Vengeance (A Samantha Tyler Thriller Book 1)

by Rachael Rawlings

  No one was. I moved to the base of the window and reached toward my smaller sheath where the dagger remained strapped to my calf. I hated using such a fine tool for such a menial task, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. The sharpened blade parted the screen like it was composed of air, soundless, and it curled in a sheet inside the window frame. I heard nothing from within. Perhaps Wheadon was foolish enough to assume one hellhound could ensure his safety. One hellhound and one vampire, I corrected myself. The brunette vamp didn’t come to meet me on the beach for a hospitable welcome home.

  I stepped through the long window, my shoes making the barest swish of sound as the sand on my soles grated against the fine tiled flooring. The house was built for play, made for tropical vacations full of surf and sun and laughter.

  It felt evil now. I could almost taste the taint and knew the hellhound wasn't the only thing stinking of brimstone and death.

  I took a hasty tour of the room, wicker furniture and potted plants, an open book resting on the table. I almost vomited. I recognized the text. They presented me a copy when I was finally released from the single room they imprisoned me in for the first month of my captivity after the drugs were decreased enough I could string together more than a syllable at a time. The book was a crudely written diatribe, a monologue composed entirely of essays penned in my father’s own hand. Essays his political followers would never see, the writings of the man who rose to be Speaker of the House before he died, were composed in sharp cryptic letters. Written by a soulless monster, the creature he became after his close association with the Angel of Death, the words were the proclamation of Satan’s plans for his eventual rule on earth. Yes, the devil was alive and well and he swallowed my father’s soul whole without hesitation, without even asking for dessert. I bypassed the volume and moved with swift silence toward the corridor. I knew the house well. And I knew where he would be. Wheadon. May he Rest in Peace, I thought grimly, after I’m done with him.

  Of course, there is no rest for the damned.

  The chilling thought brought back a very different image in my mind. It was a nun, dressed in full habit, the rattle of rosary beads, and the startling image of her shuffling cards, swifter than any casino dealer, cutting the deck and scattering the cards in seven piles on the scarred kitchen table.

  “There honestly isn't so much rest after death,” she proclaimed cheerfully. “There’s so much to do, and to do with joy.” She winked at me, brilliant blue eyes in a gently creased face. “Your turn dear.”

  I rolled my eyes. These people were a conundrum in my experience. Yes, they nursed my body back to health, and they most assuredly did their best to restore my mind as well, but I couldn’t always stand the eternal peppiness. They were so full of merriment. Happiness, I thought darkly, with a warrior’s heart.

  My momentary reverie was broken when a noise resounded from above. The sounds of feet. Slow and unsteady. Ah, yes, perhaps Wheadon was awake after all. My pulse increased, and for a moment, I feared I was merely excited because I could hurt him. Then I ceased worrying.

  The sounds melted into silence, and I assumed Wheadon was going to the bathroom. The click of a door closing reinforced my hunch. Another noise caused me to turn and freeze. The skitter of sharp nails harkened the arrival of more teeth and muscle. Apparently the vampire on the perimeter and the hellhound on the grounds weren’t enough for the guy.

  My smile showed too much satisfaction in this discovery. During my previous imprisonment, Wheadon staffed the grounds with attack dogs and guards, but kept his favorite two hounds, massive Dobermans with ridiculous German names, as his personal security.

  While a captive, once the drugs were flushed from my system, I noticed the steady rhythm of the household. Wheadon brought the dogs wherever he went, using a prong collar with unnecessary ferocity to keep the creatures under control. One cloudy day weeks into my confinement, I came face to face with the beasts.

