by Amy Cook
When the lid fell to the floor, Harley hissed out a string of malevolent curses. Bringing it close, he sifted through the scents and found Darvey’s lookalike’s scent heavy on the box. As he tested the air in the room, he recognized MiniMe’s scent intermingled with Darvey's. They were similar enough, and he had been so furious, he hadn’t immediately recognized it as a second, separate scent.
Growling, Harley stared down at the box. There was no hole deep enough in Hell for the Rats, but Harley was going to try and find one. The box was packed full of pictures of Amiel, and in most of them she was naked, or in some sort of intimate situation. Lying in bed, watching TV, eating, getting dressed, exercising in her underwear, even in the shower. Harley’s fist convulsed closed on one of dozens of her making out with him on the bed. A giant, red X was drawn over his face.
“Dante... Harley, what's going on, man?” Cajun's worried voice cut through his murderous daze.
“He's got pictures.” That was all he could gasp out. He vaguely heard Cajun's choice words, and the acceleration of his engine, but Harley was lost to the world, thinking of all the savage ways he could destroy the little freaks.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but when Cajun laid a hand on his shoulder, he very nearly ripped his brother's head off. Cajun held his hands out to his sides, making no attempt to defend himself, head bowed slightly. At this unfamiliar sign of submission from his brother, Harley froze, surfacing slightly from his hate-filled daze.
“Sorry,” he growled tightly, trying to keep the fury from misdirecting toward his brother.
“Sorry I took so long. I had to deal with the guards. The neighbors were apparently worried about a certain madman breaking down their doors and killing them. I bought us a bit of time.”
Harley nodded, though he didn’t much care what his brother had had to do to stop the men from coming for him. His mind was busy raking through ideas of where the Rats could have taken her. Other than being pervy creepers, Harley didn't know much about them. Mini D rarely came out of the woodwork, and when he didn’t want to be found, he was damned good at hiding.
As for real Darvey, Harley had checked into his record the moment he discovered him as Amiel’s neighbor. It was squeaky clean, no documented run-ins with the law. Given the state of the country, however, that didn’t say much. A good portion of government records had been destroyed, purposely or accidentally. And since then, records were rarely kept. Darvey worked for the government, so even if he did have dirt, they likely would have buried it. Outside of work, the guy was a ghost. No relatives, no friends, nothing. He lived his whole life at work, and in his apartment... taking indecent pictures of innocent girls. Seeing red, Harley turned to the window to jump, but Cajun’s hand stopped him.
“Wait. Look.”
Harley turned, following his brother’s line of sight to the trashed door. Scrawled across the back of it was a mess of writing in red lipstick. He could have kicked himself for not noticing it sooner, his attention so fixated on the window and the pictures. Stepping closer, he shoved the split pieces of wood back together. The lipstick formed the words “hide and seek”, with a torn map of an area deep in the Skirts taped below it. The map was of a vague proportion of ten blocks or so, circled in that red lipstick. It was an area even Harley didn’t dare enter without backup.
“Why would the bludger tell us where to look? It has to be fake, some kind of trap or misdirection,” Cajun warned. Leaning closer, Harley breathed deep, finding MiniMe’s scent heaviest on the door. He’d been the one to write the message.
“It's real. He wants me to find her,” Harley growled, shoving the crumpled photo of him and Amiel into Cajun's hand. Cajun unrumpled the picture enough to see what was on it, immediately zeroing in on the red X. “Whatever he has planned for Amiel, he wants me there to watch.”
“Harley. Are you sure about this, mate? You go in there, you probably aren’t coming back out. Is she worth that to you?” Cajun asked, concern reflecting in his eyes.
“She’s worth everything to me,” Harley murmured, eyes closed as he hung onto the door for support, muscles shaking with fear and fury alike. Drawing on his Hybrid, he brought it out to play. His eyes rose to meet his brother’s, the pitch and fire of Hell reflected in their depths. Cajun leaned back slightly, not backing down in submission, but giving Harley’s Hybrid respectful space.
