Dark Vengeance Part 2

by Reinke, Sara

  “Kimochi warui!” Ken’ichi squawked, yanking the brand away and dropping it onto the floor in disgust. Gross!

  Although the head of the brand was no longer aglow, it remained hot enough to singe the carpet. Aaron darted forward and snatched the iron in hand, even as Kobayashi hurriedly wheeled his son back. It left a blackened, smoldering spot on the rug that Aaron stomped on heavily, snuffing underfoot.

  Brandon remained crumpled in his seat, his entire frame shuddering weakly as he continued to retch. There hadn’t been much in his gut to come up anyway, and there was only bile now, thick and bitter, with every painful, twisting knot of his belly. He looked up weakly, his head swimming, as Aaron carried the iron back to the hibachi, shoving it into the kettle.

  “Takahiro, you take over now,” Kobayashi said, easing Ken’ichi back into his previous position at the head of the table.

  “No.” Ken’ichi reached out, coiling his fingers around Aaron’s wrist. Seemingly over his disgust at Brandon’s vomiting, he grinned again. “Let Aaron-san.”

  “That is gracious of you, but I couldn’t…” Aaron began to protest, but Lamar cut him short.

  “Totemo ii to omoimasu—I think that is a splendid idea, Ken’ichi-san.”

  “Father, if I may…” Aaron said.

  “You may do nothing…” Lamar locked gazes with Aaron. “…except that which I require of you, lest you wish to find one of those branding irons planted up your ass.”

  Rebuked, Aaron lowered his gaze to the floor. “Yes, Father.”

  “It would seem your dog is not so ‘well-heeled’ after all, Lamar-san.” Takahiro leaned back in his seat, clearly enjoying the show. The matter of Aaron’s submission seemed to please him to no end. “I should think that he would welcome the opportunity to be on this side of the arrangement for a change. After all, what do they say? Turn about is fair play.”

  “Mochiron,” Aaron murmured with a dutiful nod. Of course.

  Ken’ichi clapped his hand against his thigh in delight as Aaron drew one of the irons from the coals. Still shuddering, his body nearly convulsing with tremors now, Brandon glared at him as he walked toward the wheelchair.

  A well-heeled dog, he seethed. Your father’s right. That’s exactly what you are.

  Aaron said nothing. Brandon’s brows furrowed as he drew near; he was terrified, nearly hyperventilating with fear, and even though he felt certain Aaron could sense it radiating off him in thick, panic-stricken waves—even without telepathy—he’d be damned if he’d let it show, if he’d beg the son of a bitch for anything, let alone mercy.

  You hear me, Davenant? You’re Lamar’s fucking dog. Brandon balled his fists and hoisted his chin, forcing himself to glare defiantly at Aaron. What do you think’s going to happen now that he doesn’t need your blood anymore? You think he’s going to keep giving you nice things—pay for that apartment in New York Julianne told me about?

  Aaron seized him by the hair, forcing Brandon’s head back. Aaron’s brows were furrowed, the cerulean planes of his irises suddenly swallowed by the dark, expanding circumferences of his pupils as the bloodlust swept over him.

  You’re nothing, you stupid fuck, Brandon snapped, again trying to brace himself—because he was going to burn his face, oh, God, he knew it, that terrible pain would rip through his cheek at any second. Without your blood, you’re shit to him—he proved that once when he bashed your goddamn brains out, and he’ll do it again, you stupid son of a bitch. You think Julianne will stop him? She doesn’t give a shit about you. None of them—

  Aaron twisted his fist in Brandon’s hair, making him jerk in his seat as pain ripped through his scalp. He felt the blazing heat from the branding iron near his skin, and smelled that distinctive, bittersweet stink as flesh blistered—only it wasn’t his. It couldn’t be, Brandon realized in start, because there was no pain.

  He opened his eyes and found himself looking directly into Aaron’s. The blue of his irises looked like steel in the shadows cast by the overhead lighting. His face was smooth again, devoid of furrows, lines or wrinkles—empty of emotion, even as he held the white-hot tip of the branding iron against the inside of his wrist—the hand he used to clench Brandon’s hair. He’d used his body to shield this action from anyone at the table, so only Brandon was aware; only Brandon could see what he’d done, and blink at him in confused dismay.

  “Again!” Ken’ichi cried from behind them, applauding. “Motto! Motto!” More! More!

