Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  “My only regret after all of your years of service,” Kobayashi said to Aaron, pressing his fingertips together, his hands held upright, “is that we never once made you scream. Never as much as a groan.” He smiled, thin and reedy, and his dark eyes glittered as he looked pointedly at Brandon. “I have been told this new boy has no voice. That is disappointing indeed. There is a difference between will not and cannot cry out.”

  “It will be the only disappointment when it comes to the boy, I assure you.” What appeared to be a panel in the wall behind Kobayashi proved to be an elevator door, one that slid open now along recessed tracks to allow Lamar to glide out in his electric wheelchair. “As for my son…a dog that is well-heeled does not question the edicts of its master. Aaron knows I will not suffer fools—or signs of weakness.”

  Like Julien and Aaron, Lamar was dressed to the nines, in a well-pressed suit and silk tie. His gossamer hair had been wetted down and combed straight back from his face, and both the oxygen tank and mask were gone. Julianne followed dutifully behind him, dressed in a simple but elegant dove-grey dress. Her hair had been gathered back in a tidy bun at the base of her neck, and a simple string of pearls at her throat matched the two that she wore at her earlobes.

  “Lamar-san,” Kobayashi exclaimed, rising from his seat. With his hands at his sides, he offered a long, low bow. “Ohayo gozaimasu. It is always a pleasure.”

  At his cue, his entourage likewise rose from their chairs, turning to face Lamar as they bowed in greeting. Ken’ichi’s handicap prevented him from standing, but he averted his gaze, nodding his head in polite concession to the elder Davenant.

  “As for the boy, his somatotropic enzyme levels are at nearly seven times the baseline,” Lamar said, raising one withered hand from the armrest of his wheelchair to motion his guests back to their seats. Pawing at his controller, he guided the chair forward while Julianne walked behind him, circling the conference table. She carried a slim stack of red folders in the crook of her arm, and began distributing these now, one to each, Kobayashi and his son, Takahiro. “As you can see from these dossiers, his prolyl endopeptidase production is accelerated to a ratio of—”

  “Will it work this time?” Takahiro asked. He’d flipped open the red folder only to glance perfunctorily at the contents and slap it shut once more. His mouth remained a thin, drawn line, and his brows narrowed as he regarded Lamar. “Keep your numbers, your charts and graphs. We have heard it all before.” With a disgusted snort, he slapped the red folder away, and it skittered down the length of the table. “You tell my father now—will it work?”

  Lamar nodded once to signal Julianne, and she scurried back to his side. She reached behind the seat of his wheelchair and pulled out a slim black box, the size of a closed laptop. When she set it on the conference table and opened the lid, however, Brandon saw it wasn’t a computer, but some kind of carrying case. Grey foam lined the inside, and tucked into recessed pockets of the foam, he saw three small glass vials. Julianne removed two of the vials and then withdrew an empty syringe, a disposable needle, and a rubber strap from a pocket in the case lid.

  Julianne drew up a minute amount of fluid from the first vial, then mixed it with solution from the second. As she worked, Lamar said, “I am prepared to offer you a sample, one tenth of a microgram—one tenth of the standard dose of solution derived from the boy’s plasma, so that you may see for yourself what a difference even this modest amount can make.”

  Kobayashi exchanged glances with his older son, then nodded once. “Hai,” he said. “Of course.”

  Brandon watched as Julianne eased the young man, Ken’ichi’s limp arm from his suit jacket sleeve. It was like watching her undress a life-sized rag doll. She then turned up the cuff of his shirt sleeve and cinched the rubber tourniquet just above the crook of his elbow. Using an alcohol swab, she wiped the resulting swell from one of his veins, then slid the needle into his skin.

  When she untied the strap and released his arm, both Kobayashi and Takahiro stared at Ken’ichi, their faces etched with impatience. Just as Takahiro huffed out an exasperated breath and opened his mouth to say something to his father, Ken’ichi uttered a breathless squawk of nothing less than sheer delight. As he did, his hand moved, his fingers twitching and then curling in toward his palm, flexing into a light fist.

  “Otosama!” he exclaimed, his eyes widening. Father! Slowly he lifted his hand from his lap. His fist tightened, then he spread his fingers wide, wiggling them with growing vigor as he stretched his arm upright, higher and higher. His mouth spread in a delighted grin and he laughed aloud. “Otosama, watashi o mi te kudasai!” Father, look at me!