  My remembrance was suspended, when, with a final surge of air, the dogs burst in the passage. I dug my fingers inside my pocket, nudging open a baggie with cheese cubes. I drew the first one out, and the dogs stopped, magically, mid-stride. I looked at their faces, their expressions easing from tight vigilance to doggy pleasure. A smile crept unwillingly across my face, this one a natural expression of affection. I never owned a dog in the past. My mother was highly allergic to any animal, and after her death, my father collapsed into a profound depression from which he refused to emerge. He sent me to the first boarding school where I stayed for the next three years, isolating myself from the staff and the other students to try to shield myself from pain. The second boarding school was no better. I grew up, grew hardened in the intervening years. When my father commanded me to take martial arts training, I did so with the unquestioning obedience of someone still gripped in their own grief. When he commanded I make only A’s on my report cards, I drowned my misery in learning. My education continued, a sterile intense couple of years until my transfer to the final boarding school in Northern Philadelphia. That was where I first cohabited with a dog, a hound named Fred which followed the headmistress with utter devotion. It was also where I met my best friend, Alex.

  My thoughts were interrupted again by the barely audible whine from one of the dog’s throats. “Ah, Fluffy, here you go,” I said in a whisper, and rewarded the dog with a pinch of the cheese. The other dog attempted a similar sound, and I gave him a portion of the treat as well. It required merely a week for the animals to trust me enough to take food from my hands. It took another week of trial and error until I learned how to train them. There was time to spare, and Wheadon randomly stocked his library with shelves of new publications, most with pristine spines showing no one so much as opened the cover. He unwittingly gave me plenty of material to research and master how to un-train his guard dogs and make them my own comrades. I renamed them Fluffy and Bart, and now they obeyed me with simple love.

  I have a way with animals, who knew? At least, I reflected wryly, if the animals weren’t Satan’s minions.

  The dogs accompanied me as I traced my way up the stairs. My stomach roiled. I hoped never to be back here, to be within these walls. In my dreams, I prayed the place would go up in a ball of flames, in hellfire that would engulf it, scorch it into a mist of ashes which would blow out to sea like a hurricane, to be swallowed by the salty ocean.

  It never happened. The furniture remained in the exact place, and I walked unerringly toward the master bedroom. If there was another human in the house, I couldn’t hear them, feel them. It appeared like we were alone, Wheadon and I. Good.

  I was at the closed door when the first dog, Bart, stepped forward, his narrow nose opening the gap until I could see a dim light from inside the chamber. My only time here was in shackles for offending one of my captors. I suspected the dogs could still catch a scent of my blood which stained the tile floors and been ground into the decorative grout.

  The second dog followed the first, and I heard a grunt.

  “Damn mutts, where have you been?” Wheadon sounded sleepy and irritated.

  I drew my sword and used it to force the door open further and stepped into the faint light. I used my empty hand to hit the light switch, and a table side lamp blinked to life with a golden glow. “They’ve been with me,” I said.

  Wheadon rolled over at my words and he stiffened when he recognized me, the shock at the invasion hitting him first, but I could perceive him gradually gathering his confidence. He wore only a pair of pajama bottoms, a dark silky green, that hung beneath his belly. Whiskers shaded full, drooping cheeks. He had gained weight and did not wear it well.

  “Samantha, I thought you might be dead,” He said, a forced cheer in his voice. “You’re looking fine. Did you miss me?”

  “Not even a little bit,” I replied my eyes on his face. He showed fear, but not terror. I observed him as he noticed my sheath and the blade. I would wager money there was a gun hidden somewhere in the room, and he figured
he could get to it before I could use my own weapon. The room sported the burgundy velvet sumptuous look of a brothel, with way too many places to hide a weapon.

  “You and I are going to talk,” I said firmly. I sensed the slight breeze from the ocean blowing through the balcony doors and gestured toward the opening. We were on the second floor. There was no way Wheadon could get away from me there unless he sprouted wings and launched himself over the guard rails. “Let’s go outside and enjoy the view.”

  I took a deliberate step toward him, and he scooted across the bed. With the movement, he seemed to notice the dogs for the first time, one standing on each side of me.

  “Clovis, fass!” He said harshly, choosing one of the few German commands he knew.

  Bart looked at me, his brown eyes rolling. I tossed him a quick glance. His sleek fur rumpled as his eyebrows raised in an almost comic expression.

  “Fass!” Wheadon said again. “Stupid animal.” His attention was drawn to the pair of dogs, a spray of spittle flecking his chest as he cursed them.

