“What way?” he inquires, furrowing his eyebrows, acutely unaware of his tender expression.
“Your pity is wasted on me, Gronkowski. Save it for someone who needs it.”
“I’m sorry, Gina,” he expels, unable to stop himself.
“Well, I’m not. And you shouldn’t be, either.” She busies herself, bending over searching through the scattered debris, slinging chunks of metal and ash.
“If it’s any consolation, it makes me understand you…all of this…better.” He follows her lead, digging through the waste.
She bolts upright. “Oh yes, it gives me great comfort that you can fully understand me now,” she barks, winging a chunk of charred wood. It crumbles with the force as it connects to the lone, tall stone pillar maintaining its integrity.
“They had no other option but to tell me the truth,” Tony defends gently.
“It wasn’t theirs to tell.” She picks up another chunk of carbonized timber brandishing it at him. “And if you value your handsome little hazels, it would behoove you to expeditiously change their sentiment,” she warns.
He juts his hands up to shoulder level, palms turned out, a sign of compliance, his straight lips slowly turning upward into a grin. “Handsome,” he lingers over the word, causing her to exude a faint smile. “So, what are we looking for?”
“Nothing, really. Something. Anything.” She turns circles, her feet sifting through the ash. He inspects her from head to toe, garbed in his oversized t-shirt, jeans and boots, a pleasurable sight. “Don’t worry. I’ll wash them before I return them,” she addresses his recognition.
He shrugs his shoulders. “You can keep ’em…forever…if you’d like,” he adds, emphasizing the promise of forever. She ignores the proposition, knowing full well it’s impossible to entertain such a notion. “What the hell happened to this place anyway?” he jumps in filling the silence.
“That man. Upstairs at the masquerade ball. The heat from his stare was excruciating,” Gina reasons.
“Manny Briggs,” Tony concludes.
Gina’s attention snaps in his direction wondering how he knows the man’s identity. “They told you everything,” she speaks, defiantly shaking her head.
“He did this?” Tony asks disbelieving, looking around at the wreckage.
“Nobody lived here. The place has been vacant since…” she stops, unable to expel the words. “Dr. Ryan,” she mutters the name with disdain, “kept it for me.”
“Why?” Tony asks confounded.
She shrugs. “In case I ever wanted to stroll down memory lane, I guess.” She runs her hand the length of the mantle on the stone fireplace, another structure withstanding the blaze. “The point is, they’re trying to get to me…”
“ETNA,” Tony interrupts.
She looks at him, again surprised at his knowledge. “Well, why don’t you break it down for me, seeing how you seem to know just as much as I do, if not more,” she sputters.
“I’m just trying to make sure I understand, DeLuca.”
“What do you need to understand? This doesn’t concern you. And trust me, you don’t want it to, Gronkowski,” she argues for his benefit.
“Doesn’t concern me?” he says offended. “You saw what happened back at the hotel. I turned, too, Gina. I didn’t sign up for this…but I’m in it.”
“Nobody’s going to be in anything. It stops here.” She pounds her hand off her chest.
“So, that’s your big plan? You’re just gonna give up,” Tony jeers.
“There are others to think about besides me. I’m not giving up. I’m just doing the right thing, Gronkowski.”
“Oh, so if they want you, come and get you, huh?” he continues to dig.
She props herself gingerly against the stone fireplace, her arms crossed over her chest. “Yep.” She eyes him challengingly. “Now, if you’ll excuse yourself, I might make for a more enticing captive.”
He meets her ante with a defiant look, flopping himself onto the floor. The ash fluffs up around him, his legs folded into one another, his elbows casually resting on his knees.
“Get out,” she orders.
“To get out would imply we’re in an enclosure. The damn house is blown to shit, DeLuca.” He looks up at what would otherwise be the ceiling to find a few dimly lit stars in the dusky sky. “I can’t get anymore out.”
“Leave. Go. Vamoose. Beat it. Take a hike,” she pauses between each expression allowing the words to roll off her tongue, fully sinking in.
