Blood & Roses (Vigilante Crime Series)

by Kristi Belcamino

  “Was he alive when you were done beating him?”

  The man nodded. For the past ten minutes, the wall near Rose had been periodically thudding. It had taken her a few seconds to figure out that it was a headboard rhythmically hitting the wall. Lovely. It was coming from the apartment of that poet, Marcel.

  Rose pulled the gun out of his mouth.

  “Where was the woman this whole time?”

  He jutted his chin to a corner. There was a large chair there.

  “She sat there and watched?” Rose asked.

  “Yes.”

  That bitch!

  “Then what?” Thud. Thud. Thud. Rose tried to ignore the thumping behind her.

  “We took him to the boat. In the marina. The woman left with the guy,” he winced as he said it and quickly added, “Your boyfriend.”

  “They left on the boat?”

  He nodded. The pounding in the other apartment continued. Jesus. Didn’t they ever take a break?

  “Did she say where it was going?”

  He shook his head.

  “Was there anybody else on the boat.”

  “I did not see.”

  “What about your cousin?”

  “He lives in Morocco. He left from the marina to the train station.”

  “You better not be lying to me,” she said.

  “I’m not lying. She paid us and left. That’s all I know.”

  Just then the thudding against the wall stopped. She heard a deep roar. It sounded like a man in agony, but based on what she’d been hearing, it was obviously a sound of pleasure. Thank God the thumping would now end. But then it started back up again. What the hell?

  Keeping her eyes on the man, Rose reached for her phone. She stepped back and set the gun down on a table so she could scroll through her photos. Finally, she found the one she had been looking for. It was a group shot of several women training at Eva’s villa. Rose zoomed in on one face, that of a brown-haired woman.

  She held the phone down toward the man.

  “Is this her?”

  Rose already knew the answer.

  He nodded. “But with blonde hair.”

  And to think she’d let that bitch live.

  After tracking Lane to a remote village in Southern Italy four years ago, Rose had ultimately decided to let her go. This was despite Lane having done everything in her power to destroy Eva and Rose, including delivering them squarely into hands of the darkest evil Rose had ever met—the Sultan.

  He was still out there somewhere preying on the innocent to sacrifice in his dark arts.

  Now, Rose realized her mercy in sparing Lane’s life had been the biggest mistake of her life.

  Rose turned back toward the man. She picked up the gun and aimed it at his forehead.

  “Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

  “I didn’t kill your boyfriend.”

  From next door, she heard a woman scream. Again, in pleasure. And the thumping stopped. Thank god, it was giving Rose a headache.

  Rose set the gun down. Reaching over, she picked up the man’s cell phone from a table.

  “Password?”

  He told her, and she scrolled through it for a few seconds until she found what she wanted. She sent pictures and contacts from his phone to hers. She watched as his eyes darted over to where her phone sat on the couch by the gun as it dinged.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said. “You’re going to come with me down to the marina and show me where the boat was docked. We’re going to talk to the manager there and find out just who the boat belongs to. Got it?”

  He frowned.

  She stuck her phone into her back pocket and lifted the gun again. “I have your name now. And the phone numbers of your family. If you do anything other than that, I will hunt down your dear mama, who looks very sweet, and kill her. I promise. Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes.”

  “One more thing,” Rose said. “How did you manage to get an alibi?”

  He looked down. This is what he was afraid of before—why he wouldn’t speak in the first place.

  “Tell me.”

  “The detective will sometimes look the other way, if you know what I mean. For the right price.”

  Rose gave a small smile. “I see.”

  “You cannot tell anyone,” the man said. “He will kill me if he knows I told you.”

  “I can do whatever the hell I want,” she said. “But if you work with me, we might come to an understanding.”

  The man nodded.

  Rose watched him. He was a fool. Did he really think she was going to let him live after what he did to Timothy?

  Leaning down, she cut the rope binding him. He sat up and winced. He rubbed his wrists and ankles.

  Just then, loud music came on from the apartment next door.

  Glancing at the man on the floor, Rose said, “Is he always this loud?”

  The man grimaced. “Yes.”

  With hooded eyes, Rose watched as he stood. She was waiting to see if he was going to try to attack her. The gun was in her back waistband, but she wouldn’t need a gun to stop him.

  Eva had trained her well.

  If he tried to come after her without a weapon, she could take him down.

  He leaned down to pick up his phone and then reached for a jacket.

  She lifted her gun. “Empty the pockets first.”

  He did. There was a pack of cigarettes.

  “Okay,” she said.

  She watched him shrug it on.

  “Let’s go,” she said and followed him to the front door.

  Outside, she kept close behind him. He led her straight to an empty slip in the harbor a few blocks away. He pointed. “Here. This is where the boat was docked.”

  “Are you certain?” Rose asked.

  He nodded. “Yes. I remember because I liked this boat,” he said pointing to a massive cruiser painted black with gold trim. “It’s called The Hornet.”

  The slip number was 22.

  “Can I go now?” he asked.