  “The door,” I said coldly, cutting off his tirade. I gestured with my sword, letting the tip point toward his navel. “Now.”

  He swore again, using a few word combinations I never heard before, but I ignored it. I observed his movements and his eyes, the way he glanced around in desperation. I could have predicted where he stashed the gun by his gaze. It was somewhere near the bed, probably in one of the clumsy marble topped bedside tables.

  I adjusted my position, the dogs walking seamlessly at my side, cutting off his access to the rest of the room. He clambered out of bed and backed toward the doorway, his bare feet making a shushing sound on the tile. He used his elbow to ease the door open and backed through, his eyes still on me.

  “What is it you want, Samantha? You know John is dead. A gator ate a good chunk of him before it could be taken down. He’s gone.”

  “So, I understand,” I responded, the blade rising to chest height. I knew the demon possessed young man was dead. I never knew John, the college student, the handsome guy who liked UK football and cheap beer. I only knew the creature which consumed him, the evil seed which controlled the body. When I met John, the monster was already inside, just as other college students were possessed after the release of the Watchers, a group of banished fallen angels. It was a clever plan The Church of the Light Reclaimed, otherwise known as a satanic cult, developed in hopes to reestablish a hellish rein on earth. The thought of the evil Watchers, the abuse, the depravity, caused my stomach to turn again. “But I didn’t come here for him. I came here for you.”

  “I have something you would like,” he replied, changing his tactic, his voice still carrying a meager hope.

  “You have nothing I want or need,” I replied, following him out the open balcony doors. The breeze from the sea stirred his hair, and he continued to withdraw away from the blade. “You will tell me something, though.”

  His eyebrows arched. “I will?”

  I raised my blade. “You will.”

  “And you’ll let me live?”

  I liked the feeling of power. I could get drunk on its heady sensation if I wasn’t mindful. Power poisoned my father until he perished in a ball of flame, almost certainly sucked down into the pit of hell as soon as his soul departed his body.

  “I will let you live.” I didn’t examine my words. I didn’t know if I was speaking the truth.

  “What do you want, Samantha?” I could hear it in his tone. He would do anything for me now. The surge of victory was exhilarating.

  “I want the name of the person who gave you your orders.” I stood silently, watching in the pale light, catching his expression, the subtle tightening of his lips.

  “Well, now, I think you know. It was Mikey McCain,” he said, a frown creasing his brow.

  “It wasn’t,” I retorted. “I realize that now. There was someone else besides him, a puppet master who was pulling your strings, at least in this.”

  “Samantha,” he shook his head back and forth. “I have no idea what you mean. All I know is I was ordered to hold you here by Mikey.”

  “You're lying,” I said slowly, advancing toward him with the weapon still held at chest level. I was amazed to see how calm I was; how steady my hand was.

  “No,” he seemed to read my expression and backed toward the low balcony rail.

  “A name,” I said, “I want the name.”

  “I don’t have one.” He was shouting now, his eyes growing wild as I moved a step forward.

  “Then I don’t need you,” I replied.

  “Samantha,” his vocal pitch climbed higher, the fear finally creeping in. “I have money. Lots of money. I’ll give you enough to live out your life hidden from any of them. And you will be safe. I can do that for you.”

  “I don’t want to be safe,” I spat, anger finally coloring my tone. I gave him a tight smile. “I want vengeance. I want a name.” I flicked the katana, and the blade skimmed over his skin, slicing through the delicate membrane, a rivulet of blood tracing a scarlet line down his torso.

  “It’s Rowan. You’re looking for Rowan.”

  I stared at him, the name unfamiliar in my ears, and I practiced saying it, echoing it in my head.

  His eyes widened, and I saw his gaze shift behind me. His lips opened, a high whine emerging from his throat.

  “Wheadon,” I said, wanting so badly to glance behind me, but forcing myself to stay focused on the evil man in front of me.