  Kobayashi beamed along with his son, clasping Ken’ichi by his now-mobile hand. Only Takahiro seemed less than enthusiastic in his response, and shot Lamar a suspicious glare.

  “How long?” he demanded. “We have seen results like this before, only to be disappointed in the end. The last dose did not last even a day in full before the effects began to fade.”

  “That was solution made from Aaron’s blood,” Lamar said, the corners of his mouth turning down as if he’d tasted something bitter. “This is made from the boy’s. The effects will hold for six weeks. Every treatment thereafter will last equally as long, if not more so.”

  “You guarantee this?” Takahiro said, and again, Lamar kept his poker face and nodded.

  “Of course,” he said, rolling toward Brandon. Reaching out, he dragged the cuff of his gnarled knuckles against Brandon’s cheek in a caress. “The boy is young, a veritable untouched mine of potential healing resources.”

  Get your fucking hand off me. Brandon gritted his teeth and jerked his head away.

  Unfazed, Lamar only smiled. “As you can see, gentlemen, the asking price is well-worth the investment. The boy is sure to be in great demand among my other clientele. But given our long-standing, mutually beneficial relationship, I felt obliged to offer you this initial opportunity.” With an aloof flap of his hand, as if bored, he added, “Of course, if you have uncertainties, I am sure I can find another who might be more interested.”

  Clasping the joystick again, he swung the wheelchair in a tight circle, then returned to Julianne’s side. Clasping his chair handles, she started to push him toward the elevator doors again as if they meant to leave, satisfied that their business there had been completed.

  Kobayashi pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. “Wait,” he said—then, with his brows crimped but his shoulders hunched, as if what he was about to say both pained and shamed him: “Onegai shimasun.” Please.

  “Otasama…” Takahiro began. Father…

  “Mou takusan!” Kobayashi cut him short with a sharp voice and a murderous glare. That’s enough! Returning his attention to Lamar, he again lowered his head in deference. “My family is honored by our years of association with yours, and that you have shared such a wonderful gift with Ken’ichi. We have every confidence that the results you have promised will be delivered and humbly agree to your terms, Lamar-san.”

  “Very good, then,” Lamar said, slipping his hand beneath the lapel of his jacket and pulling out a cell phone. “Allow me a moment to confirm the transfer of your funds and then we can proceed.”

  * * *

  While the men in the room made small talk, Julianne approached Brandon, a deceptively sweet smile on her face.

  “Let’s get you ready,” she murmured, leaning over so that he could smell her sweet perfume. Her fingertips grazed the nape of his neck as she untied the hospital gown he wore, leaving the neckline to droop, loose and lax, from his shoulders.

  What are they going to do? he asked, his brows narrowing. Are they going to tie me up and beat my arms all to hell, like they did Aaron’s?

  Mr. Kobayashi always pays a premium fee to inflict the injuries that ultimately benefit his son, Julianne replied, as nonchalantly as if commenting on the weather. Leaning back, she began unsnapping the sleeves of the gown. The harshness of Aaron’s injuries was alwa
ys necessitated by the decreased level of somatotrophic enzymes in his blood.

  The healing factors he got from the first blood, Brandon said, and she smiled, visibly pleased that he seemed to be catching on.

  That’s right.

  And his were decreasing because he got the first blood a long time ago, Brandon said. After Lamar bashed his skull in with his cane in 1815.

  Her bright expression faltered at this, but she managed to recover and, still smiling clumsily, nodded. Yes. That’s right.

  But mine are still high, Brandon continued as she drew the gown away, leaving him bare-chested and vulnerably exposed in the chair. My levels, I mean. Because my father gave the first blood to me eighteen years ago, the night I was attacked at the great house.

  Julianne folded the gown neatly. Yes.

  He told you this, Brandon said, and she nodded, looking directly into his eyes.

  Yes. He told me he took it from Augustus’s safe in the library.

  But he didn’t have to, Brandon said. Grandfather let me feed from him. He saved my life that night.

  Sebastian didn’t know that, Julianne said. And Augustus didn’t know about the first blood. Sebastian never told him.