“You wouldn’t leave me,” he defends.
“I don’t want you here,” she replies sharply. “This isn’t Vanguard PD. And this is not some run-of-the-mill case.”
“‘Run-of-the-mill,’” he repeats. “Is that what you think of me? I’m good enough for Vanguard PD, but not for some hardcore, advanced supernatural shit,” he mocks, clearly offended.
“The last thing I need is some rookie Vigilare to worry about. You don’t even know how to handle yourself yet…your transformation. How do you propose to handle mine? Or Manny Briggs’?” She flings her hands out to her sides letting them fall, frustrated, slapping against her thighs.
“Teach me.”
“There’s not enough time.”
“I’m a quick study, DeLuca.” He winks. “And by the way, Manny Briggs is now Hell Hound,” he chuckles with the moniker, attempting to lighten the severity of the title.
“Oh, dear God, you’ve been talking with Dr. Godfrey.” She shakes her head. “Hell Hound?” she contemplates before curtly dismissing, “I’ll believe it when he grows three heads.”
“Huh?”
“Cerberus…the famous hell hound…he had three heads,” she reasons, seeing Tony is not following, obviously Greek mythology not his strong suit. “Oh, forget it.”
Tony tilts his head to the side in thought. “Maybe he does…have three heads. How else could he make you believe he was your dead…” He stops abruptly.
“Go ahead,” she encourages harshly. “You can say it. How could he make me believe he was my dead husband?” She pushes off the fireplace, walking past him.
“DeLuca,” he summons.
“You stay. I’ll leave.” She disappears into the night.
Tony remains seated in the rubble and ash, eyeing the place in all its dark, spooky dreariness. A screech owl screams causing him to wince, sending goosebumps dancing over his skin. He shudders his body, an attempt to loosen it up. “Fine. I’ll stay,” he talks to himself, the distant peepers sounding off a soothing song. “That’s nice,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “I just gotta warm up to the place.”
Digging through the debris, he pulls his hand back abruptly at its contact with something metal and scorching. “Shit!” he sputters sucking air through his teeth, loosely shaking his hand back and forth at its wrist joint attempting to cool the burning sensation. Grabbing his flashlight from the side of his duty belt, he uses its end to poke around in the soot, exposing a shiny silver crucifix. He grimaces deep in thought with the familiarity of the pendant. He flashes back to the hospital—Vanguard General Hospital. ‘What’s that?’ Gina asked of the crucifix hanging above her hospital bed. ‘Dr. Godfrey hung it there,’ he answered.
He reaches for the necklace, jerking his hand back before even making contact, an autonomic response to the fierce radiating heat. He closes his eyes, shaking his head, as the crucifix appears to glow a hungry red hue. “Get it together, Gronkowski,” he coaches, peering through first one eye then the other. He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, sweeping from it a collection of sweat beads. The ash below him in close proximity to the pendant begins to snap and pop, its heat quickly invading his space. “DeLuca!” he yells back-pedaling from the demolished residence.
CHAPTER 7
“Excuse me. So
rry. Ooh, pardon us,” Aubrey Raines begs, her body like a pinball bouncing off patrons of the crowded lounge in the New Orleans Gulf District.
“Hey, watch it,” a woman warns, as Emily Truly leads them forcefully through the crowd, the woman’s drink wobbling in her hand.
“Sorry,” Aubrey winces.
“Quit apologizing,” Emily orders, securing two seats at the bar. The large, rectangular reflective surface staring back at her causes her to shake her head and roll her eyes. A regular Odd Couple, Aubrey maintaining full vampirette hair, makeup and extravagant wardrobe. Emily in her usual formfitting black attire, her long coal-black hair slicked into a taut ponytail, her dark skin flawless without a stitch of makeup. She waves her hand impatiently at the bartender. “Sambuca. Two.”
“Please,” Aubrey adds. “What’s Sambuca?” she questions to Emily, the S-sound exaggerated through her clip-on fangs.
“Tastes like black licorice.” Emily looks at her, half-annoyed, half-amused. “If you expect me to take you seriously, you’re going to have to get rid of the blood suckers.”
