Claimed by the Beast (Dark Twisted Love Book 2)

by Logan Fox

  From the shadows behind a terrified, confused Miguel, stepped a darkly robed figure. Bones clicked like stilettos on the concrete floor. A stray light flashed off a skeletal hand where it clutched a scythe.

  She’d never known the farm implement was so large. It almost dwarfed that dainty skeleton.

  But it was the crystal ball the figure held in one cupped, skeletal hand that drew Cora’s gaze.

  In it, brooding clouds swirled.

  And then blood. Her blood.

  Santa Muerte had finally come to claim payment for all the miracles she’d sent Cora’s way.

  Sangre por sangre.

  Blood for blood.

  46

  Paranoid drug dealers

  Lars had expected to be angrier than this. Calm filled him instead. A resolve he’d never felt before. Maybe he’d finally been freed from the guilt tying him to Milo all these years. It was obvious what the man thought of him; why the fuck he’d waited so long, god only knew.

  But he wasn’t planning on standing around and watching this all go even more fucking pear-shaped than it already was. He was leaving, like he should have yesterday. Milo could take care of himself. Always had. He didn’t need a voice of reason anymore. He could fuck things up perfectly fine by himself.

  The car they’d driven back in no longer stood in the circular driveway. A pair of guards did, though. Well, one had his back to Lars, ass resting against the side of an ornamental pillar that supported nothing except air, staring at something in the distance like he was dreaming of the day he’d be capo and all this would belong to him. When his boots crunched onto the gravel, both guards turned and hoisted their AK’s up as if he’d gone blind and had somehow managed to miss them.

  “Hola,” he called out, lifting a hand. “Where’s the car?”

  One of the guards shrugged. “Leaving?”

  “That’s an affirmative,” Lars said, giving a nod. “Now, if you could just rustle up my ride—”

  “Car would be here if you were leaving,” the guard said.

  “So get the car. Then I can leave.”

  But the guard had obviously not scored high on his SATs. He grinned at Lars, turning to laugh with his friend before saying, “You can leave when there’s a car.”

  Lars spun away, running hands through his hair. He turned back. “So, if the car’s here, I can leave?”

  “Si,” the guard said with a non-committal shrug.

  “Fan-fucking-tastic,” Lars muttered as he strode away from them. “Now I just have to find a goddamn car.”

  Surely Count Drugula had a few of those lying around? If he could just find—

  As he walked back inside the villa, a maid scampered past him en route to do something that probably involved a cute little pink feather duster. He caught her sleeve before she could hurry past.

  “Where’s the garage, sweetcheeks?”

  Of the two men he found hanging around the motor garage—when he’d eventually found it—the first gave him a frosty smile and then looked impatient when Lars ambled up to speak to him.

  “Hey, man. You got a smoke?” Lars asked, casual as if he smoked two packs a day.

  The man smiled then, nodding as handed Lars a cigarette and a lighter. Lars gave his head an appreciative duck and lit the smoke.

  “Lars,” he said, sticking out a hand. The man took it. “Fraco.”

  “Hey, so we’re almost done here. Any news on our ride out? Or do we take the same one we came back in?” Lars peered around, but couldn’t see the black SUV anywhere. “That black truck?”

  “¿Que?” Fraco looked around, but his buddy was halfway under a nearby car and the legs sticking out didn’t look even vaguely interested in their conversation. “I ask Don Javier.” Fraco fumbled about his person. For a cellphone, perhaps.

  Lars caught his arm. “Don’s real busy.” He stabbed the smoke toward the villa. “Bit of a shitstorm up there. We were supposed to meet someone halfway with our rental. Sure they’re still waiting for us. We just need to get there.”

  Fraco gave his head a slight shake, eying Lars warily. “Don Javier okays every trip.”

  Lars took a drag of his cigarette, and spoke as he was exhaling. “It was okayed. But then there was that guy, and the message…” he threw up his hands in annoyance. “We got places to be, man.”

