Tyres screeched in the distance and Brishan lunged inside a red phone booth, his shoulder slamming into the glass. In seconds, a black van took the corner hard, the driver poised to turn down the alley.
Sweat prickled his forehead. Seconds ticked by.
Red hair flashed by his vision as Eamon leapt from a garbage pile, hurtling himself at the windscreen of the van. With a sickening thud, his father’s body smashed into the bonnet. The van’s breaks screeched to a stop and the driver flung the door open, his thick, muscular trunk coming in to view as he prepared to deal with the intruder stuck on his windscreen.
It’s now or never. Brishan ignored the pain in his shoulder and surged forward, launching himself on the driver. He gripped the thick neck and sought the pressure point, just above the man’s temple, with his fingers.
One, two, three, four…this will break my hand…five, six…the man slumped to the ground.
“Perfect…timing.” Eamon pealed himself from the bonnet, breathless as he slid into the passenger seat and crouched low on the floor.
Brishan jumped behind the wheel, shoved the van into gear and turned it, with agonising control, into the alleyway. Minutes later, the security guards appeared, shielded behind giant garbage bins, one of which hid the entrance to Oriana’s captive hell.
Brishan stared straight ahead, eyes unblinking. Cameras, think of the cameras, don’t move. He visualised Oriana, bundled in a black bag between Dane and the other guard — her skin cold and lifeless from the opium potion Cosima had concocted and Dane had smuggled into her food. He tried to silence his thoughts, to send healing energy to her — for she had mere hours before the potion infiltrated her blood completely, stopping the flow to her heart.
Dane’s face appeared at the window, his disguise so perfectly constructed Brishan barely recognised him. “Identification please.”
Brishan mentally steadied his hands as he shoved the false documents towards his uncle.
Dane glanced at them and turned to nod at the other security guard — standing at the back of the van, the black bag drooping in his arms. His uncle nodded, again. With a click that echoed through the silent alley, the back door opened and the bag was dropped, unceremoniously, on the floor of the van. Brishan allowed himself a quick intake of breath, and Dane shot him a look of relief, as the door closed on Oriana’s motionless form.
“Stop, motherfuckers.”
Fuck. I didn’t press hard enough, long enough. The thug driver he thought he’d immobilised stumbled towards them, thick veins throbbing in his neck as his hands fisted.
So. The ruse is over then. This thug made a living out of collecting the bodies of murdered women, butchered and battered women, lost to the world because of the insane desires of a few.
Brishan felt all the anger of the past days rush his body in a wave so strong he yelled with the pain of it. His body flew from the car before his mind registered its actions. He threw himself on the driver, slamming his fist into the side of the man’s face. The thug collapsed forward, clutching his injured eye.
“Ahh.” Brishan’s knuckles were a mottled mass of blood and hanging flesh. The thug looked up, met his gaze, and roared like an injured animal.
Brishan was ready.
As Dane rushed at the security guard, Brishan leapt into the air and, with all his strength kicked the driver’s head. The neck snapped backwards and, as the body stumbled in slow motion, the legs gave way. Brishan drew breath again only when the man fell, to the ground, now still and silent.
“Brishan, get in the car, now,” Eamon hissed. Brishan heard the engine start.
Too late.
Move. Move. His legs froze. A heavy metal rod clamped over his throat, squeezing the air from his lungs. His throat burned and his eyes watered.
Dane was running towards him, face wild and violent, throwing punches over Brishan’s head. The air rang with the crack of breaking bones.
The guard’s blood spurted over his face. The metal rod dropped and Brishan leapt back, furiously swiping at his eyes.
Dane, fuck, Dane, get up. His uncle struggled with the security guard and blood coated them both in a wash of red.
Brishan anchored himself in his anger, summoning it, urging it to overflow. The metal rod rolled uselessly over the gravel, waiting for him, beckoning to his rage. Gripping it like a baseball bat, he smashed the weapon across the security guard’s head. The man stilled, his mouth forming a silent scream.
Dane. We did it. I’m getting you out of here. Throwing the rod aside, he hooked Dane under one arm, hauling him towards the van.