Aubrey looks at her defiantly. “Bite me,” she says, cracking herself up, an embarrassed giggle escaping.
Emily smirks, slightly impressed as the bartender arrives, placing two Sambucas before them. Emily digs into her pocket. An arm extends from behind her, money in hand. Without inspecting the gracious host, Emily swipes the arm to the side, replacing it with her own twenty dollar bill. “Keep the change,” she addresses the bartender.
Aubrey peeks around Emily at the man standing beside her. Emily remains dismissive, looking straight ahead sizing the man up from his reflection in the mirror: Average height, nice build, dark black hair, black leather jacket and young…too young.
“Maybe I can get the next one,” he swallows his pride.
“No thanks. No need to give you any hopes of getting lucky by allowing you to buy us drinks,” Emily replies, still evading his gaze.
“Jaded much?” he says, causing Aubrey to grimace unsure of Emily’s reaction given her current disposition.
“Look Opie,” Emily scoffs, alluding to his youth, “I’m not sure you’re equipped to drink, let alone buy me one.” Giving in, she turns in the young man’s direction, her violet eyes momentarily caught up in his, piercing blue and mirroring hers, empty. He breaks her gaze, turning and walking away.
“Why do you always have to be so serious?” Aubrey jabs her in the ribs. “Would it really kill you to loosen up? Have some fun?” Frustrated, she scoops up the Sambuca taking a generous gulp.
Emily shrugs. “I thought I took it easy on him.”
“Holy flippin’ Toledo!” Aubrey exclaims attempting to catch her breath, the warm, sweet alcohol seemingly singeing a hole in her throat. “Took it easy on him?” she challenges, wiping at her lips with the back of her hand. “You’re the ice queen, Emily. You could make polar bears cry.” Taking a deep breath, Aubrey eyes the glass of Sambuca. Accepting the challenge, she scoops it up and finishes it off, slamming the tumbler down on the bar alerting the bartender. Wincing, she holds up one finger begging another, as the ability to create audible words escapes her, the black licorice inferno raging inside her vocal cavity.
Emily smiles at her, impressed with her gumption.
The bartender slings another Sambuca down the slick surface of the granite bar. With great precision, she scoops it up, departing from her chair. “I’ll be over here…with all the fun people,” she whispers to Emily, her voice still attempting to recover from the beverage.
Emily watches her walk away into a crowd of people happy to make her acquaintance. Looking into the mirror, the sense grows that someone watches her, as he does, standing at the pool table in the back corner applying chalk to the tip of his pool stick. He tilts his head back and to the side, beckoning her.
She shrugs. “Alright, ice queen,” she mumbles to herself, “time to warm up.” Her drink in tow, she joins the man at the pool table, carefully keeping her vantage point in direct line with Aubrey.
“She’ll be fine,” he ensures, extending his hand. “I’m Max.”
She flinches with the contact of his hand, abnormally cold. She looks at him, squelching the urge to comment on his frigid touch as his eyes beg her not to. “Emily,” she divulges.
“Highs or lows?” he follows up, handing her a pool stick.
She looks to the green felt table noticing some balls have stripes while others do not. “Stripes,” she says, attempting to be confident in her choice.
He smiles, seeing she’s a novice to the game. “I’ll break,” he says.
She stands back studying him, making note of his posture and how he holds the stick as he aims at the inverted triangle of ivory balls. Whack! The balls scatter from their tightly-knit group, splaying out to all four corners of the table, one rolling into the pocket nearest her. He nods in her direction, declaring it her go. She stalls, questioning her turn as he put one in.
“It was striped,” he explains.
She peers down into the pocket, the 11-ball, accompanied by a red stripe. Positioning herself in front of the white ball as he had, she lines up aiming at a small group of striped balls, her vision skimming over the white ball into the mesh of stripes. She releases, completely missing altogether. She flops her stick down across the wooden frame, slightly embarrassed and demotivated, mediocrity let alone complete failure, two concepts foreign to Emily Truly.
