Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  The knot in Brandon’s gut tightened as Julien reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a set of brass knuckles.

  Like you said, he’s my brother. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. Julien slipped the brass knuckles onto his right hand, then folded his fingers experimentally into a light fist, as if appraising the fit. When he glanced up at Brandon again, there was nothing soft or sorrowful in his eyes anymore—only iciness, a granite-like resolve. Nothing.

  * * *

  Oh, Brandon, he heard a woman say, her soft voice luring him from the depths of unconsciousness. I’m so sorry.

  Julianne? he thought, because he knew that voice—knew it well from his childhood. Whenever he’d been hurt or sick, that voice had soothed him, his grandmother Julianne bringing him comfort. He tried to open his eyes, but only one of them seemed to work; what felt like a hot, stinging, swollen mass of battered flesh enveloped the other, blinding him. His nose felt likewise bloated. Something had been placed in his mouth and down the back of his throat, keeping his lips and jaws forced apart so he could breathe through his mouth. His vision was bleary, little more than lights and shadows, but after a moment, her face came into clearer view as she leaned over him, stroking her cool, gentle fingers against his aching face.

  Julianne, he groaned. He tried to reach for her, but felt something encircling his wrist draw taut, holding his arm pinned down. Frightened, confused, and above all, hurting, he tried to lift the other arm with likewise results.

  It’s alright, she told him gently, but he struggled against the bonds anyway, his efforts only sending spasms of pain through his abdomen and groin—tender areas that, along with his face, had proven favorite targets for Julien and his brass knuckles.

  Julianne, help me, he pleaded, gasping for frantic breath, twisting his hand against the cuff to try and grab her. Help me, please!

  He realized they weren’t alone as several figures moved in and out of his view, all dressed ambiguously in oversized surgical gowns, caps and masks that kept any distinguishable features in their face or form hidden. As he blinked up at Julianne, bewildered and alarmed, he realized that she, too, wore surgical scrubs, with her brown hair gathered back beneath a surgical cap.

  Brandon… she said softly, her brows lifting in gentle sympathy.

  What…what’s going on? he asked. Who are these people? What do they want from me?

  Hush now, she soothed, stroking his hair back from his brow.

  What are you doing? Brandon asked as Julianne reached across him, drawing a strap over the breadth of his chest at his collar. Someone on the other side of the table took the free end from her and secured it, and Brandon’s movement was now fully restricted.

  What are you doing? he cried again as Julianne moved out of his view, leaving him to squint against the cruel glare of an overhead light. Another figure leaned over Brandon—a man with a surgical mask covering most of his face. He held something in his hand, an instrument or tool of some sort, but Brandon couldn’t crane his head or see well enough to make it out.

  What is that? he cried. Who are you people? What do you want with me?

  If the man in the surgical mask could hear him telepathically, he gave no outward sign. His dark eyes held nearly insectile interest as he moved his hand toward Brandon’s chest. Brandon felt something small but sharp, like the thick tip of an embroidery needle, dig into the skin at his sternum.

  What is that? What are you doing to me? Brandon tried to turn his head, straining to see his grandmother. Julianne, please—for God’s sake, help me!

  Intraosseous access is the most efficient way to extract the amount of blood we need, she told him, and he felt her stroke his hair again. Venous access collapses too easily given—

  Blood? Brandon struggled futilely against his restraints. Julianne, please, listen to me, he begged. Please—I’m not like Aaron. I don’t know what made him special—what made his blood so special to you or Lamar, but it’s not in me.

  When the man in the surgical mask put all of his weight behind that needlepoint against Brandon’s chest, leaning over the table with his brows furrowed, his face twisting from the forceful strain, Brandon felt it stab through his flesh, punching through underlying tissue and into the sternal bone, impaling him. Had he been able, he’d have arched his back off the cold slab of steel upon which he laid, and screamed himself hoarse.

  Stop it, you son of a bitch, oh, God, please STOP!