  “Where is your friend?” Fraco asked.

  Good fucking question. Probably racing after Cora on a goddamn white stallion, shiny suit of armor and shit. But he said, “On his way. Look, my wife’s gonna kill me if I’m not home in time for dinner. It’ll be third night this week. I’ll be sleeping on the goddamn couch for sure.”

  Fraco gave a smoker’s laugh that turned into a smoker’s cough, and waved them out of the garage, following a few paces away. “Hey, David?”

  A mumble emanated from somewhere under a nearby car. Then a clang clang clang of something being forced open or closed or possibly just apart.

  Fraco muttered something unpleasant under his breath. “I guess…” he ran a quick hand through his hair and then clapped Lars on the shoulder. “Let me get it.”

  “That’d be swell,” Lars said.

  Who the fuck said swell these days? But, apparently, smoke-toking Lars who had somewhere important to be did.

  Lars headed back to the circular drive. Relief washed him in an icy wave when a black SUV appeared, crunching over the gravel.

  “Jerry,” Fraco called as he climbed from the SUV. “They’re headed back.”

  The guard looked utterly disinterested in this piece of information. Lars put his hand on Fraco’s shoulder, squeezing once, and ground his cigarette out under his heel.

  And then, when he should have been getting into the car and driving as fast out of here as he could without drawing suspicion…he couldn’t fucking move. Something pulled at him, kept him rooted.

  He can look after himself.

  He thinks you’re a fucking coward.

  She probably doesn’t even think about you at all.

  But not a single one of those thoughts did anything to dispel the urge to go back inside the villa, grab Milo by the scruff of his neck, round up darling little bunny, and haul them out of here with him.

  He must have lost his mind. Maybe it was the first sign of starvation.

  “I’ll be right back,” Lars said, giving Fraco a wide smile.

  The guard eyed Lars suspiciously when he walked past. “You’re not leaving?”

  “Fetching my friend,” Lars said, giving him a wave.

  The guard settled his rump back against the pillar and returned to his day dreaming.

  “Jesus, that was too fucking close,” Lars muttered to himself.

  Storm the castle. Find the girl. Leave without bumping into any dragons, counts, or fucking kingpins. If he had Cora, Milo would be forced to follow him out. He’d dangle bunny like a fucking carrot, if he had to.

  How the fuck was he supposed to reach the stables ahead of Javier? He’d been tailing him for a few minutes already; the man strode yards ahead, his bodyguards following like twin shadows. If he ran past, the gig would be up. He could really have used Lars right now. He was so good at coming up with distractions. He could divert Javier, leaving Finn enough time to find the necklace and go back for Cora.

  But he’d chased Lars away. Had called him a coward. And his chest still ached with the pain of it.

  Finn stopped walking. Ahead of him, Javier disappeared around a corner.

  What the fuck was he doing? So what if Javier found the archives? He’d abandoned Cora; not even a guard left behind.

  He could leave right now. Bundle her up somehow, get her into a car…somehow, and then…

  And then what?

  Storm the castle.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. He had fifteen rounds of ammunition and a knife hidden in his shoe. How far did he expect to get with that?

  No, what he needed was Lars. Together, they could figure something out. Together they could get Cora o
ut.

  But would he? Lars was anything but fond of Cora. Intrigued, maybe. But it wasn’t as if he gave a damn one way or the other. He was probably already a mile away from the compound, hidden under a blanket in the back of a truck or something.

  He was resourceful like that.

  Fuck.

  All he could do was go back to Cora. Stay by her side and make sure she got out of this unharmed. Finn turned back, retracing his steps through the villa as he headed for Cora’s room. He took the stairs to the villa’s second level, and as he turned down the passage toward Cora’s room, he caught sight of someone hurrying through a garden path below.

  Lars.

  He almost yelled out the man’s name. But instead, he ran down the stairs again.

  Something hot and bright filled him. Painful, but glorious.