  Wheadon's eyes remained focused beyond me, and he started leaning backwards. He stopped after a single inch, the concrete rail at his back, and then, before I could reach out, he twisted and using arms entirely too flabby for the movement, tossed himself over the balcony wall with a surprising agility and grace.

  I was still screaming stop when I arrived at the spot where he stood and leaned over the balcony. Beneath me, two floors below, stood the ornate garden maintained with careful pruning, elaborate rose bushes tamed and shaped to climb wrought iron trellises. Wheadon was thrust on one row of those iron stakes, pinned like a bug. He was dead, his open eyes reflecting the glint of the moon.

  I turned hurriedly from the grotesque sight to the doorway where Wheadon stared moments before. I saw nothing more than the dimly lit room; within the two dogs panting and apparently unaware of the end of the violence, and the reflection of the moon against the glass doors. I stood still, my mind going to the nuns’ instructions, letting my tension slip away, my breathing ease.

  “Come on,” I said softly, automatically patting my thigh to signal the hounds to me. I couldn’t guess at how promptly the body would be found. I knew Wheadon lived virtually alone. It might be days before some poor gardener came upon his master. So be it. I couldn't stay any longer.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I told the dogs. A plan was beginning to form. I now knew a name, which was a place to start.

  Chapter Two

  An hour and a half later, I snuck the two massive dogs into my hotel room. They probably weren’t allowed in the generic beach hotel on Fort Myers Beach, but I was willing to take the risk. I wouldn’t be staying long now that I had my lead to follow.

  Once in the hotel room, Fluffy immediately leapt onto one of the double beds, and Bart started an investigation of the area, snout to the floor, checking it out. I glanced out into the salt perfumed night and seeing nothing, closed the door behind us. I looked at my new roommates and shook my head. There were things I needed to do. I couldn't take the animals with me and I needed somewhere to leave them. I locked the door and dropped my case with my sword ensconced within and paused to stretch out my strained arms. The scratches on my shoulder, unnoticed until now when the adrenaline was starting to decrease, began to throb.

  I tugged open my duffle bag lying open on the little round table in the hotel room and sifted through the contents. I found a little kit of first aid items already packed. It was in an incongruous quilted bag made for me by the Sisters. I dug out the bandages an
d disinfectant and peeled off my shirt. The wounds bled but not seriously. They might become infected if uncared for since I’d been wounded by a dead person, and I was glad it wasn’t the hellhound who clawed me. Their scratches were almost guaranteed to become infected.

  I carried the bag with me to the bathroom and took a hasty shower, relishing the sting of soap and water. I could see a number of reddened areas, gradually turning a darker raspberry, that would become purple bruises by morning. I grunted with aggravation. Vampires.

  When I finished, I used the thin white towels the hotel provided to dry off and wrapped one around me as I doctored my wound. Some cleaning and a light bandage would last me until I could dress it properly. By the next evening I could probably skip the bandage completely. I was lucky the scratches were not deeper considering the vamps long nails.

  I dragged on a tee shirt and knit shorts to sleep in. Gone were the days I would relax with anything less than full coverage. I needed to be ready to vacate my room on a moment’s notice. The dogs, of course, might slow me down, but their companionship was temporary.

  Thinking of them made me smile. Fluffy rolled over onto his back and was contentedly snoring. Bart, the warier of the two, curled up at the foot of the bed, eyes opened and rolling to regard me as I dressed. I laid out my clothes for the following day and checked the bolts on the door again, then the window, making certain it was secure. The dogs would growl and signal me if anyone came by; they retained part of their discipline, and I knew they would assuredly attack if I bid them to. Because they forgot the instruction the deceased pervert paid for didn’t mean they weren’t still loyal, and effective, companions.

  I frowned as I thought of Wheadon. After surviving in the house for a time, it become common knowledge the man dealt in pornography, often child porn if it suited his wallet. I never saw him bring any children into the house, but I saw more than one woman, bruised and cowed, taken away. I wondered if there were others who never made it out of his bedroom alive. I wouldn’t doubt it. His tastes involved blood sport, and I could only regret not being able to provide payback for all the evil he financed and executed.