The Token (#10): Shepard

by Marata Eros

  We stare at each other for a heartbeat's pause. I face the road.

  “Yes.” Her voice is tight—hurt.

  I jerk my face back, seeking her gaze. “Then you are no virgin.” I know this. Men who use children take the most tender morsel first.

  Perfect recognition pierces us at the same moment. This young woman might be many things, but she is the same animal as I. From the same zoo of horrors.

  Better hidden, but surfaced by la famille, all the same.

  “Oh, I am, Shepard.” She enunciates my name sarcastically. “Technically.”

  I shut my eyes, realize I'll crash the car, and they fly open, concentrating on the winding black ribbon of asphalt seeming to stretch endlessly in front of us.

  In my peripheral vision, I watch Marissa resolutely straighten, facing forward once again. “Pedophiles are so much more careful now.” Her words fill the car like repressed agony.

  I know the melody of her pain. Intimately.

  Concentrating only on the road, I speed forward. The silence has weight, pulling us together like warm taffy, tearing our sameness away like unveiled gouges of flesh.

  “Orphanage?” Marissa asks for clarification, flicking her finger at the wetness on her face.

  “Yes,” I admit for the first time. “That is the least of why I do not return to their service. The orphanage where I came to find myself was no ordinary orphanage but one with the specific design to fashion Handlers for Roi.”

  Marissa hides her shudder badly. After a few seconds, she asks softly, “Who is Roi?”

  “Roi is dead.”

  More silence. There is no radio, no cell phones. Nothing to distract the two of us but the misery standing between our words.

  “Who is he?” she asks again.

  “The abuser of many.”

  “Okay, I can't stand the riddles anymore. Just speak. Talk to me like a normal guy.”

  Normal. “I am not a normal man.”

  “Fuck this.” Marissa engages the door handle, and I reach out with my right hand. My training is so much a part of me that I don't even think about it kicking in, as the Americans say.

  My fingers wrap her wrist, and my thumb slides to the central nerve that feeds her hand. I apply pressure.

  Marissa screams.

  I clench my teeth against the once-familiar sound.

  I applied the lightest touch. And I am a master of touch, both violent and tender. Though the latter took me by surprise the first time I thought to employ it with my onetime wife, Juliette Marcel.

  I slow the vehicle and toss the gear into park with my left hand at the floor shifter.

  Marissa twists, chopping the wrist that holds her own. Pain spikes, radiating to my shoulder as she got the nerve exactly right, weakening my hold.

  I seize her hair as she flings the passenger door open.

  Marissa yelps, throwing her arms back, attempting to plug her thumbs into my eyes. I fling my head backward, and she comes with me, falling into my lap.

  “Let me go, you pig!”

  I sink my fingers deeper into her mane of hair. It's as soft as I knew it would be. I yank her head back. Our mouths line up like planets seeking the same orbit, and I wrap her throat with my free hand.

  “Fucker!”

  “Yes,” I hiss in low threat and agreement.

  Her gray eyes meet mine. “I promise not to try to get away again.”

  I bend my head over hers, my lips hovering over her own.

  Marissa's pupils dilate, and her breaths come faster. Arousal. Fear.

  Chemistry.

  I'm trained to see it—know it.

  “Then go,” I say in the barest whisper. Only the sound of the open door alarm chimes between us.

  I release her, and she falls forward, catching herself on the dashboard.

  Leaning back, I drape my throbbing wrist over the back of the seat. “However, my exotic flower, if they find you—and make no mistake, they will—they will torture my location from you.”

  Marissa stumbles out of the car, gripping the window.

  I watch her go. A game I excel at. Emotional manipulation.

  We stare at each other. I note I happened to park sideways underneath a highway light. The harsh illumination backlights her, and I am reminded of an angel.

  “I only know you're going to South Dakota.” Her tone is sullen.

  I smile and know from experience it's not an amicable expression. “And that matters how?”