  Hope…or relief?

  47

  Lady of the Night

  Miguel’s pistol clattered noisily over the concrete floor. It went straight through Santa Muerte’s bony feet, and slammed into the grate. Cora’d followed its progress across the floor and, when she looked up, Santa Muerte was less than a foot away from her.

  She would have screamed if she wasn’t being strangled to death.

  There was nothing in those empty eye sockets. But the smell of Florida water—that familiar lavender and lemon—came off the robed figure in waves. Strong, noxious, yet strangely comforting. She extended one bony finger and drew a cold, hard line down the underside of Cora’s chin.

  La Flaca leaned in, putting her skull close enough that Cora could see the pitting in the bone, a hairline crack down the forehead, and the three missing teeth on the same side of that skull.

  Me llamó, Cora.

  She’d summoned the saint? How? When?

  The man behind her ducked for the gun, and for a sweet, blissful moment, air poured into her. And, as if that oxygen had banished La Flaca, the saint bled away into the shadows again.

  She gasped, greedily inhaling as much as she could, and then the cold muzzle of Miguel’s pistol was against the back of her head.

  “Slow,” Angel said.

  The gate began sliding to the side. Opening. She hobbled along, aware that pain was starting to return to her injured leg.

  It wasn’t important.

  What was important was that she was still alive. La Flaca wasn’t dragging her to hell today, and that was what mattered.

  The cloth around her throat was released, and she brought both her hands up to cradle her neck. Her skin burned where it had chafed, but it felt intact. She took another huge breath, coughing hard and almost doubling over.

  That pistol muzzle followed her as if it had been glued to her head.

  Footsteps. Soft, as if made on bare feet. And then the subtle warmth of a body. Hard muscles, warm breath. The smell of dried blood and the musk of a man who’d been left to sweat in the dark.

  “Tie him up,” Angel murmured into her ear.

  He couldn’t have been more than an inch or two taller than her. And, had she not had only one leg to stand on and lungs that still ached from the memory of near death, she could’ve elbowed him hard enough to make him drop that gun.

  But her body shook, and she barely had enough strength to keep herself upright. Whatever adrenalin she’d had earlier, it was gone. She could have lain on the chilly concrete floor and gone to sleep forever.

  She stumbled forward when Angel thrust his hips against her to get her moving. Miguel backed up but then stopped, his face ashen.

  “Por favor,” Miguel murmured. “No hacer esto.”

  “Take his belt,” Angel said to her. “Tie him up.”

  She stuck out her hand, and Miguel looked both embarrassed and terrified as she fumbled at his waist to undo his belt. This close, he could have used the baton at his side to strike a killing blow to Angel’s face—would he have the same fracture she’d seen on Santa Muerte’s skull? The same missing teeth?—and they’d be done with this.

  But Miguel was probably too terrified of hurting the illustrious Eleodora Rivera to do more than make pitiful sounds in the back of his throat as she tugged his belt free and used it to bind his hands behind his back.

  Her captor told Miguel to go inside the cell. He did so, reluctantly, and slammed the cell door closed behind him as instructed. Then he went to his knees and put his head against the grate, murmuring, “Por favor,” and “Perdóname,” as her captor began dragging her away.

  Never get taken to a second location. It was something Bailey had drilled into her from his first training session with her. Do whatever you have to to escape.

  Sometimes, death was preferable to what happened once you’d been relocated somewhere safe…and private.

  But what choice did she have? Her head was foggy, her body heavy and clumsy. The pain from her injured leg had multiplied, and became even worse as the man behind her forced her down the passage toward the distant stairs.

  And if she pissed him off, he might just shoot her anyway. How was he to know how damn precious a commodity she was? He might only be keeping her close until she became useless to him, and then he’d shoot her in the head.

  Except…he could have killed Miguel.

  “Please,” she said in Spanish. “Don’t hurt me.”

