Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  “No,” Marcus said. “In fact, it’s not a drug at all, or at least, not as far as they could tell. Frankly, they weren’t able to find out much about it at all except it appears chemically to be some kind of synthesized amino acid.”

  “Manmade,” Lina said, and he nodded.

  “I’ve got the results they emailed back in my office,” Marcus said. “In case you or Velasco want to see them.”

  “That’d be great,” Lina said. “Definitely.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, watching the coffee brew. Just when Lina began to feel awkward—and began considering different options for excusing herself tactfully from the room—Marcus cleared his throat. “About the other night at Pablo’s…”

  She winced. “Forget about it.”

  “I was out of line,” he insisted. “And I’d like the chance to make it up to you. With a real date this time, if you’d like.”

  “We’ll see,” she murmured, wondering if he’d still feel that way if he knew that Augustus Noble was currently sitting in Marcus’s office, probably still laughing his ass off, escorted onto the premises by none other than Lina herself.

  * * *

  “What are the chances of us getting in to talk to Nikolić?” Lina asked, once she and Marcus had returned, coffees in hand, to his office. Augustus had had the good sense to keep his big mouth—both the one on his face and in his mind—shut since their return, and Lina had taken the lead in their conversation.

  “I was able to arrange for a translator,” Marcus asked. “The Serbian embassy knew of an eastern European studies professor at Florida State University in Tallahassee who’s fluent in almost every major dialect from that region. They’re on their way now. Should be here…” He glanced at his watch. “Late afternoon, around four or five.”

  “I was kind of hoping we could see him sooner than that,” Lina said, and when Marcus opened his mouth, she cut him short. “Hear me out, Marcus. I’m willing to bet Nikolić speaks either Spanish or English. He’s been hanging out with Cervantes and his crew—probably trafficking in that shit you found on him. I doubt they’ve been doing it in Serbian.”

  What shit they found? Augustus asked.

  Without sparing him a glance, she said, I’ll tell you in a minute. Aloud, she continued: “Nikolić’s sitting in there, facing deportation and criminal charges. I’m willing to bet there’s a special corner in a Siberian gulag or something that’s reserved for guys just like him. And he knows it, too. Rolling over on Cervantes isn’t going to get him out of that, but it might be a plus or two in his favor at any rate.”

  Marcus raised his brows, looking thoughtful.

  “Let me try, at any rate,” Lina pressed. “If he just sits there like a big, dumb rock, then fine. But I’m guessing he’s not so loyal to Cervantes that he’ll hang for him, too—not if there’s a way he can get out of it.”

  He studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Alright. It’s worth a shot. But I’m going in with you. The only way this deal you’re talking is going to have any weight is if it comes from someone with federal authority.”

  The last thing she needed was Marcus in the interrogation room when she tried to tear into Nikolić. But damn it, the man had a point, and she could see from his expression that there’d be no dissuading him.

  Perhaps if you promised him another date… Augustus suggested.

  She shot him a glare. Shut up, Augustus.

  * * *

  Vladan Nikolić sat in a metal folding chair on one side of a pock-marked table, with his wrists shackled together, his ankles cuffed with manacles. His orange jumpsuit appeared about two sizes too small, stretched taut across the broad expanses of his chest and shoulders, the seams straining across the thighs and sleeves. His bald head gleamed with a greasy sheen under the harsh fluorescent lights, and the twisting blue-green lines of the tattoos on his scalp made him look eerily like some sort of mythological Gorgon.

  He raised his head when Lina, Augustus and Marcus walked through the interrogation room door.

  “Hey, Nikolić,” Marcus said, plastering a bright grin on his face. While Lina and Augustus hung back near the doorway, as they’d agreed, Marcus approached the table boldly. He pulled out the chair opposite Nikolić and spun it around so he could straddle it backwards in a false pretense of both bravado and ease. “May I call you that? Or do you prefer Vlad?”

  Nikolić cut his gaze between the three of them. His eyes lingered for a moment on Lina, and his nostrils flared as he drew in a long, deep breath.