“Don’t take your eye off the cue ball. The white one,” he directs.
She grabs the stick, leveling once again at the cue ball, driving it forcefully through the huddle of striped balls, knocking them to and fro, none of them settling in a corner pocket.
“Don’t hit it so hard,” he coaches softly. “See.” He demonstrates, cradling his stick loosely, gently tapping it off the cue ball, knocking the solid-colored ball behind it into its desired pocket. “You can’t force everything,” he says, glancing at Emily knowingly. He follows up by strategically placing four more solid colored balls into the same pocket before missing, allowing her a turn.
“Alright, Gandhi,” she mutters, gripping her stick confidently, pride outweighing reason, she steps up to the table and aims at the cue ball. With one swift Whack! every single striped ball left on the green felt scatters into its nearest pocket. Oh shit! she stammers internally, realizing what she has done. ‘Your gifts are never to be used in public, outside of Vigilare assignment,’ the reprimanding words of Dr. Ryan replay themselves in her mind.
The young man—Max—stands in awe momentarily before urging an explanation. “How’d you do that?”
“Beginner’s luck,” she dismisses.
He circles the table and her, his inspecting eye intrigued. She bends to the table, uncharacteristically self-conscious, focusing on the pool stick in her hand and its future contact with the cue ball. She closes her eyes, breathing in and out, knowing she must make a clean hit, pocketing the eight-ball in order to keep up appearances and cover up her impulsive display of overzealous talent. Her eyes open with fierce concentration, she lightly taps the cue ball, as instructed. It rolls perfectly in line with the black eight-ball, clinking off of it, driving it into the direction of the pocket closest to Max. In an instant, the ball skids to an abrupt stop right at the edge of the green felt, failing to drop into the pocket. She looks at Max suspiciously, her eyebrows furrowed. His arms casually propped upon his pool stick, he grins. “So much for beginner’s luck.”
“How’d you do that?” Now questioning him, Emily circles the table toward the eight-ball.
“Guess you didn’t put enough English on it,” he jeers.
She grabs up the black ball, quickly letting it fall back to the green felt, clasping her hand together from the stinging cold. In full investigative mode, she grabs for his hand, shockingly cool to the touch. “How’d you do that?�
� she demands again, her expression skeptical albeit slightly hopeful.
He shrugs with a smile, “Must’ve been you…ice queen.”
“You heard us? From all the way back here?”
He leans into her, whispering, “By the way, I think you could be a lot of fun.” Her heartbeat enhances with the nervous energy firing off in her system, subconsciously causing his to do the same. “Whoa!” he exclaims, his hand clutching the left side of his chest. “Quite the little spark plug aren’t ya.” A devilishly handsome grin surfaces.
“Shit!” she reprimands herself in a whisper. “Sorry.” Shaking her head, she follows up completely frustrated, “Wait a minute. I’m not sorry. I don’t have to be sorry. Who the hell are you? What are you?”
“Nothing you haven’t seen before.” He walks to the rack on the wall, placing his pool stick in its rightful position.
Still disbelieving, she turns to the pool table, pressing down on the cue ball with her eyes, willing it to move. Her fingers busily wiggling at her sides, the white ball begins rolling, clearly free from any contact with a pool stick. Answering her curiosity, he returns the gesture, commanding the ball with his eyes until it stops, pushing against her will. Determined, she presses harder. The ball does not move; it simply begins to crack under the force. He exhales with great momentum, his focus catching the broken fragments melding them back together. The ball once again cohesive, ricochets his glare, causing Emily to gasp, clamping her eyes shut blocking out the frigid intrusion. Her body shivers.
He rushes to her, simultaneously scoping the noisy crowd, content to find no one witnessing their interchange. “Are you okay?”
She holds her hand out, pressing against his chest. “I’m fine.” Her eyes follow her hand growing cool in contact with his shirt against his skin. “Why are you so cold?”
“I didn’t realize I was,” he says, that coy smile forming again.
2 Brooklyn James Page 7
