“Vi-gi-lare?” he questions his pronunciation of the foreign term.
She reluctantly nods her head still not fully understanding her willingness to confide in him.
“You think that’s what I am? A Vigilare?” he asks hopefully.
“There’s only one Vigilare,” she clarifies. “However,” she begins, sensing his desire to be part of something, to belong, “I guess you could have Vigilare pedigree.”
“That’s what you have?”
She nods.
“How many are there...like you?”
“Not many,” she vaguely divulges. “Where did you come from? Do you know a guy named Dr. Godfrey? Dr. Gerald Godfrey?” she pushes, attempting to find rhyme or reason for his presence.
“New Orleans,” he huffs. “Where else would I come from?” Growing suspicious, he quizzes her, “Where do you come from?”
She grins reading the bewilderment in his eyes. “I don’t have a spaceship...or a light saber. And no, I can’t phone home,” she shoots down his youthful notions.
“So, where would I find this Vigilare?”
She furrows her brow skeptically wondering if ETNA sent him, her posture growing alarmed and defensive. If he’s not Dr. Godfrey’s, then he must be ETNA’s, she reasons. “Why?”
He shrugs. “I’m just curious. Where does he live? What does he do...his powers?”
“He,” she mutters under her breath, relaxing her on-guard position, taking his ignorance as proof positive of his innocence.
“I probably sound pretty pathetic with all my questions, huh?” He circles her, marveling, “Like some starry-eyed kid.”
“No, actually, it’s kinda nice,” she surprises herself with the sentiment. “When you live with it, after a while it doesn’t seem so extraordinary.”
He steps to her, resisting the urge to touch her, his cool hands aching for the sensation. “I think you’re extraordinary.” He breathes her in, filling his lungs with her essence. She gasps, his deep inhalation stealing her breath. Emily smiles at his awareness, as he quickly exhales, reviving her.
The unasked questions in his confused, naïve, blue eyes propel her to speak. “You can’t help yourself. It’s in our design,” she explains scientifically. “It’s a sense thing...you know, innate. We’re made to feel connected.” She shrugs. “Otherwise it doesn’t work.”
“Is that why you feel like home?”
The word home calling her attention. “Really, I should be leaving.”
“Stay,” he coaxes, appealing to her with his eyes.
She tilts her head with reservation.
“Just sleep,” he promises holding his hands up, palms out at shoulder level. “You’ve got to be tired.” His words spur her to yawn. He smiles, extending his hand.
What the hell is it with this guy? Emily reprimands herself, accepting his request, offering up her hand and following him to his room.
“You want a t-shirt?” he asks hospitably, concerned with her comfort.
She smirks accompanied by a brisk shake of her head. “I’ll stick with what I’ve got on. And I expect you’ll do the same,” her tone strict, checking him with her eyes.
“Oh, of course.” His cheeks grow flushed.
Emily slips out of her boots. Pulling the covers back, she climbs into his small twin bed, marking her boundary by settling onto the edge. He accompanies her, respectfully lying on top of the extravagantly colorful quilt, stoically on his back facing the skylight. She lies on her side facing him, the better to keep one eye open. The moon looms above providing the perfect nightlight.
“Goodnight, Em,” he says.
She smiles, the gentle endearment settling her apprehension. “Night, Max.”
He sighs, whispering, “Goodnight moon.” His eyelids coming to rest.
Emily watches him, waiting for the rise and fall of his chest to slow signifying sleep. His expiration highlighted by pale blue condensation reminds her of his cool touch, simultaneously piquing her curiosity. Her body warm and toasty beneath the covers she focuses on generating even more heat until her body feels like an inferno. Baring down in his direction she attempts to kinetically transfer her momentum. Momentarily, after she fails to visualize any indication of a change in his physical presence, she coaches disappointedly, Oh, go to sleep, Emily. Her eyelashes resting against each other, she drifts off into a slumber. With great force Max’s eyes jut open, his breathing deep and warm, his body scorching. The outer ring of his steel blue irises sparkles a violent, hungry red.
