Blood & Roses (Vigilante Crime Series)

by Kristi Belcamino

  “Look at me.” The voice was a little too high-pitched for a man. But it was not feminine, either.

  He said this calmly, as if he was used to being obeyed.

  Rose forced herself to meet his eyes. Although she couldn’t make out his features, his eyes seemed piercing. They made her feel exposed and more vulnerable than she’d ever felt in her life.

  “You are a monster. Just like I thought,” she said and winced, waiting for the man’s reaction.

  She wanted to see just how far he’d go. Would he hit her? Cut her with his saber? Kill her? Ignore her? Rose searched his face for any reaction, but the shadows continued to obscure it.

  Then he made the slightest gesture.

  The girl beside Rose reached onto the table and picked up a small blade. Rose turned her head toward the girl and flinched, wondering if the order was for a small cut or a fatal blow. Her body tensed and her fists clenched at her side, Rose prepared. She would defend herself against the attack either way. To Rose’s surprise, when the girl lifted the dagger, instead of thrusting it toward Rose, she drew the blade swiftly across her own neck. Rose looked on in horror as the blood bubbled out of the slash in the girl’s neck and she fell forward onto the floor. Rose cried out and crouched down onto the marble, but the girl was motionless.

  Rose stood, feeling sick and frantic, and met the eyes of the other girls lined up against the wall. Not a single one of them reacted. They stared back at her blankly.

  “You have anything else to say?” the man said.

  All the moisture was wicked from Rose’s mouth, and her legs were wobbly. She could no longer support herself. Her knees gave out, and she slumped to the floor. Her vision was swimming, blurry, kaleidoscoping. All she could see was the red blood on the dead girl’s white robe.

  There was a rippling sound, and Rose looked up to see the girls lining the walls peel away from it, seemingly in unison. They surrounded the dead girl and gathered the small body in their arms.

  There was a swarm of bodies and then they were gone.

  What kind of dark art was this?

  Rose closed her eyes in an attempt to focus and clear her head. She must stay strong. She must fight for her life. And then she smelled him. His scent was that of something rotten that has been dragged from the bowels of the earth. She stifled a gag and opened her eyes.

  The man in the black cape was a few inches away from her face. All she could see was the black fabric that fell all the way to the floor. She was startled but stopped herself from jumping back. How had he moved toward her so quickly and silently?

  Maybe she was wrong. Maybe there were vampires. Maybe he was one.

  There was a rustle of fabric, and she felt a bony ice-cold hand cup her chin. She was terrified. She was too afraid to look anywhere but straight down until her head was lifted so high she had nowhere else to look except upon the man’s face. But it didn’t make sense. Even up close, his features were black. Then she realized he was wearing a mask. A black mask. His eyes were gleaming dark orbs peering out of the eyeholes.

  “I’ve waited a long time for you,” he said.

  “Why are you hiding behind a mask?”

  “Be quiet, girl.” It was Savino. She jerked her head to see him standing in the doorway.

  “I will handle this,” the Sultan said.

  But before Rose turned back to face the man, Savino gave her a look that she would swear on her life was some type of warning. Why would he care?

  The man then turned to Savino. “Your services are no longer needed here. You may return to the mainland now.”

  Rose turned again to see Savino’s reaction. Instantly, he was surrounded by more than a dozen girls. He met Rose’s eyes over their heads. Again, there was something there she couldn’t read.

  She watched as he was led out of the room.

  As soon as Savino was gone, Aldo stepped forward. Rose nearly gasped.

  The Sultan turned to the weasel-like man. “You have already proven yourself very useful. Make sure Savino doesn’t make it back to the mainland.”

  Aldo nodded.

  The Sultan spoke to her again.

  “You must now be prepared for the ceremony.”

  The man’s words were like a string attached to Rose’s head. She swiveled to look at him, even though it was the last thing she wanted to do. She wanted to see where Savino was being taken.