  But the man didn’t stop, not until he had driven eight more of the devices into Brandon’s body—one into each arm, just beneath the curve of his deltoid muscle; one at each of his inner calves at the ankles; one above each of his knees, and another pair just beneath each knee. By the time the man had finished, Brandon was nearly delirious with pain. He could feel the people in the surgical masks tugging and pulling on him as they attached lengths of rubber tubing to the devices. Through the one protruding from his chest, he watched as something dark red began to flow, filling the tube: blood. They were draining his blood.

  Why…? he asked, as Julianne leaned into view again. Closing his eyes, he uttered a soundless sob and felt tears slide down his bruised, battered cheeks. Why are you doing this to me?

  I’m sorry, she whispered, touching his face, comforting him as she always had. Oh, Brandon, I’m so sorry.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  We were both born for this, Lina heard Pilar whisper. We were born to be together.

  She stood in the shadow-draped living room of her mother’s house, disturbed from slumber by a soft but persistent rustling sound, the creaking of furniture, from out on the lanai. Barefooted and in her pajamas, she stole out of Latisha’s darkened bedroom and toward the strange sounds, her hair in a sleep-tousled mess, her face scrunched in a groggy scowl. At the sound of Pilar’s telepathic voice, however, rippling through her mind in a low, sultry purr, she froze.

  Please don’t stop, she heard Pilar say. Oh, God, please…!

  Lina heard a slapping sound; it grew louder and faster as she hurried now for the lanai. The glass door had been left open, the room dark beyond the threshold. When Lina paused, peering past the doorway, she saw silhouettes moving to her right, a figure hunched over in the darkness.

  No… she thought, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Not a single figure but two, a man and a woman making love missionary-style. The woman had her legs propped against the man’s shoulders to give him unabated access as he drove himself vigorously into her, and he gripped her hips tightly with every pounding stroke. Her breasts bounced and she clutched at his arms, raking his skin with her nails, her dark hair spilled in a glossy tumble against the pillows beneath her.

  “Don’t stop,” Lina heard Pilar beg aloud, her voice ragged and hoarse as she neared climax. “God, Brandon…please…!”

  At this, the mention of his name, Lina drew back in shock, even though a part of her had known all along, from the first soft sounds that had roused her from sleep. Like a fool, she hadn’t heeded her own mental warnings; she hadn’t wanted to believe, but there was no denying what was right in front of her eyes: Brandon, stripped nude, his body sweat-glossed in the moonlight filtering through the lanai windows, his dark hair swept about his face, the twin lengths of his exposed fangs.

  I want to make you come. Brandon’s voice filled Lina’s mind, and she stumbled backwards into the doorframe, uttering a low, wounded sound he couldn’t hear.

  Come on, Pilar, he grunted, fucking her hard. That’s it…come for me.

  Pilar cried out, arching her back off the futon mattress, obviously in the throes of orgasm. Lina heard Brandon utter a breathless sigh as he came inside of her; it felt for all of the world like he’d just taken a steak knife and plunged it between Lina’s ribs, sinking the blade deeply into the meat of her heart.

  Holy shit, Brandon whispered with a shaky laugh, crumpling onto Pilar. That…was incredible. He kissed her, his mouth stretched in an exhausted smile. I feel like I was born to make love to you.

 
That’s because you were, Pilar said.

  * * *

  “No!” With a cry, Lina jerked in start, sitting bolt upright in bed, bathed not in moonlight, but the bright light of the midmorning sun.

  What the hell…? Her heart pounded beneath her breasts. Her entire body felt tremulous, her breath fluttering, her skin damp with a light sheen of perspiration.

  A dream, Lina thought, clapping her hand over her face, not the least bit surprised to realize she was shaking. Just another goddamn dream.

  She’d spent the night in Augustus’s hotel suite. Despite her insistence that she was fine, he’d carried her from the car up to the suite upon their return to the hotel from the emergency room. And despite her protests, she had to admit, she was grateful for the genteel gesture. It had felt good to be able to tuck her cheek against the nook of his shoulder and close her eyes; she’d felt safe there from the strange and unexpected sorrow that had overwhelmed her at the hospital. He had delivered her to the bedroom and flipped back the sheets, laying her gently down and tucking her in with equally tender care.