  But he told you, Brandon said pointedly.

  She nodded, smiling somewhat forlornly. I think it was a burden to him, the guilt he felt. He’d kept the secret to himself for many years.

  How many? Brandon pressed.

  I don’t know. Five or six? He told me on the night of Uncle Lamar’s birthday, his five hundredth. He’d had quite a bit to drink at the party…

  There was more, but Brandon tuned her out for the moment. He cut a glance at Aaron, who remained within arm’s distance of them. Although his attention seemed diverted elsewhere, Brandon hoped he’d been eavesdropping on their conversation. In fact, he was banking on it.

  So you’ve known about me—about the first blood in me—for eleven years? he asked, cutting Julianne off in mid-ramble.

  She blinked at him. What?

  Eleven years, Brandon repeated. You said my father told you on the night of Lamar’s five hundredth birthday party—that was eleven years ago. You’ve known about me all that time.

  Well, yes, I…I suppose… Wary now, Julianne looked over her shoulder toward her uncle and the other men, but they remained absorbed in conversation. When she turned back to Brandon, she struggled to laugh. Why ever should such a thing matter now?

  You’re right. Brandon glanced at Aaron again. He didn’t think it was only his imagination, the way the other man’s posture had stiffened, the muscles spanning his neck and shoulders tightening beneath the constraints of his shirt and coat. I guess it doesn’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  When Lamar clapped his hands once, the quiet conversations within the conference room silenced, and all attention returned to him. Julianne ducked quietly out the door behind Brandon, carrying the hospital gown with her.

  “Now that everything is in order financially,” Lamar announced. “I do believe it is time to begin.” Using the joystick, he wheeled himself toward Brandon. “As we have already discussed, because of the boy’s more…pristine state, there is little need for the infliction of injury to the degree necessary with Aaron. Indeed, we’ve been able to achieve more than satisfactory levels of enzymatic stimulation from blunt-force injuries alone.”

  The digital screens framing the conference room sprang to life again. This time, however, instead of showing footage of Aaron, Brandon saw a video of himself as Julien had beaten him, driving the brass knuckles repeatedly, relentlessly, into his ribcage and groin. Kobayashi and his sons seemed to watch with gleeful amusement.

  With a serpentine smile, Lamar added, “That being said, however, I have always been one to appreciate your particular proclivities, Kobayashi-san, and am happy, as always, to accommodate.”

  As he spoke, Julianne returned to the room, wheeling a large metal cart past Brandon. His eyes widened in mounting horror as he glimpsed the items displayed on the cart’s shelves: a glittering array of knives and scalpels spread out across sheets of pressed white linen; leather whips in neatly arranged leather coils, bone saws, mallets, pliers, rib shears, and dissecting scissors.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, he thought. He shot a panic-stricken, pleading look at Aaron, but the other man wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “You are most kind.” Kobayashi dipped his head in a polite nod as Julianne presented him with the cart for his consideration, much as a maitre d’ in a five-star restaurant might a favorite patron with the evening’s dessert selections. “But Ken’ichi himself chose the instruments for this evening.”

  With a sweeping gesture, he indicated a small cast iron pot in the center of the table. Brandon hadn’t taken much notice of it until that moment, mistaking it—and the dozen or so metal rods protruding from its basin—for some kind of weird, modern-art centerpiece.

  “This hibachi is from my personal collection,” Kobayashi said. “Delivered from Tokyo for this most esteemed occasion.”

  Leaning forward, he grasped one of the rods protruding from the pot by the handle and gave it an experimental shake. Red-hot sparks danced up from the pot at this, and Brandon realized what it was even before Kobayashi pulled it loose. A hibachi—a grill. And the rods weren’t merely decoration; they had been left to heat up in the bank of coals resting inside the grill. Now the distal-most ends were red-hot, glowing with menacing, molten light.

  They were branding irons.

  Jesus Christ! No longer subtly squirming now, Brandon struggled against his bonds, trying vainly to wrestle his hands free.

  Realizing his desperation, Kobayashi’s son, Ken’ichi, burst into laughter. “Tasukete! Tasukete!” he taunted in a grating falsetto, waving at Brandon with his newly functional hand. “Help me, help me!” Turning to his father, he exclaimed, “I go first! Otasama, oneiga, yatte mitemo ii desu ka?” Father, please, may I try?