  “These two detectives with me have been looking into a number of murders here in town,” Marcus said. “Some pretty nasty murders, from the looks of these.” He’d carried a file folder in with him, and opened it now, spreading a series of photographs across the table, images of the crime scene in which Téo had been assaulted, his two companions killed. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about those, would you, Vlad?”

  Your pussy smells sweet, like candy.

  Lina jumped at the low, nearly growling voice filtering through her mind. The corners of Nikolić’s mouth curled up in a thin, predatory smile, and the tip of his tongue snaked out, drawing slowly, suggestively across his upper lip.

  You come to let me have a taste, kurvo? he purred.

  His mental voice cut short, his throat seized by Augustus’s telekinetic chokehold. His breath wheezed, and his eyes widened.

  You will address the young lady with courtesy, Augustus told him drily, his brows narrowed. Or you will answer to me. Razumeš li? Do you understand?

  Vladan managed a quick nod. Da, he gasped, and when Augustus apparently released his telekinetic hold, he drew in a long, slow, deep breath, rubbing the thick stalk of his neck, the smile sliding back along the line of his mouth.

  You can speak Serbian, Lina observed of Augustus, folding her arms across her chest.

  I am fluent in over thirty languages, yes, Augustus replied. With a sideways glance at her, he added, I’ve been around for awhile.

  Yeah. Lina directed her glare next at Vladan. And you can talk.

  Vladan shrugged. When I feel like, he replied in broken English. You get me out of here or what?

  Or what. She cocked her brow. Why do you think we’re here to get you out?

  Vladan cut a glance to indicate Augustus. Him.

  Lina swung toward Augustus, all of Marcus’s admonitions coming front and center to her mind again. What the fuck… she said slowly, though whether addressing Vladan or Augustus, she wasn’t quite sure. …are you talking about?

  I haven’t the slightest notion, Augustus replied. I’ve never seen this man in my life.

  I not see you, Vladan said. With a cheeky sort of grin, he tapped his forehead with one meaty fingertip. But you work for starac, too, da?

  Lina frowned. What?

  Starac, Augustus repeated. It’s Serbian for ‘old man.’

  Lina’s frown deepened. What old man?

  Augustus didn’t answer. Nodding once at Vladan, he said, Yes. We work for starac.

  I knew it, Vladan exclaimed, flashing a momentary grin. Tapping his forehead with his fingertip, he said, I still have enough to sense you, what you really are—strigoi.

  Stree-what? Lina looked to Augustus for translation. With an irritated huff, she added, Both of you need to start speaking English. Right the fuck now.

  Strigoi, Augustus said, pronouncing the word “streeg-VOY.” In Romanian mythology, they were creatures said to have returned from the grave, subsisting on the blood of the living. With a glance at Lina, he added, In other words, a vampire. Which, I may add, he is not.

  Of course he is—I told you I saw him last night. His eyes were black. And he just said he could sense you.

  Yes, well, I can smell him, Augustus replied drolly. And he smells as human as you do. Although not nearly as pleasant.

  Uh…thanks. She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. I don’t understand. Turning to Vladan again, she planted her hands on her hips. Wh
at the hell is going on here?

  I tell you already, Vladan said. I have enough left. I sense him. He glanced between the two of them, his patience running thin. I tell you, da? Now you tell me. You get me out of here?

  What do you mean, enough left? Lina asked, at a complete loss now.

  Kić. Vladan looked equally puzzled, and when Lina glanced at Augustus, his bewildered expression made them a matching trio.

  I’m unfamiliar with that term, Augustus said.

  Kić, Vladan said again, pronouncing the word “keetch.” You know—kićso. When Augustus shook his head, he scowled, clearly growing exasperated. Pun mi kurac, he muttered, then, more loudly: Soc. Kićso.

  Soc, Augustus repeated, and Vladan nodded, rolling his eyes skyward as if to thank God. Soc means juice, he offered by way of translation for Lina, and Vladan clapped his hands once, grinning broadly.

  “Da!” he exclaimed aloud. “Yes, juice!”

  “You want something to drink, you get water, Nikolić,” growled Marcus—who was completely oblivious to the entire telepathic exchange occurring all around him. “And not before you give me something I can use—a name. A location. Anything. Comprende usted?”