CHAPTER 10
“Shit!” Gina exclaims grabbing at the crucifix tucked under her black fatigue top. Pulling it to the outside of her clothing, her skin burns underneath, the usual shiny silver pendant glowing like molten lava. She shakes her hand, tugging at the collar of her shirt, her head ducked and blowing cool air through pursed lips across her chest.
“I told you to be careful of that thing,” Tony warns apprehensively watching the red glow of the pendant dim, burning out in the dark night.
The hour four o’clock in the morning. Gina and Tony trudge through weeds up to their hips, taking the back way into Manny Briggs’ lake house on the outskirts of town.
“He would have a dog,” Gina says, the bark growing louder and more fierce the nearer they come to his gated backyard. The sound of the dutiful four-legged alarm system’s feet tramp back and forth.
Tony reaches into the thigh pocket on his cargo pants, grabbing a stick of beef jerky. He wings it over the fence. The dog nimbly pounces on the salty treat, his chops chiming in. “Gotcha!” Tony whispers.
Gina eyes him curiously, awaiting an explanation.
“Better than mace the postman carries. Jerky tranquilizers.” He smiles. “Wait for it,” he coaches, the two of them posting on hold. The dog growls weakly, followed by a series of disgruntled whines, his body giving in to the sedative. “Give me a boost,” Tony beckons.
“You give me a boost,” Gina counters.
“Whatever DeLuca.” He shakes his head, forming a stirrup with his hands. “The damn dog might not be out, that’s all. I’m not trying to steal your thunder.”
“Easy Thor,” she jests referencing the god of thunder. Stepping into his hands, she hoists herself up and over the fence. Seeing that the coast is clear, she hurriedly thrusts the gate open where Tony impatiently waits.
“Always gotta be first in,” he scolds, both of them hoofing it for the sliding glass door off the back porch.
Gina grabs at the handle, expecting it to be locked. Her momentum unstopped, the door slides freely along its track. She steps to the side of the opening, a smart alec grin gracing her lips. “After you.”
Tony gives her his best condescending look, pulls his sidearm and stealthily enters the pitch black house.
“See. I don’t always have to be first,” she says stepping in beside him. She goes right, he goes left. After clearing her respective nooks and crannies, she returns to the main room, her flashlight searching, for what she is unsure.
“Geez-us!” she hears Tony yell accompanied by women’s screams. In a jiff she joins him. In the beam of the mini-flashlight attached to the end of his pistol, two women huddle together in the middle of Manny Briggs’ bed, the covers pulled up around their naked, trembling bodies.
“Where is he?” Gina demands, flicking the light on in the room. Neither woman answers. She notices a small mirror lying flat by the bedside displaying a white powder residue. “Briggs...where is he!” she shouts, heaving the mirror against the wall in frustration.
“We don’t know!” the women cry, frazzled and cranked out of their minds.
Gina hastily gathers up their itty-bitty clothing strewn about the room, noting she dons more for underwear than they do for outerwear. “Get dressed and get out,” she orders throwing the
clothes into a heap on the bed.
The women grab their garb, attempting to reassemble outfits.
“Are you his wife?” the brunette asks, streaks of mascara running down her face, her hair disheveled and unkempt.
“We didn’t know he was married,” the blonde chimes, her inflated, Botox-injected lips quivering. “Is he gonna arrest us?” She points to Tony.
“He didn’t pay us for this...Manny,” the brunette divulges. “Not in cash anyway.” She subconsciously wipes at her nose.
Gina looks to Tony securing his sidearm in its holster. “No. He’s not going to arrest you, as long as you get out,” she barks.
“We’re going, we’re going,” they chime in unison.
The blonde sits on the edge of the bed zipping her legs into thigh-high black leather boots. The brunette points to the floor below Gina. “Could you hand me those?”