“I’m okay, go, I’ll follow,” said Dane, blood spilling from his lips as he spoke. Brishan turned, let go for a second as he reached for the van, turning again to pull Dane to safety.
A shot rang out, echoing over the metal rubbish bins and rebounding off the narrow walls.
And then, he heard rushing feet.
Dane’s mouth opened, and Brishan stared at his uncle’s chest. A dark stain soaked through Dane’s shirt.
Brishan propelled himself from the car, reaching for Dane, catching him as he fell to the ground.
“Go. Now. I know I can’t be saved. I know Brishan, I feel it. Hurry,” Dane rasped, a stream of blood chasing the words from his mouth.
The agonising pain stabbing his own chest proved Dane’s words. The calm, beatific light pouring from his uncle’s eyes asked to be obeyed. But I will ignore it, I love you, you will not leave us.
“My body…it’s not important. Go…please. You only have seconds to save Oriana. I love you.” Dane’s words gurgled.
Then his body became a dead weight in Brishan’s arms.
He felt pressure on the back of his shirt.
His father; grabbing his collar, pulling him into the van, slamming the door on Dane’s body. Brishan gasped, fighting for air as Eamon shoved his head towards the floor of the passenger seat.
A voice echoed through the alleyway, reaching Brishan’s ears with eerie clarity. The voice was familiar, rasping, mocking. “I hoped to prolong your torture, Dane.”
Another shot blasted a hole in the back window. Eamon accelerated and the van shot forward. Glass shattered around them and shards pierced Brishan’s skin.
He looked back, his heart leaping from his chest.
A familiar face hung over the top of a shotgun, the receding hairline shining in a sliver of light. The short, stout body heaved as he stared, smiling, at Dane’s lifeless body beneath him. When recognition hit, a roar ripped from somewhere deep inside and Brishan slammed his fist into the dashboard.
That body, that head like a pit-bull. There was only one person it could be.
Claudia’s stepfather. Edward.
Chapter Fifteen
Take it Back
Claudia moved her feet towards the room, guided by the lazy moan of a thin reed pipe. The room was hazy with smoke, the air inside rolled over her, its tendrils thick and musky. A woman beckoned, her eyes half-closed. Claudia watched, transfixed, as the woman tossed long, red hair over her shoulder and lifted a stiletto-clad foot. Her leg, impossibly long and slender, stretched over the lap of a man reclining in a black, leather chair. The redhead’s mini-skirt slipped up to her waist as she eased her body forward. The man’s fingers glistened with gold rings, as his arms circled her thighs, pulling her towards his grinding pelvis.
Why does she still stare at me?
Claudia dragged her eyes away, glancing around the unfamiliar room.
Men stood in all four corners, ramrod straight, guns held tight against their chests.
Her breath caught in her throat at their empty expressions. Why am I here? Can’t remember, but it feels…important. Fingers grazed her arms, reaching out from the black walls. Someone breathed, too close to her ear, whispering, sliding moist lips over her neck. She shivered, turning to make it stop.
All eyes fixed on the doorway, focusing on a newcomer. One gun lifted, glinting in the candlelight, aimed at the door. The smell of rain
and wet earth and sandalwood rushed over her. She inhaled deeply, pulling the scent into her lungs, tensing her body from the exquisite pleasure of it.
He’s here, as always, he comes.
Brishan’s eyes glowed, his winged brows drew together and his naked, upper torso gleamed with sweat. A thick vein, running the length of his neck, pulsed as he faced the gunman.
Her mouth opened to scream. Run Brishan, run! She walked but it was like moving through quicksand. She wanted to throw herself in front, to shield him. Die for him.
But her legs wouldn’t cooperate.
Brishan moved to stand in front the gun, staring straight down the barrel. No fear for his own life.
Her scream escaped from deep within; a piercing arc of terror.
“Claudia! Wake up.”
She gasped, opening one eye and squinting towards the sun streaming in the window. Preston bent over her, shaking her shoulder. He quirked a disapproving eyebrow.
“Why are you shaking me?” She rolled over to wipe her eyes and escape his hand.