  “You take the bed,” Lina had said. “I’ll take the couch.”

  “Absolutely not,” Augustus had replied.

  “You paid for it,” she protested.

  “I paid for the couch, too,” he countered.

  She’d been too damn tired to argue with him. And, as she’d settled herself beneath the crisp, cool Egyptian cotton sheets and down-filled overlay, sinking into the padded mattress and mountain of pillows, she’d been glad. Closing her eyes on the crazy, heartbreaking day had been akin to heaven; Lina had secretly been grateful to Augustus for his persistent courtesy.

  She would have thought sheer exhaustion alone would have kept the nightmares that had plagued her since her breakup with Brandon away, but apparently not. Every night it was the same haunting, hurtful, humiliating images—Brandon and Pilar making love. Every night, she’d wake up near to tears, all of the pain and outrage fresh and new again, like a wound bed, exposed and raw after the scab is picked away.

  “Goddamn it,” Lina whispered. She pushed the heavy blankets back and swung her legs around, sitting up and blinking in the sun’s dazzling glare. The bedroom had its own balcony, smaller than the one in the living room, and she’d fallen asleep with the draperies all left open wide. Like the living room, from the vantage of the glass-paneled doors leading out onto the veranda, she could see the expansive breadth of beach and oceanfront view below.

  She stumbled to her feet and shuffled to the bathroom. For a long moment, she stared at her reflection in the mirror, the dark shadows ringing her eyes, the gaunt and haggard appearance she wore like a cowl. A peek down the front of her panties confirmed that her bleeding hadn’t stopped; the maxi pad she’d been given at the hospital hadn’t soaked through overnight, but was still red-tinged with blood.

  It’s for the best, she thought, reminding herself of all the reasons in the world she hadn’t needed to be pregnant with Brandon Noble’s child. Because if she had, the whole fantasy that she would ever be ready to move on, that her heart could somehow heal the tremendous, aching sinkhole that Brandon had left behind—it would be impossible.

  Brandon belongs with Pilar, she told herself. He’s her parejo. They’re meant to be together. Even if that’s nothing but a crock of shit, it’s obvious that she’s who he wants to be with. Not me. Being pregnant wouldn’t have changed anything—just complicated matters, made them all worse for everyone.

  Her cell phone rang from the bedside table in the other room, startling a quiet yelp from her. Spinning on her heel—and wiping away the unbidden tears that had sprang to her eyes—she hurried to answer it.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?” Marcus asked.

  “What? No. Not at all.” Lina sniffled, then cleared her throat, trying not to sound like she had only seconds earlier be on the verge of tears.

  “How are you feeling? Were you able to get any rest?”

  “I…I’m fine, Marcus. Thanks for asking. And yeah, I slept pretty good, in fact.” Until my dream about Brandon anyway, she thought sadly. “Anyway, what’s up?”

  “Not much,” Marcus said. “And that’s the problem. The guy we booked at the Cadana scene last night, Vladan Nikolić? The good news is that he’s wanted.”

  “Really?”

  “On international charges, no less.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Yeah. Apparently he was in a Serbian militia gang called Munja back in the late 1990s, took part in the ethnic cleansing raids of Albanian settlements. He and his unit, they’d go in and wipe out entire villages—men, women, children. Killed them all on sight. Nikolić’s said to have a habit of raping women with his bayonet, earning him the nickname Vlad Țepeș, which in Romanian means ‘Vlad the Impaler.’”

  “Nice,” Lina muttered.

  “Which also happened to be the nickname for the guy who inspired Count Dracula,” Marcus added.

  “You don’t say,” she remarked. That’s not his only connection to vampires, she added darkly to herself.

  “Anyway, I pulled that info from INTERPOL. As for Vladam himself—he’s not talking.”