“They took her, Caj. And I’m gonna tear this city apart until I find her. Then I’m gonna tear them apart.”
“Got it. Lead the way. I have to do some misdirection of my own. Can’t have Char following us in there.” Cajun pulled out his phone, leaving Charleen some lame excuse as to where he had gone and when he’d be back.
Harley jumped from the window, sprinting toward his bike the moment he touched ground. His heart gave a twitch as he ran by Amiel’s bike, sitting lonely in the lot. She’d be fine. He’d find her and bring her home, and he’d destroy every last freak that had anything to do with taking her. Shoving the photos into the side bags on the bike, Harley barely waited for Cajun to jump in his car before heading toward the Skirts, Hell’s fury flowing in his wake.
Chapter 56
Amiel
Amiel's head was being slammed with a hammer, over and over. Or at least that's how it felt. Forcing her eyes open revealed no menacing hammers at work, just intense internal pain. She'd never had a headache this bad before, even when she’d nearly killed Duane.
Though it made the pain worse, she kept her eyes open, trying to adjust to the lighting of her surroundings. Little, glittering dust motes floated through the air in the few shafts of light that filtered across the dim atmosphere. She tried to sit up, but it sent pain shooting through her head, and nausea bubbling in a stomach already weakened from whatever flu from Hell she’d contracted. She turned her head to the side, emptying what little was in her stomach, right there. She tried to push the hair from her face, but her hands were somehow held above her head. Amiel groaned in agony, confusion and more than a little disgust. No one liked puking in their hair, no matter how disoriented.
“You're beautiful, even when you vomit. I didn't think that was possible. But I've learned that you make everything possible.” The voice drifted toward her through the darkness, and she tensed, puke-covered hair forgotten. Her eyes searched until they landed on a shadowed silhouette.
“Only cowards hide in the shadows,” she growled weakly in the general direction of the voice.
“I'll make sure to tell your boyfriend that when he shows up. He's always lurking in the shadows.” Her boyfriend... he knew about Harley.
“There's a big difference there. Harley lurks to protect me. You obviously don't have my protection in mind.” She shook the chains on her wrists for emphasis.
“That's where you’re wrong. I've always had your best interest at heart. You've just never been able to see past the Hybrid long enough to take notice.” The shadows separated, and her breath caught.
“Darvey?” she asked in shock. He smiled savagely in her direction. Slowly, memories came back to her, of Darvey leaning over her in the hallway, her shocked accusation that he should be dead. It hadn’t been a dream — Darvey was very much alive, and he’d kidnapped her.
She gasped as he leaned closer, pulling the soiled pillow out from under her head. His eyes were dilated too large for even this dim lighting. She searched desperately for the telltale sign of warning from the tags, but found nothing. A new, gut-wrenching illness sank to Amiel’s core. Jaron's tags were gone. Her mind spiraled as she remembered him yanking them from her neck. Where were they? And how was she still alive? Or had they been removed, she’d snapped, and all of this was just an illusion created by her crazed mind?
He tossed the pillow into a bin in the far corner before turning back to her with some sort of sterile-looking towelettes. Her eyes widened as he leaned close once more, this time wiping the puke from the tips of her hair. Either this was a very, very vivid delusion, or this was very, very real life.
And the tags were gone, taking with them her one link to Jaron and any protection she had had. She whimpered in frustration and more than a little fear.
“Don’t vomit again. Your stunning nature may not hold up to the test twice, and neither will my patience.”
Amiel didn’t miss the warning in his words, and she fought against the wave of nausea. He grinned that wicked grin, and again she caught sight of the strange dilation of his eyes.
“Are... are you infected?” she breathed out, mind skittering wildly.
“Oh, no, I'm so much more than that,” he replied sinisterly, sitting on the cushioned object she was sprawled over. As it squeaked beneath his weight, she realized with a shiver that it was a bed. “This wasn't the way I envisioned things progressing in our relationship, you know. I have planned this for so long, and now none of it is going the way it's supposed to.”