“You were screaming! It sounded like you were being murdered.”
“Oh.” The dream flooded back, filling her with heavy dread.
Brishan again, Brishan, who only ever appeared in nightmares. Especially one. A recurring dream of him staring down at her at the site of the train crash. It was real, she could even smell him, hear his soothing voice, taste the salt from his tears as they dripped on her face — and it haunted her sleep most nights.
This dream, this night, was new. New and terrifying.
That and the image of the long, white hall of the hospital, the pain invading her body and the silence in between the beeping machines, the image that flashed through her mind each time she awoke.
And always Brishan, standing at the end of her bed, equal doses of love and anguish distorting his face.
“The gypsy again?” Preston rolled his eyes.
“Yes. It feels so real.”
“Just nightmares, nothing more. I’m not surprised you have nightmares about those god-awful creatures. But they’re gone now…You haven’t seen them in over a year. Put them from your mind once and for all, then the nightmares will stop.” Preston splayed his hands in front of her face, as if he’d stop the dreams with his own physical actions.
“That’s just it, Brishan isn’t on my mind and I barely even recall the others. I mean, only sometimes, when I think of the chateau. It’s just my dreams that he’s attacking, as if he was at the hospital, or in the train or…I don’t know.” Why are the dreams so real?
“He was your first, well, experiment, in love, darling. And you were, well, just a child. And…he left you. You’ve been damaged by that and by your parents leaving you at the chateau with only a housekeeper and an old man for company. We will find the best psychiatrist in the city, as soon as we return to London. I promise the nightmares will fade.”
Every day, Preston helped her filled in the blanks of her life. Like piecing together a puzzle of familiar pictures that held no meaning. The doctors urged her to be patient and let her memory come back at its own pace.
But the confusion is killing me. Where do my memories stop and Preston’s begin?
Her image of Margaret was strong. And of Lenny. Enough to feel a well of love and kindness. It seemed easy to imagine herself with them, growing up at the chateau. Preston painted a comforting picture of the estate. But, in the space between wakefulness and sleep, wild, passionate music filled her head, dancers swirled in rainbow clothes and beautiful, dark-haired people cherished her, but they disappeared with the sun; as her stomach clenched and bile rose in her throat with the force of lost emotions.
Just nightmares. Preston said so.
Snow-White and Rose-Red sat by her, as she somehow knew they always had, their laughter tinkling in her ears. Odd, that they brought her so much comfort, though they were only a figment of her imagination. She kept their presence to herself. Can’t have Preston thinking I’m that crazy. Except…maybe I am that crazy.
She did remember packing for their journey to Prague. Strange, but simple things shone among the confusion. She saw Preston holding her at the hospital, her smiling at the sweetness of his dimples as he led her outside after weeks of long, intense recovery. But blank space reigned for the time in between. The doctors said something about traumatic experiences disappearing from memory? Told her not to worry.
She sensed, in private, they thought it unlikely she’d ever remember it all.
But Preston had told her the story. Over and over; how he’d held her hand and waited while the emergency vehicles freed her broken body from the wreckage. How, together, they’d watched Grace’s body as it was hauled from the train. How he’d bowed his head in prayer for them all.
And how she’d passed her seventeenth birthday in the hospital, barely awake. He’d brought a cake to her room anyway, and filled the stark whiteness with flowers.
She remembered the flowers.
Now, she languished, alone for most of the day in the plush bedroom of the Prague mansion they’d rented for her recovery; not just her memory but also still, her broken leg. Edward and Preston flew back and forth from London on business, leaving her with a nurse. Svetla was from Pilsen. Her accent made English sound like an entirely new language. But, she was kind and thoughtful and, sometimes, tried to make Claudia laugh. After a while, Claudia had started to relish the challenge of figuring out the warbled English.
But once my leg is out of the cast…Preston and Edward were in a great hurry to relocate back to London, once they’d sold chateau. Why would they sell something so beautiful? Grace’s house. And poor Margaret and Lenny, what will become of them?
She sighed and tried to sit up, as Preston fluffed a pillow behind her head.