  “He doesn’t speak English?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. He’s not talking period. Not to me, not to any of the translators we’ve brought in. There are apparently six different dialects of Serbian, and one…Torlakian, or something like that…it’s basically a separate language altogether. And that’s not even counting the fact that in Serbia, they also use Albanian, Hungarian, Romanian, Slovak, Russian, Ukrainian, Bulgarian, Romanian, Czech, Bosnian, and about a half-dozen other languages, too.”

  “What about Spanish?” Lina asked. “If he’s working with Cervantes, maybe…”

  “Already thought of it, already tried it,” Marcus cut in. “Still no luck. The closest Serbian embassy’s in Washington, D.C. I’ve made some phone calls to see if we can possibly fly one of their guys into Miami. I don’t know if they’ll be willing to help us out or not, but I’m running out of options here.”

  Marcus hadn’t asked her to come in to the office, but then again, he hadn’t exactly told her to stay away, either. He’d sounded tired, and more than a little frazzled; the unspoken inference she thought she’d detected was that he wanted some help. She hadn’t packed any clothes, had come to the hotel with only the shirt on her back and a pair of scrub pants she’d been given in the emergency room.

  I’ll have to swing by Mama’s house first and change, she thought, bee-lining for the bathroom for a quick shower.

  Once she stood beneath the lavish spray, however, she found herself loath to leave. For one thing, the shower was enormous—almost as big as the entire bathroom in Latisha’s house. Tiled with bronze-colored granite, the overhead spout was the size of a dinner plate, sending a pulsating, steaming downpour over her. The hotel’s bath oils and soap smelled like citrus fruits and flowers, and the double glass doors steamed opaque with condensation by the time she’d finished rinsing the rich, soft lather from her skin, working from her neck to her toes in slow, luxuriating fashion.

  I need this, she thought, closing her eyes and hanging her head, letting the water coax all of the tense knots in her neck and shoulders loose. She didn’t realize that she’d spent more than forty minutes in the shower until she stepped out and glanced at her watch, which she’d left on the counter by the sink.

  Shit, she thought, wrapping a towel around her waist and scurrying into the bedroom, ushering out a wafting cloud of steam in her wake. She’d meant to be dressed and long gone by now. As she hopped from one foot to the other, yanking on her pants, she caught the distinctive aroma of fresh coffee.

  Augustus is awake. She’d hoped to slip out somehow without him noticing, to grab the keys to Latisha’s Honda from the valet and be on the road before he’d even stirred. As she pulled on her T-shirt, she tiptoed to the bedroom door, leaning close enough to rest her ear against the wood.

  She could hear him,
his voice muted from the other side; since the conversation seemed to be one-sided, she assumed he was on the phone. Since it was also in French, she figured it was someone in his family, Eleanor again perhaps. Good. He was distracted. Lina opened the bedroom door a slight, wary margin, and glanced out into the living room beyond.

  Augustus was on the phone and, like Lina, already dressed, with his long hair tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. She made a run for the door, scurrying out of the bedroom, but when he caught sight of her, he smiled; without breaking his conversation, he beckoned to her with a wave, then indicated where a table had been set for breakfast out on the sunny balcony.

  Good morning, Angelina, he said within her mind.

  Uh, hey. She flipped him an uncomfortable wave. Good morning.

  Did you sleep well? He walked over to her and kissed her lightly on each cheek, a cosmopolitan sort of greeting. It occurred to her that smelled good, goddamn it—some kind of undoubtedly expensive cologne; she’d always been a complete sucker for a man wearing good cologne.

  “Very much so…thanks,” she mumbled.

  Although Augustus continued listening to whoever was on the other end of his phone conversation, he offered his arm to escort her out onto the balcony. At first, she hesitated, then with a sigh, tagged along.

  A quick cup of coffee couldn’t hurt, she thought. It’s not like Vlad the Impaler’s going anywhere anytime soon. And besides, it’d be kind of rude of me to just high-tail it on Augustus. He didn’t have to let me crash here.

  “Thank you,” she said as he slid one of the chairs back for her, and as she sat, eased it comfortably beneath her at the table.