Spirit Song

by Tessa McFionn

  Sadly, just as before, the traffic seemed to anticipate for her crossing. Cars miraculously vanished and no horns blared as she slowly stumbled across the oddly deserted street.

  It seemed the universe had other plans for her today. Plans she feared might lead to not only her untimely exit, but that of the man she loved.

  One of Sal’s bodyguards slinked out from the shadows, his eyes lit with an eerie reddish glow. He gestured her inside, and the building swallowed her whole.

  She blinked rapidly to make sense of the scene inside the bar. She had only once before used the main doors, that fateful day when she spoke on behalf of her brother and unwittingly signed over her freedom. The lights over the massive glass-shelved bar were dimmed, the multicolored alcohols shimmering like liquid gems in the mirror’s reflection. Years of stale cigar smoke still clung to the wood veneer walls, the sickly stench reaching for her as she staggered behind her silent escort.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in a sliver of silver between the scotches. Snow dotted her wind-blown hair and her pale cheeks flushed with the harsh cold. But her puffy and bloodshot eyes coupled with the frozen trails snaking down her face spoke of the depth of her fears. Her heart shattered as stark realization sank in.

  She was walking to her doom. She could only pray that she hadn’t caused the death of Bastian too.

  Would she give her life to save his?

  Yes. And gladly.

  In the brief hours she had known him, he gave her love that was worth the price.

  She squared her shoulders, jutting out her chin proudly. She would make a difference today. Even if it was the last thing she did in this world, she would stand up to Slick Sal and leave on her own terms.

  Her guide led her past the bar and motioned toward the stage. Did he want her to sing? Her eyebrows knit together, but her body was still not her own. Her feet slugged a shambling path to the unlit dais and two steps later, she stood aside the worn baby grand. A spotlight snapped on and she cringed, her arm rising to shield her eyes from the glare. She had less than a heartbeat to revel in her regained control when the air soured with the chilling stench of cheap cologne.

  “Ya know, doll. That trip shouldn’t have taken you that long.”

  Sal’s voice crept in from somewhere beyond the cone of garish bright. She waited for her eyes to adjust and scanned the emerging shapes. Floorboards creaked to her left and her gaze darted. Searching.

  “You only live upstairs. You shoulda been down in a hot minute.”

  “I don’t have a working front door, Mr. Francciolli.” It was good to learn that the puppet master did not control her voice any longer.

  He was upon her before she could prepare herself. A sharp slap resounded in the silent club and her cheek stung. Stunned tears trickled out as she rubbed her throbbing face.

  “Don’t get smart with me, missy. Where the fuck were you last night?” His fetid breath slammed into her. She might have believed herself to be strong, but that was before Slick Sal was close enough for her to see her reflection in his capped, stark-white teeth. Staggering backward, she bumped into the Steinway at her back, the return of autonomous movement catching her off-guard.

  “I stayed with a friend.” Her words slurred and she brushed her tongue along the swollen inside of her cheek. Relieved that she didn’t taste blood, she uncoiled from her submissive crouch and stood before him.

  He grabbed the loose fabric of Bastian’s massive sweater and dragged her into his personal space once again.

  “What kind of friend?” Evil glinted in his sickly green eyes and he sniffed her. She wedged her arms up to force as much distance between them as her strength could muster. “I can smell his stink on you.”

  She shoved as hard as she could and backpedaled. “That is none of your business. I am not—”

  Another open-handed slap landed, this one more solid, and she fell hard against the unyielding piano.

  “I own you, doll!” Sal vibrated in his gleeful rage, the whites of his eyes glowing under the illuminated spot. Lights danced in her field of vision as she clung to the ebony wood to remain on her feet.

  “You leave her alone, Mr. Francciolli,” Eddie’s voice echoed, his footfalls bouncing off the walls, drawing him closer to her. Miranda blinked repeatedly to hold back the threatening tears and a pair of comforting arms wrapped around her shoulders. She wanted to push him away, get him out the danger lurking in the room, but her failed efforts only gave her friend more encouragement to stay.