“You’ve been planning this?” she whispered, afraid to hear the answer. Had he been watching her, planning to kidnap her since she moved in? Seemingly able to read her thoughts in her eyes, he grinned wickedly.
“Our acquaintance has been a long, if one-sided, relationship. I've known you for years.”
“Years?” Her voice was hoarse with revulsion and fear. He nodded, hand settling on her calf, rubbing it in a way she imagined he thought was sexy. It gave her the creeps. She fought to ignore it, trying to give him the impression of docility. She needed to keep him talking long enough to figure out a mode of escape. Where had he put her tags? Her eyes shifted desperately around the room in search of them, as though they would jump up and shout “here I am!” She needed those tags. Without them, there was no doubt she'd be toast: the burnt, gross kind that gets nibbled and then tossed in the trash. Clearing her throat, she kept talking.
“That’s not possible. I haven’t even been here for a year,” Amiel argued.
“Shall I start at the beginning, then? When things first started between us?”
She swallowed, nodding.
“I’m almost disappointed that you don’t remember. We had such a connection.”
“We’ve met before?”
“I’ve been watching you since you were just a child. The first day I laid eyes on you was the morning of your father’s funeral. You were sitting on your front porch steps, crying. Rubbing at those swollen eyes with pudgy little fists, and looking so very weak.” He spat the word, showing his hatred for it.
“I thought, ‘How easy it would be to simply break your neck. Break your neck, and then I could be free of you.’ My master may have wanted you alive, but what should I care about it? Such weakness should be snuffed out immediately. The men meant to protect you weren’t anywhere near. It was as though destiny was simply handing you to me.”
Amiel swallowed thickly, head spinning.
“I stepped out of the bushes, walked toward you with my mouth watering. Such a plump little thing, you would have made a delicious meal.” He traced his fingers down her calf to her toes, playing with each one.
“You wanted to eat me? But… you didn’t use to be infected. Even just a few weeks ago…”
“You’re not listening,” he censured. “I already told you that I’m not what you assume.”
Amiel blinked, understanding finally sifting through her wild and scattered brain.
“You’re not Darvey,” she whispered.
“No. I am so much more than him.” His statement made it clear that he was proud of this fact. With newly opened eyes, Amiel examined the man before her. He was so similar to Darvey, if you weren’t looking for the differences, you wouldn’t see them. His face was smoother, healthier. His hair was a slightly richer color and free of the grey hairs sported by his lookalike.
The eyes were the biggest difference. Suddenly she understood it wasn’t just the dilation of the eyes that had bothered her. The color didn’t match the face that she knew. Darvey’s eyes were grey. This Darvey’s eyes were molten silver with specks of black. Those eyes suddenly darkened further with something she didn’t want to explore.
“Raider.” The word came out in a strangled sound. “You were the Raider that followed me here.”
“This little piggy,” he sang mockingly. She shuddered as he wiggled each toe. He smirked in return, as if he'd just discovered the way to her heart. If only he knew it made her want to ram her fist down his throat, along with most of his teeth. Her heart skipped, a dark understanding surfacing at his proud grin. He did know. He knew exactly what she was thinking, and he liked it. A lot.
“I towered over you then, reached toward your hair. I liked the way it shined in the sunlight, pulling me to it like a beacon.” His hand mimicked his words as though he were reliving the moment with her once more.
“And then you looked up at me.” There was awe in his voice now. “You stared up at me with those green eyes, and I saw it, felt it. And then I knew: I couldn’t do it.”
Amiel couldn’t resist the pull to ask. What had a man like this seen in a child’s eyes that could stop him from committing an act of violent murder? “What did you see?”
“Power.”
It was not at all what Amiel had expected to hear. She blinked, feeling an unknown source of panic rising within. A panic that demanded denial.
“I was seven years old. What power could I possibly have held then?” Her scoff was delivered with less venom than she had intended.