  The man’s eyes bored into her for a few seconds, and then she, too, was surrounded by girls. They grabbed her hands and wrapped their arms around her shoulders and waist, and she was turned and escorted from the room.

  The girls led her out of the great room into a dark hallway lit with candles in sconces on the wall. There were no doorways in this hallway, which seemed strange to Rose. As she walked, she realized that a slight vibration she was feeling was actually a sound—the murmur of distant chanting. Dread raced down her spine.

  The nightmare then took its own turn away from reality as the girls led her up a steep staircase to a landing overlooking a courtyard with people below.

  From there, various horror scenarios followed, most often resulting in her rape and murder.

  This one was no exception.

  After being led to the landing, she watched as a man was led to the edge of the balcony overlooking the courtyard. A huge, bare-chested man with a topknot and a choker necklace held the man upside down over the crowd by his legs. A dozen brainwashed young girls swarmed the man, slicing at his chest with a butcher knife. He tried to wriggle away, but his thrashing did nothing but send his blood flying every which way. Soon, he stopped struggling and hung there as thick rivers of blood dripped onto the crowd below which was making a strange murmuring sound.

  In this newest nightmare, there was no male victim—she was the one brought to the edge of the balcony. There, she was stripped down by a masked man. Even though she couldn’t see his face, Rose recognized the body. He was naked from the waist up, his firm chest rippled with abdominal muscles. Rose knew that body intimately. It was Timothy. The mask he wore was terrifying. It had huge eyes and a hooked nose with a slash of red for a mouth. When she realized who it was, she gasped, but Timothy held his finger up to the red painted mouth to shush her.

  The people gathered in the courtyard below began a low murmuring that morphed into a strange chant. Timothy began to touch her body, trailing his fingers along her skin at first and then groping her bare breasts until finally he plunged his fingers inside her. As Rose writhed in pleasure, arching her body into the man, someone behind them tore the mask off.

  Rose drew back in horror. It wasn’t Timothy. The face was the Sultan’s— His hideous face was swollen, with ruddy cheeks and droopy jowls. His eyes were deep set, black as pitch, under a sloping forehead. His tongue protruded from his mouth as he worked his fingers. Sweat trickled down his cheeks.

  In their first encounter, she’d never seen his face; he’d worn a black mask. But in this nightmare, she easily recognized him and his body rubbing up against her—his sweaty, naked, massive belly. He took his fingers out of her, and she leaned over and vomited.

  He then took one meaty hand and struck her across the face, sending her reeling. Her brain rattled in her skull, and her vision went black for a few seconds.

  Then he brought her head up, even though she was leaning back, exposing her neck, so that her eyes met his. He gave her a slow, deadly smile before lifting a gleaming scythe and drawing it across her throat. She felt warmth bubbling out of her neck and dripping down her chest, but she was surprisingly still alert and alive.

  The chanting in the courtyard below was now deafening. She watched the Sultan as he lifted the blade to his mouth and began to lick the blood that coated it. Then he stepped away.

  What felt like thousands of hands crawled over her bare skin, and she was lifted into the air and thrown over the balcony’s railing. As she fell to the courtyard, she looked straight up and painted in the circular dome above was a painting of the devil himself, grin
ning down at her.

  Dozens of hands caught her and began to tear off pieces of her body as if breaking apart a loaf of bread. The hunks came off of her easily. She watched detachedly as they shoved her bloody pink and yellow flesh into their mouths and chewed, the blood and juices seeping out and dripping down their chins.

  And then she woke, shivering, making the woman in the seat across the aisle give her a frightened look before turning her head. As she came to, she realized her hair was damp, and she’d dug her nails into her palms drawing small flecks of blood.

  The plane was on its final descent into Barcelona.

  As the plane touched down on the tarmac and the pilot welcomed them to Barcelona, Rose reached for her phone. There was a message from Paolo.

  With shaking hands, she opened it.

  “We found him. I’m so sorry.”

  20

  Rose told the taxi driver to take her to Platja de Cabrera.

