well familiarized with the statistics. Letting him win the argument, however, and get a cab, was out of the question.

  “Fine.” Reaching for a nearby rocking chair that had belonged to her Granddaddy Clarence, she snagged a crocheted throw blanket and did as the name implied—threw it at him. “I’ll get you a pillow. You can crash on the couch. I know it’s hardly the Bayshore Grand, but…”

  “It will be fine,” he interjected mildly—and as she yawned again, he added, “And undoubtedly safer.” He tipped his head in a genteel nod. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

  “Yeah, well…it doesn’t mean we’re friends or anything,” Lina mumbled. Frowning slightly, she headed for Latisha’s bedroom to grab an extra pillow, still not quite believing she’d just invited him to spend the night at her mother’s home. Pinch me harder, she thought.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Brandon groaned silently as someone slapped him across the cheek. When he felt a hand grasp him firmly by the chin, offering his head a sharp little shake, he frowned and tried vainly to pull away. He opened his eyes and found Julien Davenant standing in front of him, leaning over so that they were nearly eye to eye. Davenant was dressed in another well-tailored suit and tie, his dark hair combed back from his face, his blue eyes shining with a vicious sort of mirth as he smiled at Brandon.

  “Wakey, wakey,” he said.

  With a gasp, Brandon tried to recoil but found himself immobilized, restraining cuffs around his wrists and ankles pulling taut as he moved. He was seated in an upright position in what felt like a slat-backed wooden chair. A strap had been lashed along his jawline and chin, and another across his forehead, both secured somehow to the headrest behind him. He felt even more straps, tight and oppressive, drawn across his chest just beneath his collar, and across his upper thighs.

  What the fuck…? he thought in bright, bewildered panic, balling his fists and straining against the unflinching hold of the wrist cuffs. Like all Brethren, he was preternaturally strong, but even so, his best efforts were useless. If he summoned the bloodlust, he became even stronger, but when he tried, nothing happened. It should have come easily to him, the physiological changes signaling the bloodlust—his pupils enlarging, widening to swallow all of the visible parts of his corneas and irises; his canine teeth elongating, sliding out from hidden recesses in his gums to their full, vicious lengths—but he felt nothing. His field of vision, which should have grown dramatically brighter, and his mouth, which should have grown tender as his teeth emerged, all remained unchanged. For years, Brandon had willingly taken Wellbutrin, a medication that had helped to stifle the effects of the bloodlust within him; now it seemed the bloodlust had abandoned him on its own.

  You with me, kid? Julien asked. Good. We’ve got work to do.

  Fuck you, Davenant, Brandon seethed, trying like all hell to rip himself free from his bonds, if only so he could pummel that sardonic, shit-eating grin off the son of a bitch’s face. He felt a momentary satisfaction when Julien blinked, visibly surprised at the mention of his name. Yeah, that’s right, you fucking bastard. I know who you are, Julien. I know your fucking name.

  Well, well. Julien chuckled, his surprise apparently short-lived. Looks like you’re smarter than I thought.

  Where are we? Brandon demanded, again struggling futilely against his bonds, yanking with all of his might against the immobilizing grip of the restraints. They were no longer in the hotel room. That much was for certain, although he had no recollection of leaving. He saw countertops, cabinets and pale-colored walls; it looked like a doctor’s office. Smelled like one, too; the air had the distinct pungency of medical antisepsis. Let me go, you son of a bitch! Let me go right the fuck now!

  Shaking his head, Julien laughed again as he walked behind Brandon. Then the chair gave an unexpected lurch beneath Brandon, and to his surprise began to move, rolling backward on wheels as Julien pulled it. Brandon struggled to move his head, to crane his gaze up enough to see behind him, but couldn’t.

  Where are you taking me? he yelled. Goddamn it, let me go!

  He received no reply, and could only watch, helpless and immobilized, as the chair rolled through a doorway and out into a corridor. He saw closed doors lining their path, ceiling tiles overhead, and fluorescent light panels; these disappeared, only to be replaced by others in rapid succession as he was wheeled down the hall.

  Let me go! he yelled, tugging vainly against his wrist cuffs. From his position, he lost all sense of direction as the wheelchair turned down corridor after seemingly endless corridor, around corner after corner. He stopped berating Julien as he steered the chair along its dizzying course; it did no good, because Julien never responded, and his mi
nd was closed off, as if shielded from Brandon’s telepathy somehow. He didn’t stop pulling and squirming against his bonds, however, not even when at last, they passed through another doorway, and his chair abruptly came to a halt.

  He was in some kind of corporate conference room, with a long table running down the middle and more than a dozen leather-upholstered chairs arranged neatly around it. The lights in the room had been dimmed, with most of the visible illumination coming through the doorway behind him, the hallway beyond. Then, along the white-paneled walls, bright white lights flooded the room with unexpected glare, and images began to flash across enormous digital screens—gruesome scenes of people being tortured.

  Oh, Jesus… Brandon thought, his eyes widening. What the fuck is this?

  In one image, he saw the stark and extreme close-up of a man’s face, a macabre portrait in black and white of someone who had been so badly beaten, his eyes were swollen shut, his nose an indistinguishable, bulbous mass, bloated in the center of his face, his nostrils and lips cracked and caked with dried blood.

  In another, a man’s mouth had been forced open by some kind of hideous, metal contraption, his tongue protruding, held in place by a pair of forceps while a gleaming razor blade sliced it in half down the length.

  Jesus Christ!

  In yet another, a man stood with his arms suspended above his head, his hands out of view. His back had been whipped enough to leave open wounds, countless grisly, overlapping stripes. The photo had been taken from behind, but his face was still visible in profile, drooped down toward his chest, his eyelids closed. It took Brandon a long moment as he stared, sickened and aghast, at the horrific slideshows before he realized.

  Not men…not more than one…

  Although not always distinguishable or clearly in focus, in all of the images where a face could be seen, the resemblance was too close, too uncanny to be anything but coincidence. The victim of the torment in all of the shots, too numerous to count, each seemingly more horrific than the last, was the same person.