“So little you know yourself.” His head twitched to the side, genuine confusion on his features. “How is it possible to have such immense power within you, and yet you do not feel it? I took one look into those eyes, and I felt the power washing over me, even then.”
Amiel jerked her head away from his gentle caress of her hair, feeling the vomit rising within once more.
She did feel the power that hid within her. It was a dark power she had felt whisperings of, one that called to her on a black wind of seduction. The power Harley had warned her not to exhibit in front of Charleen. But she couldn’t believe that this was the same power he spoke of. She hadn’t had the Hybrid tags, back then.
“Such a serious face,” he mocked softly. “You had one then, too. You looked up at me without the slightest hint of fear. ‘Hello, Grim,’ you said. ‘Have you come for me, too?’ Not even a tremble in your voice. I had perceived you as weak, but in that moment I knew you for what you were: sheer strength, wrapped in a weak shell. ‘Not today, Angel,’ I replied, and disappeared back into the shadows. Your brother came out then, but I did not leave. I stayed close from that moment on. Watching, always watching. I knew your weak shell would continue to grow, and one day you would be ready for me to take you.”
He leaned close, and to Amiel’s complete disgust and shock, she felt a tremor run through her. Not a tremor of fear alone. Fear was something that she could face. It was the excitement intermingled with the fear that horrified her. She did remember, now. She had thought the distant memory had only been a dream. And somehow the idea of it didn’t terrify her as it should have. As a child, the “dream” had been seen in a very different light.
She had been fixated on the idea that death would come for her after her daddy died. Grim showing up in her dream had seemed like a kindness, Death’s way of telling her that it wasn’t her time yet. She had imagined that she felt him watching her, now and then, feared he was coming for her, and yet he never did. It had creeped her out, and yet also served as a comfort, knowing her time was not yet upon her. Now the truth of the matter, the reality of fact, was warring with her childhood imaginings. Grim took her momentary shocked silence as acceptance, and leaned closer with a glint in his eye.
“Hello again, Angel. I am Grim. And I have finally come for you.” He pressed his mouth to hers, and being so wrapped up in the torrent of emotion thrashing about within her, Amiel froze at the unexpected contact. His tongue ran along hers, jerking her to her senses. She didn’t think, just reacted: she bit down, hard.
He chuckled, pulling away with a grin. As he wiped his mouth, she was s
hocked to see blood come away on his hand. Turning to the side, she spit and gagged to the best of her dry mouth’s ability, but she knew it was too late. The true depth of terrifying truth rocked into her like a semi-truck. She could still taste his blood on her tongue. What had she done? What would that do to her, without the tags around her neck? Would their removal leave her prey to his brand of infection?
“You are my Angel of Death, and I am your Grim Reaper. Together, we will wreak havoc across the land, leaving death in our wake. We shall conquer all. With your strength and power, we can turn his army against him.”
“What are you talking about? You’re completely out of your mind!”
“And you taste of sweet victory.”
“If victory tastes like puke, you can count me out. I don’t want it.”
“You say that now. But one day, you will come to me with open arms. You will see. We are destined to be together.”
“Never!” she seethed.
“I’ve done my research since that day. You named me so aptly. The Angel of Death and the Grim Reaper always walk hand in hand,” he insisted. Amiel scoffed in annoyance and frustration.
“I was seven years old. My daddy had just died, so I was obviously obsessed with the idea of death. That’s all it meant!”
“Lies!” Grim threw his hands down on each side of her head, body looming over her. “You are mine, I am yours. We are destiny!”
“You’re like twenty years older than me. You’ve been stalking me my entire life! You disgust me!” she spat out angrily, wanting to hurt this man in any way she could. He’d haunted her childhood, kidnapped her, taken her tags, and possibly just sentenced her to infection: a life cut short to the madness of killing others and eating their entrails.
“Not true! I was born only months before I came to you, all that time ago.” He glowered.