  Rose shrugged. There was no reason to make him come with her to speak to the manager.

  He walked past her, shrinking away so he could avoid physical contact with her. She stepped aside.

  “Remember, I know where mama lives,” she whispered as he passed.

  He shot her a look but didn’t say anything. She watched him walk down the dock.

  As he stepped onto the ground at the end, he looked over his shoulder at her. She gave a slight nod. She wasn’t done with him yet. Not by a long shot. Rose wondered how long it would take him to call Lane. Not that it mattered. Lane would already know Rose was coming for her.

  Rose swore loudly.

  The Hornet had been stolen.

  The manager reported it earlier that day, he said.

  “My boyfriend has been kidnapped, and he was last seen being put on that boat,” she told the man.

  He had been smoking a cigarette in the dark outside his office when she approached. He inhaled a drag and nodded. “We knew it probably was used in a crime.”

  “How come?” Rose asked and examined the man. He had a large paunch sticking out of his untucked and improperly buttoned shirt and a balding head and goatee.

  “The trail of blood.”

  Rose swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly dry. “Did you tell the police this?”

  “Yes.”

  Rose remembered that the police were crooked fucks. No, she’d have to figure this out on her own.

  As soon as she got back on the Ramblas, Rose called the airlines.

  The next flight to southern Italy was in four hours.

  A rental car would be waiting for her.

  Before she boarded, she made another call, this time to the local newspaper. She left a detailed message with the name of the man she’d just beat up and the detective he supposedly had in his pocket and how they’d helped each other cover up crimes. She gave enough details that the reporter could
do some digging and fuck things up for both of them. She figured that with a reporter digging around, the detective would take the man out for her.

  18

  The sweat dripped down her face.

  Her entire body shook with terror.

  He’d found her.

  Although she had researched the perfect hideaway, it had not been enough.

  Even though her doors were dead-bolted and her windows had plywood nailed over them, he’d found a way in.

  It was a way, she’d never expected.

  He was there. And yet, not there.

  She was losing her mind. And yet she wasn’t.

  The fireplace that she’d found so comforting now seemed to flicker with the faces of the dead that she had both killed and loved all at once. They were gruesome, deformed caricatures moaning in pain and crying for her to save them even though it was much too late.

  She stared at the fire in disbelief, frozen into immobility with the poker stick in her hand. She remembered standing to prod the fire and then little else.

  Then she felt him. He was inside the house.

  Then his voice came. She could hear him clearly. It was almost as if he were speaking to her in her own mind.

  “You have much to make up for,” he said. His voice was a low rumble inside her.

  “I know. I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “If you think death is the worst I can do to you, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “I realize that now.”

  “What I can promise you is much worse than death.”

  She closed her eyes. She counted to ten and opened them again. The faces in the fire were now staring at her wide-eyed.

  A sob caught in her throat. She dropped the poker. It hit the floor with a loud clang. She clasped her palms to her ears and then ripped at her hair.

  “Please go away,” she whispered to the faces.

  “I will never go away,” the Sultan said.

  19

  Rose stepped off the plane onto the hot tarmac and inhaled deeply. She was in Puglia, not far from Brindisi, in the heel of Southern Italy’s boot. This portion of the country was west of Greece and Albania where the Ionian and Adriatic seas met.

  Southern Italy always smelled like flowers to Rose.

  Italy was in many ways her second home. Even though she’d only lived a year at Eva’s villa, something about the air and light in Southern Italy had spoken to her on a deep level.

  Now, further south and facing Greece, Rose retraced her steps from four years earlier when she had tracked Lane to a small remote village.

  Rose was furious with herself for being soft and letting Lane live. Now it was coming back to haunt her in the worst possible way.

  But she could forgive herself if she found Timothy alive.

  Rose pushed the limits of the rental car, flying along the cliff-hugging roads overlooking the sea. Despair gnawed at her heart and made her reckless. A dark inner voice whispered for her to accelerate as she approached a deadly curve. Instead of braking and nudging the steering wheel along the bend, she could just drive straight off into the blue oblivion.

  It was more a numb despondence than any desire to really die. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly, her knuckles turned white. She couldn’t think like that. She was the only one who could find Timothy and, if necessary, avenge him.

  It took two long hours for Rose to reach the village high in the steep mountains.

  Four years ago, when she’d made this same trek, it had felt like a few moments of driving.

  That was after Lane had tried to sacrifice her own stepsister Aria to a sex trafficker in Rome. Rose had rescued Aria but Lane escaped, fleeing to this village where her reclusive and estranged second cousin lived.

  When she first arrived at the house, Rose saw an older woman bent over a table spread with jewelry parts through the lit window. While there was a chance Lane was in another room, Rose figured she was not at home at all. She waited in the dark until she heard someone coming up the dirt path hours later.

  When Lane saw her, she reached behind her, but Rose was already on her, holding a dagger to her throat.

  “Tell me,” Rose hissed, “why I should let you live?”

  Lane didn’t answer.