Gina looks down inspecting the clear strappy stiletto, the heel easily eight-inches in height. She shakes her head, picking up the shoes surprised at their weight wondering how the pencil thin legs of the woman can mobilize the footwear. “Ever thought about trading these in for a sensible pair of running shoes and a backpack?” she asks, tossing the stilettos on the bed nearest the brunette, who looks at her as if she is from outer space. “You know, to trek around campus. Get an education. And a job that doesn’t require you to take your clothes off for money.” The brunette contemplates as if she never even considered the option.
“My boyfriend, Doug. I call him Dougy,” the blonde clarifies. “He says education is for homely women. And that’s why I wouldn’t fit in.” She proudly elbows her friend. “Cause I’m too pretty.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Gina huffs. “Get out.” She pushes against the women with her arms outstretched as if something sticky may rub off if she gets too close to them.
“Here handsome,” the blonde addresses Tony, handing him a glitter-dusted business card from the local strip club.
He pushes her hand away, coaching, “Next time take the cash.”
Gina hurries the women to the front door, locking them out. The sound of wood breaking loose from its frame echoes from the back of the house.
“DeLuca,” Tony calls, the tone of his voice slightly urgent, mostly concerned.
Gina finds him bent over a desk in an office, the door casing splintered around the hole that once held a lock. The room is tight and dark, a glow burning from the desktop lamp. Newspaper clippings and photos infest a series of corkscrew bulletin boards. Gina eyes them, glancing at their titles: New Orleans District Attorney’s Office Cracks Down On Sex Crimes, Lawyer Brianna Castille Petitions For Maximum Sentencing, Briggs and Tulane Guilty, Local Attorney and Family Slain in New Orleans Suburb.
“Quite the shrine,” Tony notes.
Gina swipes at the photos and newspaper clippings, her emotions getting the best of her as she stares at images of her former self as Brianna Castille. Her hand stops momentarily, gently tracing a picture of a man and a boy who are undoubtedly father and son before she snatches the photo down tearing it into tiny little pieces. She yanks the boards from the wall, breaking them over her knee one after the other, kicking them into the corner. She turns back to Tony her eyes empty, devoid of feeling, her chest heaving up and down.
“DeLuca. Stay with me,” he coaxes, the rim around her green eyes beginning to flicker.
“I’m just getting warmed up,” she warns, flipping the desk over nearly on top of him. He bolts out of her way. In the corner where the desk had been stands a small safe. She kneels down shaking it violently.
“Gina, you’re not getting into that thing. It’s sealed tight,” Tony says. “Unless you’ve got some C-4 in your pocket. Do you?” he adds quickly, remembering who he’s dealing with.
“Oh, I’m getting in it and you’re going to help me.”
“How?” he chirps disbelieving.
“The same way we blasted that stone pillar apart at the masquerade ball.” She prepares for her transformation.
“Aw no, DeLuca. Not that again. Besides, I thought you had to be bleeding or something.”
“That was before I knew how to control it.” Playing off her already amped up adrenaline, her metamorphosis is only seconds away. “You wanna play with the big dogs, Gronkowski, you gotta growl like one. Grrr,” she teases, her body calling upon his.
“Aw shit,” he grumbles gasping for air, his lungs suddenly requiring more oxygen, a bottomless pit, he’s convinced.
“Ooh,” she says impressed at the rate with which his heartbeat catches hers, then supersedes it. “I can’t wait to get you in the lab.”
“The lab?” His hazel eyes begin reflecting the color of hers, emerald green.
“Dr. Godfrey’s lab. See what you’re made of.” The luminescent ray from his eyes forcefully pushing against hers, challenging her to maintain the upper hand. “I’ll bet you’re a regular stud.”
He does not respond, his rookie Vigilare status prohibiting him from being conscious of his identity once in full transformation. His body is on autopilot, navigated by Gina’s. She lobs a pen through the air which lands on top of the safe. The sound attracts Tony, he whips his head in its direction. Gina joins him, the energy from their eyes twisting and zapping, sparking off the incorrigible steel frame. Melding from the corners of the case to its center, the zigzag pattern of iridescent emerald green intertwines causing a large crater to form, the force splitting the case down the middle.