  “Y’ain’t got the right to be treating her like this, Boss.”

  Miranda shook her head frantically and gripped tight to the wizened ebony hand helping her to remain vertical. Her mind screamed out even as her voice locked in her chest. No, Eddie. Run! Get out of here, now!

  Sal took a half step backward, the sharkish smile never leaving his lips. “What? You gonna tell me she stayed with your black ass last night?” Snickers of incredulous innuendo filtered through the darkened room. The lights glinted off something silver tucked into the mobster’s waistband.

  An unnatural weakness sapped her spirit, but she dug her fingers into the white-sleeved arm around her. She gaped like a fish, praying for a warning to spill out. Eddie turned his jet eyes to her, concern and sadness swimming in the dark pools. Reaching deep into her soul, she found the strength to control her jaw and the words tumbled out.

  “Eddie. Thank you, but it’s all right. Please, just go.” Her heart hammered in her chest and she tried to push him out of range. A deadly tingle crept up the backs of her legs, spider feet of fear sending icy dread through her veins.

  Evil had walked into the club. Her lungs burned as the air around her became a visceral form. It was thick and smelled like burnt hair. Gut instinct took over and she reached out for Eddie, half cowering against his side as a stranger’s voice filled the surrounding darkness.

  “Hey. Is this gonna take much longer? I’ve got better things to do.”

  Her gaze darted into shadowed corners in search for the source of her terror. The presence was everywhere and nowhere, a general looming trepidation with no tangible speaker. Even Sal appeared taken aback by the ominous words.

  “Are you checking in on me?” A tiny thread of fear laced Slick Sal’s confident question. Whoever this was, it was not someone on her side. She leaned in closer to Eddie, hoping together, they could protect each other.

  The voice scoffed so near her hair fluttered. Jerking around, she searched and could find no one.

  “So you’re his trigger, huh?”

  Confused, she twirled and spun, unable to locate speaker. “What are you talking about?”

  Fingers trailed down her arm and she slapped at nothing.

  “Knew it couldn’t be that red-headed psycho, no matter what she said.”

  The spotlight winked out as the room’s overhead lighting revealed the somewhat empty club. Her gaze scanned the room and quickly locked on a mangled heap just behind Sal’s silent bodyguards just as the unmistakable reek of rotten meat filled her nose. She jerked her head away, slamming her hand over her mouth to hold back the watery contents of her stomach.

  True, she had no love for the woman who’d stormed into her life and laid claim to Bastian. However, as crazy as she was, she didn’t deserve what fate had dealt her. Miranda squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to banish the image of all that fiery hair covering a face pointing the wrong direction. Limbs bent and froze in strange and shattered angles, the remnants of a cashmere sweater hung in tatters and one black stiletto heel gripped the only visible foot.

  Blinking back the sympathetic tears, she sucked in gulps of air to settle her frayed nerves.

  “Fucking hell. Didya have to whack her here?” Sal snapped, and Miranda frowned, taken aback by his petulant tone. “Now I gotta get the cleaning crew in here to get that stink out.”

  Eddie patted her shoulders as he helped her to her feet. “Don’t worry, Andy. Ain’t gonna let that happen to you.” His whispered words
didn’t calm her the way they should. In fact, her terror only grew at his brave pledge. Why was this happening?

  “Aw, fuck it. Might as well add to the job.”

  Sal pulled the pistol from his waistband and leveled his arm at them. The noise broke the fearful spell holding Miranda in place, but movement returned too late to her limbs. All she could do was reach out to guide Eddie to the floor, his ebony skin taking on a grayish hue as the crimson stain spread across the front of his white shirt at a rapid pace.

  “No, no, no. Please, Eddie. Don’t leave me.” She choked the words out and clung to his bony shoulders. A sad smile touched his trembling lips and he was gone.

  Shock spilled away as grief took its place. She cried out, unable to contain the aching emptiness. He had been her friend and surrogate father since she arrived in the hell of the bar that time forgot. Tears dripped off her chin, making a small, damp puddle in the midst of the encroaching red. Her head hung heavy off her neck and sobs poured from her soul.