  “Very well then,” Rose said in a low voice.

  “Because it would destroy my mother,” Lane blurted out, just as Rose was about to draw the blade across the girl’s throat.

  Rose paused.

  It was maybe the best reason she could think of. But Rose wasn’t sure it was good enough. That same thing could be said about almost everybody who died.

  But Rose lowered the blade, keeping it close and pointed at the girl’s neck.

  “I will let you live,” Rose said.

  “You don’t have it in you to kill me,” Lane said with a shrug.

  Rose’s eyes narrowed. She hated that part of what Lane said was true. Rose was looking for any excuse not to kill her. At the same time, she was ashamed that she had not sliced her throat right then. She wondered if Eva would be disappointed in her. Was she weak?

  But then she remembered. She was already a killer.

  “How many people have you killed?” Lane asked. “I bet you don’t have it in you. I bet you couldn’t kill if your life depended on it.”

  Rose didn’t answer. She just met the other girl’s eyes. And whatever Lane saw there made her squirm.

  “I didn’t want Aria dead. I only wanted her to go away. That’s all.”

  “You almost got her killed.”

  Lane nodded and swallowed, looking down. “I know you don’t believe me, but I didn’t want that.”

  “If I pretend I never found you, you must promise to never go back to the villa. And to never visit your mom and stepsister again. You can call. But you cannot go there.”

  “I had not planned to ever return.”

  “Good,” Rose said.

  Now the small cottage was abandoned.

  A neighbor said the woman who’d lived there died two years ago. A younger blonde woman disappeared shortly after. The neighbor said she’d never even known their names. They had kept to themselves.

  Rose managed to turn away before a sob emerged from her throat.

  She crossed the street and let herself cry for a few minutes. She felt so helpless. But then she pulled herself together and headed back toward the road leading out of town.

  She had to be strong. It was up to her to find Timothy.

  If Lane hadn’t brought Timothy here, she didn’t even know where to begin to look for them.

  Back on the road, with the sun setting, Rose felt a dread clawing at her that had nothing to do with the gloaming falling on the land. In these Southern Italian mountains, Rose felt further from Timothy than she’d ever felt before.

  Just as she reached flat land, the last bit of sunlight stretched across the horizon and illuminated a field full of red chrysanthemums, bathing the field in a golden glow. The flowers, tall on brilliant green stalks turned some ethereal combination of spun gold and red. The view would have made most people exclaim at its beauty, but Rose gasped in horror.

  In Italy, mums were reserved for the grave. No good Italian would bring someone a bouquet of chrysanthemums because it would be considered a gift of death.

  This field was in bloom preparing for the upcoming Day of the Dead celebrations.

  Rose, who wasn’t sure she even believed in God, made the sign of the cross.

  She didn’t have to wonder if this was a bad omen.

  There was no doubt it was.

  It was still dark outside when she boarded the plane. She’d missed the last flight the night before and sat in the airport the entire night until this 5:00 a.m. flight.

  As soon as the plane left the ground, the vibration lulled Rose to sleep. She’d been going nonstop, and her body finally gave up.

  And her subconscious turned, as it often did, to a familiar nightmare about the Sultan’s palace and its dark e
vil.

  The nightmares all began the same way with a memory:

  Rose followed the girl up a massive and steep stone staircase and then through a large French door into a massive room with soaring ceilings lit only by firelight and dozens of candles.

  It took a second for Rose to spot him. He was a hulking man in a black robe standing in front of a large fireplace. There was a gleaming black casket near him with the lid open. It was lined in red, silky fabric.

  Rose was led to a spot about ten feet in front of the man. The girl who had escorted her stood beside her. She waited but the man didn’t speak. She stared at him, waiting. He was a large black shadow with a black robe.

  Although she tried to look right at the man, Rose found it oddly hard to do so. Was it partly because the roaring fire behind him made him mostly a silhouette, or was it something else? She’d felt strange from the minute she’d stepped onto the dock.

  “Are you a vampire?” Rose said. She’d meant it to sound mocking, but her voice shook.

  When he didn’t answer, she looked away, feeling relief not to be staring at him. She openly studied the room around her.

  The arched ceilings soared high above. It was so dark that she couldn’t see the ceiling.

  One wall was covered in red velvet drapes that brushed the ground. The room was crowded with large, dark, and heavy wooden furniture.

  To her right, one wall was lined with girls. Like the girls on the dock, they seemed to be about her age. They all wore white robes like the other girls, as if they were part of a choir. Rose looked them over and then back at the man. Again, she found it strangely hard to make eye contact with him, so she looked away again.

  Next to her was a small end table. On it was a petrified hand, a small alligator skull, and a small black box.

  On the other side of the girl who’d escorted her to the room was another small end table. It held an assortment of daggers with gleaming blades spread out on a plush, black velvet cloth.

  She finally turned her gaze to the man again but fixed her eyes on the black fireplace mantle behind him. It was carved with skulls and demon faces that seemed to scream in agony as the firelight flickered on them.