  Aaron lowered the brand from his arm and stepped away, releasing Brandon’s hair. As he moved, the cuffs of his jacket and shirt sleeves fell down again to hide the wound he’d just burned into his own skin. Closing his eyes, he uttered a long, shuddering breath, then turned and walked back to the hibachi. As Ken’ichi continued to cheer him on, he exchanged the spent iron for a new one.

  What are you doing? Brandon asked, shaking his head, stricken as he returned. Aaron, wait…!

  Just do us both a favor, kid, and scream, Aaron said, clasping Brandon by the back of the head as again, he shoved the searing end of the brand into his wrist. He hit the exact same spot as before, and this time, his eyelids fluttered briefly at the sustained impact.

  Scream, he said to Brandon again—and when he opened his eyes, for a moment, Brandon felt swept back in time to that night long ago when they had first met. The night of Lamar’s birthday party. The night he’d found Aaron bound to a surgical table, his arm flayed from wrist to shoulder.

  Please… Aaron had begged—his eyes as filled with pain and desperation in that moment as now.

  Brandon screamed in his mind, arching his back from the chair, straining against his bindings. He could smell Aaron’s skin cooking beneath the brand, felt his stomach lurch, and struggled to choke back the urge to vomit. When Aaron pulled the brand away, this time scorched, sinewy scraps of flesh came with it, and Brandon could see the pale wink of tendons visible now through the raw, exposed tissue.

  “Again!” Brandon saw Ken’ichi exclaim from beyond Aaron’s shoulder.

  No. Brandon met Aaron’s gaze and shook his head desperately. Aaron, no. Don’t.

  But Aaron said nothing; he drew away and returned to the conference table.

  Don’t do this, Brandon begged when he returned. He jerked futilely against his bonds, struggling to free himself. I’m sorry for what I said. I was wrong. Please—you don’t have to do this!

  Aaron smiled, thin and unhappy. Yeah, I do.

  And with that, he whirled, letting the red-hot branding iron fly from his hand across the room. The business end smashed into one of the digital screens, and with a showering burst of electrical sparks, it exploded. Smoke billowed out in thick, acrid clouds, and Takahiro and the other man sitting nearby abruptly scrambled to their feet, ducking their heads to avoid the searing sting of sparks.

  Brandon saw Aaron reach across his chest, beneath the flap of his suit jacket. In a single, swift movement, he drew the pistol Brandon had caught an earlier glimpse of free from its holster and swung it out, leveling the barrel at the conference table. His finger was already flexing against the trigger with the same motion, and although Brandon couldn’t hear the reverberation of the gunfire, he saw a bright burst of fire and smoke flare from the muzzle. The Japanese man who had been sitting nearest to them, and who had jumped up from his chair at the explosion from the digital screen, abruptly floundered backwards, his head snapping back on his neck as his brains splashed out the back side of his skull, painting the wall behind him in a grisly, Pollock-esque style.

  The room dissolved into panic-stricken chaos. Brandon watched Julianne, her mouth hanging open as she screamed, scrambling forward to grab Lamar in his wheelchair. At the same time, Kobayashi had scuttled out of his chair to grab hold of Ken’ichi’s chair, but because of where the two had been seated, found himself cornered as Aaron advanced.

  Aaron rotated his arm; Brandon saw his second shot punch squarely into the forehead of the man seated to their left. He’d been reaching for his
own gun, and had managed to yank it loose from its holster, but as he pitched backwards, crashing first into his chair and then to the floor, the pistol clattered uselessly beside him.

  Cat-like and lithe, Aaron leapt onto the top of the conference table. Takahiro backpedaled, jerking his own chrome-plated pistol from beneath his coat lapel. Brows crimped, he aimed at Aaron, but with a low, sweeping kick, Aaron disarmed him, sending the pistol flying. Having bought himself a few seconds, he then pivoted to glare down at Julianne and Lamar.

  Brandon watched as father and son locked gazes. Inexplicably, Lamar was grinning ear to ear, the parchment-frail skin covering his cheeks threatening to rive wide in his absolute and obvious delight. “Is this how it’s to be, boy?” Brandon saw him say. “Very well, then. Do your worst.”

  Even with his telepathy dampened by the drugs, Brandon could feel the sudden surge of unimaginable psionic energy in the room; like a massive static electric charge, it literally seemed to hum in the air, shuddering through every nerve fiber in Brandon’s body. Holy shit, he thought.