  Two pairs of rough hands dragged her to her feet and forced her to face the cruel sneer of her boss.

  “Looks like he didn’t work too good as a shield, doll.” He snatched her jaw and yanked her face up, forcing her to meet his wild eyes. “Now ain’t nothing is gonna keep you from me.”

  “I wouldn’t bet the farm on that one.”

  The disembodied voice chuckled just as the front door vanished in a cloud of splintered oak.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Bastian stalked through the hole that once served as the thick wood and leather barrier hiding Francciolli’s from the light of day, six and a half feet of pissed off leather-clad Guardian, armed to the teeth and out for blood. A quick scan of the room told him a hellish tale. Five Rogues kept to the shadows while Slick Sal and his pair of goons surrounded his angel. Two bodies littered the floor, both of them sadly familiar. Veronica’s red tresses spilled across her face, while the kindly old band member lay at Sal’s feet.

  He narrowed his gaze, his fingers resting on the hilt of a waiting dagger at his waist. He took a step inside and the battle began. Fluidly, he slid the blade from his belt and let it fly toward its hidden target. Before the strike landed, he had fished his staff out of his inner jacket pocket. A snap of his wrist later and three feet of deadly steel cut through the air.

  Not once did his focus waver from his true aim. Slick Sal Francciolli wore his mask of confusion well, complete with the furrowed brow and curled lip. Without breaking stride, he dropped into a low crouch, his leg sweep taking down the clumsy Rogue to his left. He slammed his blade home and twisted. As he rose to his feet, a puff of crimson mist flashed in his periphery and he stepped over the vanishing remains.

  “Who the hell are you, caragna?”

  Bastian cringed at the bastardized pronunciation of his beloved language. Soon, he would rip the tongue from that fucker’s head. “You stand between me and my angel.”

  Two Rogues attempted to confuse him with a synchronized attack, and had Pieter prepared his followers better, they might have put more thought into something not so obvious. Instead, Bastian sidestepped the first telegraphed strike, dropping the blade’s tip behind his back. With the practiced grace of the master swordsman he was, he spun as the weapon dipped down twice. He looked over his shoulder, certain of his herculean strikes but enjoying the aftermath nonetheless. One head toppled to the floor while his second foe collapsed in two pieces an instant before both exploded in a flash of red.

  “Kill him.”

  The whisper echoed in his ears and filled the room. Sal had the decency to look confused, but Bastian recognized the ghastly voice.

  “What’s the matter, Bekker? Too chicken to show your fucking face?” He kept his senses on high alert, carefully detailing every tiny shifting detail of the room. The two remaining Rogues slinked back into the shadowy corners, waiting for their next order. That left only Sal, his bodyguards, and his angel as the corporeal beings still around. Pieter watched from some distant point, safely cocooned by the In-Between.

  “Why do I need to be there? I win this game either way. Ain’t no losing side for me.”

  Bastian knew what he wanted. But he wasn’t in the mood to become a lapdog of the devil. Viktor was right. Bastian may have been a trained killer, but never did he take life for the sheer pleasure of the kill. All those he dispatched had earned their fate.

  He forced calm through his mind. “Really? How the hell do you figure that?”

  An evil chuckle filtered through the air, chilling the entire room. “You kill Sal; I don’t have to change his ass. He kills you; I get rid of enemy. Sal kills your girl; you destroy him and I own your ass for all eternity. See. It’s all a win-win-win for me.”

  “Wait a second here,” Sal spoke up, his face pinched in constipated thought. “You never said nothing about killing the girl. She’s my fucking prize.”

  Bastian curled his lip, his fierce scowl a promise of his teetering self-control. “She is your nothing and if you lay one hand on her, you’ll find it on the ground next to your fucking head.”

  Sliver flashed in the hand of one of Sal’s silent guards and Bastian flew into action. The blade sailed toward him and he batted it away with the flat of his sword as he ran toward Sal. The obvious attack proved distracting enough, and he didn’t see the other guard until a shoulder drove into his gut. Air whooshed out of his lungs as he struggled to regain traction on the disappearing carpet. His sword slipped from his grasp, freeing both of his hands, and he dug his fingers into the man’s sides. He managed to plant one foot and with a snap of his torso, he threw his foe off balance. The pair landed in a tangled heap of pummeling limbs.