  What does he mean, he has enough juice left to sense you? Lina asked Augustus. What the hell is juice? Turning to Nikolić, she said, Is that what they found on you when you were booked? That clear shit in the vial—that’s juice?

  Vladan narrowed his eyes at her, apparently—and at long last—cluing in on the fact that she and Augustus may not really be pinch-hitting for his home team after all. Who are you? he asked. Who send you here to me? Was it Julien?

  Julien? Lina’s brows narrowed. Who the hell is—?

  Augustus reached down, catching Lina by the arm to draw her gaze. I think we’re finished here.

  What? She blinked at him, stunned. No, we’re not. We’re not anywhere close to—

  Trust me. With a slight smile, Augustus glanced again at Vladan. We are indeed.

  * * *

  “Alright,” Lina said, buckling her seatbelt and settling herself behind the wheel of her mother’s car. “Who the hell is Julien?”

  “My guess would be Julien Davenant,” Augustus replied, drawing the shoulder strap of the passenger-side belt across his midriff to lock in place. “Aaron’s older brother and—with Allistair and Jean Luc dead—Lamar’s heir apparent.”

  “So Nikolić is working with Cervantes,” Lina said. “Is he one of the Brethren?”

  “Absolutely not.” Augustus laughed. “He’s no more Brethren than you are.”

  They’d left the interrogation room without Nikolić speaking another word—aloud, at least. Marcus had been frustrated, but apparently not surprised.

  “It was a good idea,” he’d told Lina. “I’m sorry it didn’t pan out. Hopefully when the translator gets here, we’ll have better luck.”

  “But he had the bloodlust last night,” Lina said to Augustus as she started the Honda.

  “So it seems,” Augustus said with a nod.

  “I saw his eyes,” she insisted. “He has to be Brethren. Humans don’t get the bloodlust.”

  “I don’t think he was human last night, either,” Augustus said. “I think he was something in between.”

  “Because of that juice Marcus took off him? How is that possible?”

  “I don’t think it was just any juice,” Augustus said. “I think it’s made from blood. A very special kind of blood.”

  Lina’s eyes widened. The wayob, she thought, and she could tell he’d overheard her by the slight smile he awarded her. “But you have the vial we found inside Valien’s wayob statue.”

  “I didn’t say it was Valien’s,” Augustus said. “But I think what we’re dealing with is the same substance, yes.”

  Lina had made copies of the test results the FBI lab had sent to him, although she had to admit, all of the numbers, graphs, and charts were pretty much gibberish to her. He’d carried them out to the car with them, spreading them across his lap. She tapped one of the sheets now. “And that’s what this is?”

  “I’m not sure.” Augustus reached into the front pocket of his shirt, slipping out his cell phone. “But I know someone who may be able to tell us. Then I think it’s time to track down Valien again.” When she looked at him, puzzled, he added, “I need him to introduce me to Tejano Cervantes. I want to buy some of Nikolić’s juice.”

  * * *

  “Augustus, bon jour.” Mason Morin sounded pleased, but obviously surprised, when he answered his line. Before placing the call, Augustus had used the camera on his phone to take pictures of each of the sheets from the FBI lab analysis. These, he’d sent off in an email, although Lina hadn’t realized to whom until that moment.

  “How are you doing, lad?” Augustus asked, his tone growing suddenly gentle. Lina knew that Mason and Michel had always been close, nearly inseparable, or so it had seemed from her limited observation.

  “I…I’m fine,” Mason replied hesitantly, still sounding somewhat perplexed. “Or at least, for the moment, I’m finding enough to keep me occupied.” After a slight pause, he said, “Are you trying to get a hold of Eleanor? She’s in the other room with her infusion underway. I thought she had her phone with her, but she might have dozed—”

  “I’m not calling for Eleanor,” Augustus interjected mildly. “I’d like to speak with you, please, Mason, if you have a few moments. I just sent you several large files by email, data reports on a synthetic enzyme, and I’m hoping as the new CEO of Pharmaceaux, you might be able to pass them along to someone who could interpret them for me.”