  The humans must have sensed it too somehow, because even though Kobayashi’s men had all reached for guns hidden beneath their suit coats, they paused as if uncertain, all of them taking hedging steps back from the conference table and Aaron.

  “Aaron, no!” Julianne wailed, throwing herself in front of Lamar’s wheelchair, her arms spread wide as if she hoped to physically block his mind. “Stop!”

  But it was too late. Lamar convulsed suddenly, violently in his seat, arching his spindly back, his withered fingers splayed wide and clawing uselessly at the open air. He vomited, a geyser of pale, frothy bile spewing from his mouth, and the entire wheelchair shuddered beneath him as if it had been parked on an earthquake fault line.

  Julianne screamed again, her face a nearly comedic mask of horror as he fell abruptly still, crumpling back in the wheelchair seat, lifeless as a bag of cement mix. “No,” she cried, falling against Lamar, heedless of the vomit, clutching at him. “No, no, no—Uncle!”

  If any psionic connection remained between Lamar and Aaron at that point, it broke when Takahiro lunged forward, seizing Aaron by the ankle and giving a strong enough yank to jerk him off balance. Brandon saw Aaron’s eyes fly wide in surprise as he crashed down onto the table, dropping his gun. It slid across the table, and as he scrambled to reach it, he hit the hibachi. It toppled, the kettle rolling across the smooth, polished table top, sending hot coals scattering in all directions. When they hit the carpet, it immediately ignited, and Kobayachi’s remaining goons danced clumsily backwards in frightened alarm as the flames began to quickly grow and spread.

  Takahiro still had a hold of Aaron, trying to adjust his grasp and twist the joint of Aaron’s ankle with a leg-lock. Aaron managed to pull him forward far enough to wrestle his hand away. As they grappled, Aaron wrapped first one leg around Takahiro’s neck and shoulder from the front, then the other from the opposite side, enveloping his head between his thighs. In doing so, he was able to pin one of Takahiro’s arms beneath the shelf of his own chin; as Aaron clamped down with his legs, locking them together at the ankle, Takahiro basically throttled himself. Like a fish caught on a hook—and fully aware that it was fucked—Takahiro struggled in vain to break free. The more he fought, the more Aaron pushed with his thighs, until Takahiro’s face flushed first bright red, then plum-colored, his oxygen cut off.

  Brows furrowed, Aaron pushed off from the table, flipping himself from his belly to his back. As he did, he gave a wrenching twist with his hips. Brandon couldn’t hear the moist, sickening crunch as Takahiro’s neck broke, but he could tell by the sudden, agonized expression on Kobayachi’s face—and Ken’ichi’s as he howled in protest—that they sure as hell could.

  Aaron snatched up his fallen pistol as the remaining three bodyguards rushed forward, spurred into action despite the growing fire—and their own obvious hesitance to fuck with Aaron—at Kobayachi’s sharp, shouted commands. Although from Brandon’s inexperienced perspective, it didn’t even seem like Aaron aimed, he fired three shots as he lay sprawled on his stomach, his arm outstretched and each of the men went crashing to the floor, bloody craters pocking their foreheads in nearly identical, dead-center shots.

  Without missing a beat, Aaron uncoiled his legs from Takahiro’s neck, leaving the younger man to slump heavily to the floor, and rolled again from his belly to his back. Kicking his legs and rolling his hips, then spine, he sprang upright, landing nimbly on his feet on top of the table. Leveling the barrel of his gun at Kobayashi, he strode toward the far end, cutting around the spilled hibachi coals that smoldered on the table top. Kobayashi floundered backwards, shoving Ken’ichi’s wheelchair farther into the corner where they both remained trapped, and positioned himself clumsily in front of his son.

  “You killed Takahiro!” Kobayashi’s face had twisted with stifled grief, his skin flushed and sweat-glossed, his brows furrowed, his mouth a thin, downturned line. He’d managed to grab one of the guns that had fallen to the floor, and clasped it with both hands now, his aim unsteady as he fired. The shot flew wide, hitting another of the digital screens and splintering the now-darkened panel in a spider web pattern. The next shot hit Aaron in the shoulder, nearly the same spot where Brandon had seen bandages before. Aaron staggered, knocked off-balance by the force of the blow. He fell, nearly upending the table as he toppled to the floor.