  Blows rained down in furious succession. Bastian snapped his elbow up, catching his opponent firmly on the chin. With his head thrown back, Bastian took advantage of the opening and crushed the man’s exposed throat. Blood gurgled up through the smashed larynx, and Bastian shoved the gasping goon off him.

  “Bastian! Look out!”

  He spun his gaze just in time to duck the bulk of his new attacker, the powerful punch glancing off his shoulder. Adrenaline soared through his veins. She’d called to him. Pieter might still have her spirit in limbo, but she’d called out to him.

  “What the fuck are you smiling at?”

  Bastian jerked his mind back to the task at hand, namely the snarly face hovering inches above his. He spied the glint of steel before his foe could deal the lethal strike. Grabbing tight to the neatly pressed lapels, he slammed his forehead into the perfect nose a heartbeat before driving his knee to the man’s groin.

  Bastian snapped up the discarded blade as he rolled to his knees. He twirled the small dagger in his hand and with the practiced ease of the assassin he once was, he slid the blade between his opponent’s ribs. He bared his teeth as the blood streamed from the gaping mouth.

  “None of your damned business.” He gave the blade one good twist and surprise widened the pitch-black orbs across from him for an instant and the goon was gone in a puff of red.

  Bastian blinked away the gore and shifted his focus to his final target. He rose to his feet with barely controlled rage. Using the back of his hand as a rag, he wiped the blood off his chin, his eyes never leaving the tableau unfolding before him. Sal cowered behind Miranda, a wicked-looking knife in one hand pressed against her throat while he held her arm twisted behind her back with the other. The gangster shuffled back, apparently searching for a wall to prop up his spine. Miranda gripped the arm around her neck as her booted feet tiptoed along the floor.

  “This sure beat the fuck outta watching reruns of Law and Order.”

  Step for step, the dangerous dance continued. For each advancing move Bastian made, Sal countered with a scoot backward.

  “You have nowhere to go, Salvatorre.” His word dripped with deadly intent. “The only choice you have is how painful your death will be.”

  A crazed light glowed behind Slick Sal’s bottle-green eyes, and he shook his
head. “Nah, nah. I ain’t the one dying here today.”

  Bastian caught the shift in Sal’s gaze a heartbeat before the presence at his back struck. He sidestepped the killing blow, pain lancing through his right side as the tip of his own sword jutted out from beneath his rib cage. Snarling in rage, he collapsed to one knee. He gnashed his teeth and balled up his fist. Without warning, he roared out, channeling his energy into one single blow. The forceful punch connected with the backstabbing bastard’s chest. Bone cracked and shattered, but his fury didn’t stop until his hand clutched the still beating heart.

  He squeezed and another explosion of red filled the air. He huffed in breath after heated breath, his nostrils flaring at the sickening stench surrounding him.

  “Is that freak really what you want, doll?” Sal demanded.

  Sal’s words doused his bloodlust, a bucket of frigid and harsh reality that quickly drowned any remaining anger. He turned to glance over his shoulder, prepared to meet the horror in the eyes of his angel. Had Pieter won?

  Would she run from the monster he was?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Miranda watched transfixed as the man she’d trusted with her body and her soul mowed through one opponent after another. His actions were fluid, with a lethal sort of grace. Yet with the primal brutality of it all, she realized that his strikes were all in retaliation. He didn’t start any of the fights, but he was the one to deliver the final deadly blow.

  Even now, as he gazed at her, his burning amber eyes haunted and pleading, she knew him. This was no mindless killing monster. He fought to protect her.

  He was her own Guardian.

  She dipped her chin as much as the blade at her throat would allow. Her voice failed her but her heart sang. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she nodded vigorously.

  “Nah. Nah, this ain’t how it’s supposed to go,” Sal sputtered in her ear and gave her arm a good yank to prove his point.