  Timothy’s body had washed up on the shore there, about thirty minutes north of Barcelona.

  An elderly man walking his dog had found him tangled in seaweed.

  “Pull over,” Rose said in a monotone.

  “What?” the driver said, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Now,” she said.

  He screeched to the shoulder just in time. She leaped out and leaned over, holding her stomach, but nothing came. She simply gagged a few times.

  Getting back into the taxi, she slammed the door without saying a word.

  The driver pulled back onto the road and they continued.

  Her phone was vibrating nonstop.

  Texts from Gia. From Eva. From Paolo. From friends she hadn’t spoken to in months.

  She ignored them all.

  It was as if a dull, gray haze had fallen on everything. It felt like she was moving through a thick invisible cloud that made every motion difficult. Lifting her eyes to look at the back of the seat in front of her seemed to take too much effort.

  Timothy was dead. It could not be real. It was not true.

  She would show up at the beach and Timothy would be there and explain that it was all a terrible misunderstanding. That Lane had decided to let him go because he was just an innocent bystander. Her real target was Rose.

  That was it, Rose thought. They were luring her to the beach with false news of Timothy’s death. He was really alive. Lane had planted some other dead body to lure her there.

  Rose would gladly exchange herself for Timothy.

  It was a no-brainer.

  If Timothy was safe, Lane could do what she wanted with Rose.

  Not that Rose wouldn’t fight back, but she could accept losing if Timothy was safe.

  “Miss? Miss?”

  The taxi had come to a stop some time ago, Rose realized.

  The driver had been speaking to her too.

  She looked up. He’d pulled into the parking lot of the beach.

  There were police cars and an ambulance. None of the emergency vehicles had any lights on, though. Lights and sirens were for the living.

  The sun was just rising above the mountains to the east, casting streaks of gold over portions of the shadowy parking lot. A streak of sunlight stretched across the hood of the car and then into the back seat, blinding her. She squinted, unable to see the beach anymore.

  But she did see some dark silhouettes heading her way. She couldn’t make out their faces, but one body looked familiar and her heart leaped.

  Timothy!

  She reached for the handle of the door, a sob caught in her throat.

  But then she shifted, and saw who it really was. Paolo.

  They had the same shape and gait.

  When she saw Paolo’s face, her entire body went numb. Her hand remained frozen on the door handle even as Paolo opened the door.

  He lifted her limp body out of the seat and held her.

  Someone else was speaking to the driver. Paolo walked her over to a small bench, keeping an arm around her to steady her.

  Rose studied the ground as they walked. She refused to look toward the beach or the emergency vehicles.

  Once they sat down, she hugged her knees and hunched over, keeping her eyes trained on her Converse sneakers.

  “Rose?” Paolo finally said.

  She looked up at him, blinking, wondering when she was going to wake up from this nightmare.

  “I told you not to come here,” he said gently.

  “Where was I supposed to go?” she said in a small voice, searching his eyes.

  He looked at her for a long moment and then nodded with his lips pressed tightly together.

  After a while, Rose heard a car come screeching to a halt behind her, followed by the most gut-wrenching sound she’d ever heard.

  It was Timothy’s mother.

  The heart-rending sounds of her anguish were unbearable.

  Rose buried her face in Paolo’s shirt, balling her fists and pressing them tightly to her ears. She could hear someone else screaming, “No! No! No!”

  After a few seconds, she realized where the sound was coming from.

  Her own mouth.

  She closed it abruptly.

  Paolo held her tighter. He wrapped his large arms around her, pressing her face into his damp shirt.

  Paolo shook beneath her, his entire body wracked with sobs.

  She could feel the heat of the morning sun on her back. It must have crested the mountains.

  Paolo tried to pull away, but she clung tight to him.

  “We need to get up now,” he said.

  She shook her head. She didn’t want to. If she pulled her face away from his shirt then she would have to face reality.

  She would have to see Mrs. Rocco.