  Her lower lip quivers, and she rolls the plump flesh into her teeth. “You fucker.”

  “You have already mentioned that.”

  Her hands drop from the door. “I'm going to take my chances.”

  I incline my head, wishing I had not confessed my background. Even now, right in this moment, I don't know what I was thinking. Shepard does not confess, he exists.

  Why does this woman make me want to live?

  Just then a car rolls up, interrupting our standoff. I glance at the interior clock. Two o'clock in the morning. Good Samaritans normally do not spring up in the middle of the night.

  I feign a casualness I don't feel, palming the switchblade into the back waistband where I always carry it. I exit the Audi just as four muscled men get out, three over six feet tall and one under five feet nine.

  Short men are often faster. Instinctively, I place him as the highest threat.

  I put one hand on top of the car and casually lean as though I have all the time in the world to chat on the side of the interstate in the middle of the night.

  Marissa's eyes give an uncertain flick to mine. Everyone's positions are duly cataloged by my keen sense of self-preservation.

  My size has always been a hindrance. A man of my stature must work twice as hard as one of average size to possess the same speed. It’s a cruel fact of nature but little known.

  “What's going on here?” the tallest of the four directs at Marissa.

  My eyes rove the group. My ear hears the accents. They are local. Yet dangerous.

  Merde. “Nothing. We were taking a break on our long journey. Stretching our legs.” I smile.

  My lips stretch tautly across my face. If anyone present has anything that resembles intellect, they will see my expression for the warning it is.

  “Looks like the lady isn't much enjoying the company.”

  Or possibly not heed the warning.

  My eyes are sandpaper inside their sockets. I am exhausted from what I have needed to accomplish in such a short time. However, now I must engage. I have been more tired. I have been beaten.

  I will not break.

  Marissa looks at me, perhaps for guidance. But fate will rule the moment, as it does all moments.

  “Do you need different company?” The question is directed at Marissa, but a calculated smirk is sent my way.

  Bores.

  Mentally, I ready myself for what will come. “Run along now. Our break is coming to an end, and sadly, we are not feeling social.”

  Another of the group stabs a thumb in my direction. “Does fancy pants speak for you?”

  “No,” Marissa says. “But I—I don't need to leave with anyone else. Thank you,” she adds hastily, retreating a step closer to the Audi.

  The shorter man steps forward, slapping something I cannot identify inside his palm. “Maybe we weren't asking, sweetheart.” His eyes move over her figure, like poisoned swamp water through a crack in the dirt.

  “I'm not going with you guys,” Marissa says, taking another cautious step backward.

  Ah, the evil that you know, I think with an amused twist of lips. “Get into the car, Marissa.”

  “No.”

  I waste a look her way. “I swore to protect you.”

  She puts her hand on her chest. “Not to me.”

  I chuckle. “A promise to oneself is stronger than a promise to anyone else.”

  “You're a fucking queer,” the tall man says again.

  The accusation is a first. I turn my attention to
him, gauging how to kill him in the quickest way possible. “I am many things, but one with a liking for male flesh has never been one of them.” I do not hold back the honest distaste in my voice.

  He spits a stream of foul brown juice on the ground. “Foreign fucker.”

  I only smile. If they knew how local I really was, it would surprise them.

  His expression hardens. “Get the pussy in the car and let's get outta here.”

  I change nothing obvious in my countenance. “She will not be accompanying you anywhere.” I throw my voice behind me. “Marissa.”

  “I can help you,” she replies instantly.

  “I do not need help. Get in the car.”

  After a heartbeat's pause, I feel her sink into the car. The vehicle rocks slightly beneath my hand as she softly shuts the door. The door locks engage with a click of finality.

  The men rush me. Killing is terribly simple.

  I can feel Marissa's eyes on my back as I murder them.

  For her.

  NINE

  Marissa

  Déjà vu overtakes me.

  My hand is once again pressed against cold glass. But this time, it's a different view through this pane.