“We have the will reading this afternoon, so the nurse will help you dress to meet the lawyer. He’s agreed to come here, so we needn’t move you unnecessarily.”
“Okay.” The will. How awful, that in the end, life amounted to nothing but a piece of paper and material processions to be handed out to the ones left behind. And sold.
Feet hurried up the hall and Edward popped his balding head around the door. Both men grinned at each other and Claudia felt the underlying sense of excitement running from one man to the other. But we speak of sadness, not joy.
Edward’s face reconstructed itself into the more familiar one of serious, subdued grief as his eyes met hers. Claudia seemed to recall that she hated him.
“How are you feeling, Claudia? Hmm? Looking brighter, good girl. After the will reading today, we should be able to release some money to get you back to London. You’ll travel in style, my dear. And you will be looked after…you can continue your recuperation there, until the wedding,” Edward said.
Why is it necessary to use those funds? Isn’t Preston wealthy in his own right?
She just nodded.
Preston looked at her intently. He seemed to read her mind. “Not that I wouldn’t pay, darling, but we don’t make money by wasting it now, do we? We need to find out what all our resources are and invest it immediately into the business. Edward’s business that is, now that I’ve finished my studies and he’s invited me to join him.” Preston’s chest swelled and he looped his fingers through the belt on his pants, thrusting his pelvis forward. “This afternoon, we’ll know.”
Claudia didn’t care about money. At all. It seemed completely irrelevant. But she did care that Preston was here, now. And that she wasn’t alone. Her eyelids drooped with heaviness. Why can’t I just stay awake? Need to. But her eyes closed.
“This afternoon can’t come too quickly I say, I only hope the girl manages to stay awake to sign everything. Tell the nurse to ease off on those pills, just for today.” Edward’s voice, gruff and quiet, faded slowly down the tunnel of sleep.
“Yes, she must be awake to hear how much she, or rather, we, will be gloriously swimming in. God rest her mother’s soul, I shall never need to work again.” Preston�
�s voice had dropped to a whisper, but it still floated into her subconscious.
“One can never have enough, boy,” Edward replied with a low chuckle. “In any case, I’ll need a lot for the campaign. Can’t take on the Prime Minister without funds.”
“Can’t afford me as your right-hand man without it either.”
The men laughed and Claudia heard the sound echo in the hall as they walked away. The money banter should have meant something to her, but it didn’t. Her mind was as empty as her heart had been before Preston filled the gap. Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t come up with an emotional reaction. And she didn’t want to.
Did my soul escape with my memory?
Weeks later, or maybe months — she had no indicator of time but for the sun rising and setting — Svetla helped her outside to the courtyard. Apparently, she had a visitor. Who would visit me here? She dared not hope for Margaret and Lenny, the only two people in the world she felt anything for, in the blank recesses of her heart. She almost walked normally now, her leg a little painful, but working, at least.
Not so, was her mind. Filled with nothing but Preston’s words.
Perhaps it was the lawyer. What was his name? He said he’d return, and his eyes had been kind as he’d read Grace’s will. Dark brown eyes, she recalled, because they’d moved something inside her, something hidden and out of reach. She hadn’t yet signed the papers, declaring her the sole beneficiary of Grace’s entire fortune — and Grace’s father’s and his father’s before that — and now it would be Preston’s to share. Perhaps that’s why the lawyer had come.
The details escaped her, but she remembered the look of intense joy on Preston’s face when the amount had been divulged. She sighed, reaching out to clasp Svetla’s hand as they struggled down the stairs. Other than her signature, Preston and Edward could take care of it all. She simply didn’t have the strength, or desire, to care.
Yet, a nagging memory tugged at the back of her mind. The acute gaze of sympathy from the lawyer when he’d learned she was about to be married. He’d stared at her long and hard, so much so that the spot between her eyebrows had throbbed and pulsed, reminding her of a happier time — a time of learning, of a dark-haired man speaking of mysteries. A time that the mere recollection of, caused her palms to sweat and her throat to constrict. She succumbed to the memories, as Svetla guided her down: down to the unknown person below the stairs.
Gypsy Trail Page 21