“Stop,” Gina commands, pulling her eyes away, momentarily forgetting he cannot comprehend nor control the momentum. The contents of the safe in danger of the same treatment as the exterior as Tony counters the reflective silver metal pushing back against his visual field. Gina lunges at him, knocking him to the floor, effectively interrupting his gaze from the safe. She hunches her shoulders hearing the ceiling above her begin to creak under Tony’s direct line of sight. A growl escapes his throat as he thrusts himself on top of her assuming the dominant position. His eyes rage, scanning hers now devoid of light. Her wrists stinging and in pain from his merciless grip. “Gronkowski. Tony!” she pleads, fully submitting. He tilts his head catching his reflection in her fearful eyes, causing him to close his, squelching his projection. He leans back on his heels straddling her, his shoulders collapsing. The only audible sound, their lungs moving air in and out. The rapid, shallow cadence slowly replaced by depth and calm.
“DeLuca?” he whispers, returning to himself. He looks to her then to his hands. “I’m sorry,” he professes, shame in his inflection. Grabbing her up from the floor, he holds her protectively against his chest.
“It’s okay,” she soothes. “It was my bright idea.”
“Did I hurt you?” he pulls away from her, scanning her limb to limb.
“Maybe my pride.” She smiles. He looks at her quizzically, helping her to stand. “When we practice...in full Vigilare mode...Emily, Aubrey and I. I always win,” she explains. “Something tells me I’m about to be demoted,” she references Tony’s untapped abilities.
“Well, don’t do that again,” he barks, still punishing himself for his aggression toward her.
She makes no promises, rifling through the contents of the safe. “Jackpot,” she beams, eyeing Manny Briggs’ financial statements.
“Who in the hell would give a sociopath this kind of money?” Tony questions, peering over Gina’s shoulder, the quarter-million dollar figure staring back at him.
“ETNA?” Gina shrugs. “I can tell you who’s going to take it away.”
“Sure you wanna do that? Stir the beast?” Tony paces. “We don’t even know what this guy’s made of. Or if there’s more than one. Maybe we should let Dr. Godfrey and Dr. Ryan figure out this ETNA business, and just how far they’re willing to go. Or how far they’ve already gone.”
�
�Let sleeping dogs lie, huh,” Gina scolds.
“Just until we get all the facts. Planning and preparation makes for the best defense,” Tony argues.
“I don’t plan on defending,” Gina points out, her intent to offend, act first. She grows quiet, leafing through a manilla folder.
Tony moves behind her, grabbing up a roll of tape that must have escaped from the acrobatic feat the desk underwent at the hands of Gina. He kneels to gain a better view. “He was a cute little man,” Tony comments on a picture of her son, Braydon, attached to an informative containing every detail about him from physical and biological data to hobbies and daily living activities.
Gina quickly slides the papers to the bottom of the pile, her emotions resurfacing with his image. The next packet contains a similar informative on Lon—Alonzo Geoffrey Castille, Jr.
“Castille?” Tony questions the origin of the surname, his hands busily engaged with a taping project.
“Spanish-Cajun.” Gina smiles with a memory. “His father...Alonzo Sr. plays a mean accordion. He played at our wedding reception.” The song Jolie Blonde rings sorrowfully in her head. The feeling of the summer white wedding gown flowing softly against her ankles, her body held tightly to Lon’s frame as he effortlessly navigated her through the steps of the tragic waltz. She breathes in deeply, her vocal chords giving way to a wanton sigh. “Papa must have been heartbroken,” she refers to Lon’s death. The tick-tock of the clock hanging on the office wall reminds her now is not the time for reminiscing. She skims through to the next file.
“Maxim Kiesel?” Tony reads the name eyeing the dark-haired, blue-eyed young man’s picture.
Gina shrugs her shoulders, unfamiliar with this one. She dives off into the data, scant on explanation. “You have any more of those famous favors left?” Gina questions, referencing Tony’s ability to obtain information that others must donate a kidney to get their hands on.
2 Brooklyn James Page 10