  Shepard moves forward as the men charge him.

  I don't see a weapon at first. Until blood, colored black from the highway lamp, boils at the man's neck, rendering the splitting of the skin of his throat into a second, yawning mouth.

  The shortest man of the group circles his neck with his hands, and Shepard casually shoves him away with one hand. The man falls directly on his butt, his legs splayed out before him as the other three rush in.

  Using the flat of his palm, Shepard places it on the back of one man and stabs low, grinding a knife up between ribs.

  The man bellows, trying to reach around himself to grab the hilt.

  Shepard kicks him in the back, and he flies forward, the knife still buried in his kidney.

  I suck in a shaky inhale. The sound is loud inside the car, and my breath fogs the window.

  Two down. Two to go.

  I make a gagging cough. It's the cough before I vomit. I hit the door latch in a clumsy grab and open the door, leaning out, barely catching myself by the handle. The movement distracts one of the men—the other grabs Shepard's arms with both hands.

  One of Shepard's arms escapes the hold, and he gives a hard hit in the throat to the one who caught sight of me exiting the car. It's a chopping strike I recognize from the dojo.

  I have both hands on the glass now, watching the fight between my splayed fingers.

  I watch the blood pooling from the man with the knife wound. Like liquid death, it is running toward where I hang out of the door.

  Heat surges from my feet to my head right before I throw up, and I heave up whatever little bit of food I've had.

  The man with the knife in his back begins to crawl toward me.

  Oh my God.

  Dropping to my hands and knees, I glance up, strings of vomit and spittle hanging from my lips.

  Shepard cups his palm behind the head of the one he struck, slamming his knee into the dude's face.

  Blood arcs as the man falls backward, and Shepard pivots smoothly, his own face bloody.

  They got some hits in.

  I spit the gross taste from my mouth and grip the door handle, hauling myself to a stand. Blood rushes to my head, and I bite back another round of puking as I watch Shepard dismantle the assailant.

  “No!” the man screams.

  “Yes,” Shepard says in low command, twisting the man's hand.

  The wrist breaks, flopping backward.

  Heat swamps me, and I bend in half, throwing up again. My hand lashes out, slapping the side of the Audi, and I raise my chin.

  Shepard pushes the howling man with a finger. He tumbles backward, tripping over the dead man with an open throat, and falls.

  Shepard prowls toward me like roiling violence.

  Oh God. I sink to my knees and heave again, clutching at my sides. Nothing comes out. Purged. I give a hysterical giggling hiccup and grimace at the taste.

  Then look up.

  Shepard kicks at the hilt sticking out of the guy on the ground, who still inches toward me.

  The solid metal spins away, the blade still embedded.

  I sway, seeing there's more blood than asphalt. Then the road does something weird. The pebbled black surface rises to meet my face, and I realize I'm fainting.

  But I don't land.

  I float.

  Before I finally succumb to the black that sucks at my peripheral vision, the smell of leather entombs me, and I fall asleep.

  But not before I realize that I might have been better off taking my chances and waiting for the French mob to show up.

  *

  “Wake up.”

  I blink, and my eyelashes stick together like glue. Gross.

  Where am I?

  I rub my eyes. Then memories crash into me like sleet in a storm, pelleting me with wet horror disguised as blood.

  My stomach lurches, and I quickly roll over, scuttling across the seat like a startled spider.

  I barely clear the open door.

  Shepard steps back, and I dry heave, my stomach too empty to do much else. It's just going through the motions at this point.

  After half a minute, I grab the jam of the open door and claw my way to standing.

  Shepard produces a moist towelette and a half-drunk bottle of water.

  I swab my mouth first, take a swallow of water, spit it out on the ground, and stare at him for a handful of seconds. “You're an evil man.”

  His face is devoid of expression. “Oui. However, those men possessed evil intentions. If you would have gone with them, they would surely have committed horrible acts against you.”