  For a long moment, Brandon couldn’t see anything except for Kobayashi, his shoulders shaking as he panted for breath, and then he caught a glimpse as Aaron pawed at the table, trying to pull himself up. His face was bloody from a fresh laceration above his left brow, and he looked somewhat dazed, as if he’d struck his head. He’d lost his gun in the fall, but Kobayashi still had his. Pointing the barrel at the back of Aaron’s head, he pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Kobayashi’s expression of murderous rage shifted to bewildered surprise as again, he pulled the trigger to no avail. With a snarl, he cast the jammed weapon aside and reached behind his back toward his waistline, pulling a slim, short blade—a Japanese style of knife called a tantō—from a hidden sheath. Clutching the hilt in his fist, he lunged at Aaron.

  Behind you—Aaron, look out! Brandon cried.

  Aaron cut a quick glance over his shoulder, ducking to his right at the same time. The steel blade of Kobayashi’s tantō breezed past his shoulder as the older man swung it down in a furious strike. Instead of the base of his neck, the knife hit the back of Aaron’s hand, the force of the blow driving it all of the way through to his palm and the tabletop beneath, pinning him in place. He clenched his teeth, visibly biting back a cry of pain, and Kobayashi crushed himself against the younger man, reaching over him to grab at the hilt with both hands.

  Aaron rammed his free arm back, driving his elbow into Kobayashi’s face. Blood spurted from his nose in a bright fountain, and he staggered back with a yowl. The cleft between Aaron’s brows deepened as, with a hoarse cry, he wrenched the knifepoint from the table, freeing his hand. The blade remained through his palm, and as he pivoted, he stabbed the exposed length of into the side of Kobayashi’s neck. He hit his mark—the carotid artery—and blood sprayed, hitting him in the face in a sudden, violent stream.

  Kobayashi lurched into the wall behind him, clapping his hand to his throat in a futile attempt to stave the pulsating blood flow. His face was blood-smeared from his shattered nose, and peppered from his lips as he spoke. “Haji…wo shire…” he gasped. Have shame. “You…have disgraced…your family today…”

  “No.” As Kobayashi fell to the floor, Aaron turned his head and spat out a mouthful of blood. “My family has disgraced me.”

  He glanced toward Julianne pointedly as he spoke, but she’d managed to summon the elevator. Coughing, nearly whooping for breath because of the thickening smoke, she dragged Lamar’s limp body, dangling in his wheelchair, toward the awaiting cab. They’d just about made it inside, and she looked up to meet Aaron’s gaze,
her eyes wide and stricken.

  “Hell, no.” Aaron stormed toward the elevator, curling his free hand around the hilt of Kobayashi’s tantō and, with a furious snarl, ripping it free from his hand. Julianne had hauled Lamar into the car now, and slapped frantically at the button panel, her cheeks glistening with tears.

  “Hell, no,” Aaron seethed again. Without a pause in his stride, he cocked his arm back and let the knife fly. Julianne’s terrified scream cut short as the elevator doors slid closed; the knife clattered against the smooth panel of stainless steel—right where Lamar’s heart would have been had they remained open.

  “Goddammit, no!” Lunging at the elevators, Aaron hooked his fingers into the seam of the doors, struggling to pry them open. His hands were slippery with blood, though, and he couldn’t get a secure enough grip. Balling his wounded hand into a fist, he punched the door. “Goddammit!”

  He whirled around, then seemed to take notice of the increasingly high flames blocking his path from the elevator to the door. By this point, the coals that had spilled from the hibachi had ignited fires in a broadening ring around the conference table, as well as on several of the now-empty chairs surrounding it. The broad, columnar bases of the table had started smoldering, and a dense cloud of smoke filled the air toward the ceiling, working its way down as the flames continued to grow.

  Aaron drew his arm toward his face, covering his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow. He darted through the fire, but instead of bee-lining for the exit, he cut back toward the conference table. Dropping to his knees, he gritted his teeth and rolled aside the fallen body of one of Kobayashi’s henchmen. Still squatting, he retrieved the man’s handgun from beneath the corpse. Brandon saw him discharge the clip from the butt of the gun, check the number of remaining rounds, then clap it home again, seemingly satisfied. As he stood, Aaron shoved the gun into the front of his waistband. Then, ducking his head and drawing his arm back up to shield his face, he darted for the door.