  Silence on the other end of the line. “Of course,” Mason said slowly, at length. “Certainly, Augustus. It would be my pleasure.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Brandon felt the burning sting of a needle injection in his arm. Eyelids fluttering open, he lifted his head, wincing at the sharp, aching strain through his shoulders. He found himself chained to the metal folding chair again, with Julianne squatting in front of him, a spent syringe in her hand.

  Good morning, she told him with a smile.

  What…the fuck did…you just put in me? he groaned.

  Her smile faltered. It’s medicine. Epoetin to stimulate your body to make more blood. You’re anemic now, from the blood loss. And mirtazapine. It’s an antidepressant.

  He managed a weak laugh. Can’t imagine why the hell I’d be depressed.

  She stood, smoothing down the front of her skirt, and tugging lightly at the hem of her cardigan sweater. She’d brought the wheeled cart with her again, and as she lay the empty needle aside on it, he saw the soup tureen and water pitcher once more.

  I brought you some oatmeal, she said, trying to sound bright again, plastering a fresh new smile on her face. I thought we could try eating again. What do you say?

  He watched, dazed, as she lifted the lid on the soup tureen and began to scoop out a serving of something thick, gloppy, and steaming. Although he had no way of keeping track of the passage of days, because the rooms in which he was held prisoner were constantly lit, he’d been forcibly fed through the nasogastric tube three more times. Each time, he’d wound up vomiting from the excessive volume they’d flood into his gut. They’d cleaned him up by hosing him down with an icy, high-powered spray, then left him to sputter and shiver, soaking wet and bound to the chair.

  Julianne reached for his face and he no longer had the strength to recoil from her touch. When she tugged at the tape holding the tube in place in his nostril, he sucked in a sharp, hissing breath.

  I’m going to undo the tape and take this out, she said. Tilting her head, she tried to draw his gaze. But if I do, you’re going to have to eat. Do you understand? If you don’t, the tube goes back in and we force-feed you again. Alright?

  Brandon closed his eyes and nodded weakly.

  Good boy, Julianne murmured, stroking his hair once before tugging again on the tape, working it loose. As she pulled the tubing up and out of his throat thr
ough his nose, he began to choke. Just as he felt like he might start to gag, the tip of the tube slid up from his throat, then out through his nose.

  There. Julianne’s hand lighted against his hair again. That’s better, isn’t it? Here…let’s have a bite. She pushed the first spoonful past his lax lips and into his mouth. It only gets worse if you fight, Brandon, she said. You see that now, don’t you?

  He nodded again, hanging his head.

  * * *

  He didn’t resist as Julianne spoon-fed him the cereal, and when she had finished, seemingly satisfied, she used the corner of a linen napkin to wipe his mouth, then stood.

  That medicine, he said, drawing her gaze. The antidepressant. It’s to keep me from summoning the bloodlust, isn’t it? That…and using my telepathy.

  The Wellbutrin he’d taken for years to suppress his bloodlust had also worked to stifle his natural telepathic abilities. Having Augustus around to block them had helped in that regard, but Brandon suspected this mirtazapine, or whatever the hell Julianne had called it, was a far stronger drug, one that didn’t need any outside reinforcements.

  She didn’t answer. Wordlessly, she collected the few dishes she’d used to feed him and placed them back on the wheeled cart.

  I’m right, aren’t I? he asked. You’re drugging me to keep me under control.

  I’ll be back soon. Again, she ignored his words, smiling again as she turned to face him. I’ll get you all cleaned up when Julien’s finished.

  Brandon didn’t know what that meant until he lifted his gaze and saw Julien striding across the threshold. He’d already removed his suit coat, and carried it across the crook of one elbow. And Brandon understood.

  No, he thought, shaking his head, twisting his hands helplessly against the cuffs. He hated the fear that edged his words, but couldn’t help it. He could still see bruises riddling his midriff from where Julien had previously beaten him, was still hurting from injuries that had yet to fully heal. Wild-eyed with sudden panic, he looked up at her. God, please, Julianne, no. Please!

  It might have been only his imagination, but he could have sworn a stricken look crossed her face, clouding her eyes for a fleeting moment. But she only turned away from him, taking the handle of the cart and pushing it toward the door.