  “Things you've done, from the sounds of it.”

  Shepard's soulless dark eyes look into my own, but he says nothing.

  “Who are you? I mean—really?”

  “I have answered everything I will at this time. I do hope that you are beginning to understand that we are better together than apart.”

  That's up for debate.

  Blood stains his shirt. He sees where my eyes trace the proof of the men he killed.

  “Yes.” He wrinkles his nose at the sight of his button-down shirt, now missing a button and looking a completely different color. It is no longer light but colored by death.

  I retreat a step, putting the back of a shaking hand against my mouth.

  Shepard's hand is suddenly at my nape. “Breathe deeply, Marissa. The nausea will pass.”

  The fear never will. I do what he says, anyway. I take several large inhales.

  I look at his shirt. Each dot of blood, each smear, each splatter of death stares back at me.

  Shepard covers my hands with his and squeezes them.

  I finally notice our surroundings. The Motel 6 sign is the first thing I see. The buzzing of late-summer insects drones as the far-off noises of traffic make their way to us from the highway.

  We're parked under the shade of an immature leafy tree. There isn't an audience. I wipe my eyes again, unsure how long I've been out. Ashamed of how glad I am that I can't see the bodies anymore. The blood.

  “We're in Montana.”

  I nod. Okay. I briefly close my eyes. Now the police will be involved. We probably left a DNA trail like bread crumbs.

  Jesus. I put my face in my hands.

  Shepard releases me, and I step back. He places his hands on the top of his shirt and pulls.

  Material tears with a soft, ragged sigh. Buttons fly, bouncing hard on the cement of the parking lot. One hits me in my chest, and I give a surprised yelp.

  Shepard smiles at my reaction. He tosses the ruined shirt into a bag that held some food we'd picked up at a gas station.

  My gaze narrows on his bare chest that taunts me.

  Murderer, my mind whispers.

  I gulp, wanting to touch him so badly I knot my f
ingers together. Then clench them when I notice the scars.

  My breath catches at the viciousness of them. Crosshatching scar tissue lines his rib cage, curving around his muscular flanks. The muscles of his torso sink below the waistband of his pants.

  My eyes follow the trail of destruction. The scars seem to have no end. I raise my face and meet his eyes.

  He hikes a brow. “Like what you see?” The question is soft but full of menace.

  I like what I see too much. This man who is a former French mobster and kills so easily. Too easily.

  I retreat a half step. “What are those scars from?” I swallow. My fingertips break from each other, and I make a move to touch the marks of abuse covering his flesh.

  He captures my hand, disallowing my touch.

  Shepard turns, and I snatch my hand away from his hold.

  His back is a ruin of scar tissue. There isn't a clean spot of skin anywhere. I cover my mouth, holding in the horror. Every bit of his flesh is covered with very old wounds. Unshed tears ignite the back of my eyelids with fire. “Who did this?” I ask.

  His dark brown eyes narrow on me. “The Handlers.”

  What—who? “Why?”

  My nose stuffs up, and snot and tears clog me.

  Shepard glances at me over his shoulder. “Do not waste your tears on me.”

  They roll down my cheeks on a slow, boiling path to my chin. “I can't help it,” I choke out.

  He rotates to face me. “I have done horrible things,” he reminds me.

  I care about those things he's done. His past. But seeing what others did to him first—without knowing what his choices were, if he even had them—I need to see.

  Touch.

  My fingers find him, and he grabs my wrists, squeezing hard. “Do not... touch me.”

  Shepard grits his teeth.

  “Let me.”

  His grip intensifies.

  I bite my lip to keep from crying out. The man is strong.

  Shepard's face hardens to planes and angles of anger. And beneath that, I swear I see fear.

  A man who killed four men without assistance, scared of one woman.

  I make a move so elementary he should have seen it five miles away. Unless he didn't want to.

  I twist my hands in opposing directions. Hard. The move breaks his hold, surprise flooding his face.