  It sounded weak and pathetic, but Angel had to know that she wasn’t about to launch an attack on him. That she was terrified. It might make him discount her just enough so that she could break free and make a run for it.

  Would he shoot her in the back?

  She pushed away the unhelpful thought and focused on keeping her legs under her. He had obviously realized she couldn’t put much weight on her left leg; he switched arms so the gun was pressed to her right temple, and grabbed her around the waist again, propping her against him.

  They turned the corner. The long hallway leading to the stairs she’d bumbled down in search of water was empty apart from that one lonely table and chair.

  Why the hell weren’t there more guards down here? Why’d they leave just one man to watch over these prisoners?

  Because Javier obviously hadn’t expected his pseudo-niece to wander down here and upset the goddamn donkey cart, had he?

  Angel pushed her across the floor, pausing for a few seconds at the foot of the stairs. He craned his head past her to look up the stairs. She caught a brief flash of ebony eyes, wild eyebrows, and a smooth face. But then he was behind her again, the gun pressing into her lower back.

  “Up,” he said. If his voice hadn’t been so hoarse, it might have been a nice one.

  She gritted her teeth, grabbed the railing, and hoisted herself up the first step. It took a lot more effort going up that it did going down. Every time her left leg bent even a little, pain shot up her leg and ground itself in her pelvis. Her jaw ached by the time she could see the landing—the villa’s ground floor.

  Angel crowded them against the wall beside the landing so he could peek out and check both sides of the terrace that led into the garden.

  Jade trees and a sapphire sky.

  Rubies adorning a nearby bush.

  And Lars, head down and lips moving as if he was muttering to himself.

  Look up!

  But he didn’t. He ran a hand through his long, pale hair, tugged it, and went on muttering. Not once looking up. Not once bothering to notice her existence.

  Boots thumped down the stairs behind them.

  Her mouth was open for a scream, but her voice was immediately muffled by a wad of cloth. The same one Angel had used to strangle her with? She tried spitting it out, but he clapped that bandaged hand of his over her gaping mouth and shoved her forward.

  Agony burst through her leg. That scream came out as a soft keen, but perhaps the people coming down the staircase heard because their boots paused for just a second before speeding up.

  Angel shoved her behind the closest arrangement of shrubs, one of which had been trimmed into the suggestion of a woman’s curving body. Nearby, close enou
gh to taint the air with the smell of water, was a small tinkling fountain. Cora struggled furiously, ignoring with desperate determination how much pain that whipped through her body, but then she was on her stomach with a knee driving more pain into her spine when it landed on her lower back.

  She stopped, squeezing tears from her eyes and trying to straighten her bent left leg. Angel took a moment to unwrap a length of bandage from his hand, tear it with what sounded like his teeth, and thread it through her mouth to keep the stinking gag in place.

  Saliva went down the wrong pipe in her throat. She choked and coughed uncontrollably, but if that noise reached the men hurrying down the stairs, they didn’t slow to investigate.

  For all she knew, she sounded like a rutting pig.

  Footsteps thumped past; muffled by the bushes. And then Lars was gone.

  Frustrated tears dampened her eyelashes as Angel dragged her up. Obviously, he couldn’t see anyone around, because he yanked her across the garden’s winding center path without bothering to keep to cover. He moved so fast, was so fixated on their destination, he didn’t notice when she kicked off one of her shoes. It tumbled and lay in the middle of the garden path; bright white against pale grey cobblestones.

  So easy to miss. It was pathetic how desperately she wished that slip of white would be noticed by someone.

  The gun found its now familiar spot on her spine, and stayed there.

  Her options were clear. Paralysis, possibly death…or letting this man take her out of the villa.

  A memory flared then. A desperate, near hysterical prayer she’d whispered while her gelding flowed over the desert.

  Please, help me, Santa Muerte. I’ll do anything. I don’t care if you send me an angel or a demon—I just want to see him one more time.

  And then she smiled, because Santa Muerte always returned her believer’s prayers—especially when they were willing to trade.