  Kobayashi beamed as if Ken’ichi had just showed interest in an ancestral family business. “Mochiron,” he said. Of course.

  He stood, pushing his chair back enough so that he could step behind Ken’ichi’s wheelchair and grasp the handles. As he maneuvered the chair around the side of the table, Takahiro likewise rose to his feet. He leaned over the table and grasped one of the iron branding rods by the handle. More sparks fluttered as he pulled it out, offering it to his brother with a hesitant expression.

  “Ki o tsukete…” he began. Be careful.

  Ken’ichi cut him off as he snatched at the rod. “Wakatteru, wakatteru yo,” he griped. I know, I know.

  As Kobayashi wheeled his son toward him, Brandon stared in mounting alarm at the white-hot, glowing circle at the end of the branding iron. It was no bigger in circumference than a fifty-cent piece, but from Brandon’s perspective, the closer it got, the bigger it seemed to become. Just like Ken’ichi’s grin.

  No, he cried, jerking against the straps binding his wrists and legs with enough force to rock the wheelchair back and forth. He didn’t want to grovel; he hated the shrill, pleading sound of his mental voice, but couldn’t help it. Gritting his teeth, he struggled furiously, shrugging his shoulders and straining to wrench his hands free. No, no, goddammit, NO!

  The branding iron waggled in Ken’ichi’s hand as he rolled alongside of Brandon, the armrests of their chairs nearly aligned. He leered at Brandon, forcing the business-end of the brand first toward Brandon’s face—close enough for Brandon to feel the blazing heat of the nearly molten metal sear his cheek—and then his chest.

  “Where to put it?” Ken’ichi said, giggling madly, again like some sort of demented child enjoying the favors at a birthday party. “Where should it go?”

  You son of a bitch, Brandon thought, clamping his eyes shut and turning his face away, bracing himself. You son of a bitch, you sick little fuck—!

  He couldn’t scream, but if his voice had remained, he would have as Ken’ichi shoved the brand into his upper chest, below t
he right side of his collar bone. Brandon jerked against his restraints, his breath cutting short in a mute, strangled cry at the bright, sudden, searing pain. He smelled the stink of burnt flesh—his flesh. Any blood loss as the iron sank through layer after layer of tissue and muscle was immediately cauterized and staved as Ken’ichi forcibly held the brand in place. When at last, he wrenched the brand away, tearing scraps of burnt flesh along with it, Brandon crumpled forward, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. God, he thought desperately. God, oh, God…!

  His line of sight had blurred with tears, but he saw movement as Kobayashi rolled Ken’ichi backwards, returning to the conference table. Please let them be done, he thought, even though he knew they weren’t; he’d seen enough of the videos of Aaron to know this with horrifying certainty. He blinked down at his chest, his tears spattering against his skin, and saw the hideous wound—blackened edges with bright red, exposed meat in the middle, a gory crater near the socket of his shoulder. God, please, don’t let them do that to me again.

  Again, if he had a voice, he’d have used it to moan aloud as he lifted his head and watched Kobayashi first return the spent branding iron to the hibachi kettle, then retrieve a fresh one, wickedly aglow, for Ken’ichi. As he pressed the handle against his son’s palm, something like pride welled in his eyes, lifting the corners of his mouth into a fond sort of smile.

  No, Brandon pleaded, shaking his head as they approached once more. Again, his terror seemed to delight Ken’ichi to no end, and he grinned maniacally. No, no, you sons of bitches, no!

  He tried not to scream, to push his lips together in a tight, defiant line through which not even his desperate, hitching breaths could escape. But when that white-orange brand met his skin again, closer to his nipple this time, he couldn’t prevent himself. Again, he thrashed wildly, nearly knocking the wheelchair sideways until Aaron reached out, grabbing one of the handles and steadying it again.

  Three more times, Ken’ichi and his father burned Brandon’s torso with the brands. Sweat-drenched and shuddering with pain, Brandon found no relief, even when the irons were removed. The fire seemingly remained, unabated, radiating out from each brutal wound in broadening, overlapping circumferences. The sickeningly sweet stench of searing flesh made Brandon gag, and he doubled over, vomiting.