  If she looked at the woman’s face, she would no longer be able to fool herself that Timothy was alive.

  It had seemed quiet for a while, except for the dull murmur of voices closer to the beach, but it was only because the low keening she had been hearing had become part of the noise in her head.

  There were raised voices—one sounded like Mr. Rocco—and then the keening turned into a wail again. It was drowned out for a few seconds by the sound of vehicles driving past.

  Rose tried to drown out all the sounds by chanting inside her head.

  No. No. No.

  But then came the sound of footsteps, and Rose heard Mrs. Rocco clearly now.

  “It’s her fault.”

  Rose froze, her blood running cold.

  She couldn’t have heard that right. But then his mother said it again.

  “Her drug lord father. That is why this happened. It’s her fault.”

  Several people tried to shush the mother. Others argued and tried to calm her, but Timothy’s mother was shouting now.

  “You did this to my son!”

  Rose pulled her head away from Paolo.

  Timothy’s mother was about twenty feet away, but Rose could feel the rage and sorrow hit her right in the solar plexus as she met the woman’s gaze.

  Several men, including Timothy’s father were holding her back by the arms and shoulders. She strained against them toward Rose, her eyes full of fury. She stretched so far forward that if they had let go of her, she would have tumbled to the ground. Her hair was disheveled, and her dress was ripped. Her feet were bare. She looked like she’d escaped from an asylum.

  No, actually, she looked like she’d just been told she was going to hell.

  And it was true.

  They both were in hell.

  “You did this!” Timothy’s mother screamed again.

  Paolo still had his arm around Rose. “Don’t listen to her.”

  “No,” Rose said, blinking and standing up, ducking out from under Paolo’s arm. “She’s right. This is my fault.”

  Timothy’s mother heard her. She opened her mouth to say something but then snapped it shut, shocked into silence.

  Rose walked over to Timothy’s mother and stood before her.

  His moth
er relaxed.

  “I loved him.”

  “You killed him.” A small bit of spittle flew out of the woman’s mouth and struck Rose in the face. She did not wipe it away.

  “I will avenge his death if it’s the last thing I do,” Rose said.

  “You go to hell!” the woman said.

  Rose didn’t answer. What she really wanted to say was I’m already there.

  21

  The days leading up to the funeral were a blur.

  Rose spent most of it in bed or curled up on her couch, while Eva and Gia tried to coax her into eating.

  At one point, Gia asked if she wanted to go see Nico.

  Rose didn’t answer and just stared at her until Gia walked away.

  Dante and Wayne arrived. So did Shaniqua, who stayed in the spare bedroom. She had known Timothy almost as long as Rose. Timothy and Shaniqua’s boyfriend had been good friends too. Unfortunately, he’d had to stay in Paris for his job but was coming into town for the funeral.

  After the others left every night, Rose and Shaniqua headed for the roof.

  There, they sat and smoked hashish until the night had passed. Then, right before the others arrived in the morning, the two girls crawled into bed and slept most of the day.

  Sometimes Rose would lie in bed for hours lost in memories of the years she had with Timothy.

  One of the best summers of her life was the year she was fifteen. By then, she and Timothy were solid as best friends. They spent every waking hour together. And once their parents were convinced their relationship was platonic, they often had sleepovers, too. At her apartment, Timothy would crash on the couch. At his place, Mrs. Rocco would make up a bed for her in the spare room that she used as an office for the restaurant.

  That summer, they would wake, dress in swim suits, grab towels, still damp and sandy from the day before, and head to the beach.

  Usually, one parent or another would send a bag of food with them, but the only things they always remembered to bring were books and sketch pads. They went to the same spot every day. They would spread out their towels and either read or draw or just nap. Every once in a while, when it was really hot, one of them would get up and, without a word, the other would follow, and they would go float in the turquoise salt water for a half hour or so and then come back and dry off in the sun. They would munch on whatever food they had and sometimes she would take puffs off the fancy cigarettes that Timothy would bring, feeling sophisticated.