Angel Bonds
Page 16
A familiar approach had Issac stiffening, his instincts flaring.
“Don’t,” Tristan said gruffly. “I just brought you some proper whiskey, not that shite you found earlier.”
Issac lowered his hands to see the bottle above his head. The label wasn’t one he kept on the property, which meant Tristan had ventured over to Ireland—likely with Jacque—to pick up the decent brand.
“Thanks,” Issac managed to say around the knot forming in this throat. He accepted the gift and downed several gulps as Tristan took a seat beside him.
“There’s more in the house, if you need it.”
Issac nodded, the liquid a welcome burn. He closed his eyes again, imagining a life where he could actually become drunk off a few shots and longing for the ability to lose feelings. “I fucking hate immortality.”
Tristan grunted. “You’ll enjoy it when you find Jonathan and force him to suffer.”
“Cheers to that,” Issac agreed, saluting his progeny.
They sat in silence, beneath the stars, ignoring the icy winter air.
Are you up there, Aya? Issac wondered, not for the first time. Is that why I still feel you? Will you be with me always?
Another drink.
Oblivion evaded him.
“I miss her,” he confessed softly. “I didn’t even… We didn’t—” A sharp noise in his throat cut off his words, forcing him to swallow several times, the stars clouding above him. He dropped the bottle, not caring if it shattered. “I don’t want to feel anymore, Tristan.” The admission scorched his insides, fracturing his heart into a million pieces. He felt weak, broken, irrevocably damaged. Dampness touched his cheeks, tears falling of their own accord. He couldn’t stop them even if he tried.
“I’m sorry,” Tristan whispered. “I should have been there. I should have… I would have…” He bit out a curse that led to a string of Irish Issac didn’t understand, but he conveyed the agony with his tone. “I never wanted this for you, Issac. Not like this.”
“You hated her,” Issac accused, the words coming from a vulnerable place inside that desired retribution. “This was exactly what you wanted—our end. Well, guess what? Jonathan accomplished the feat for you.” The words tasted bitter, angry. He knew Tristan wasn’t to blame, but he provided an easy target for Issac’s anger. “You wanted this.”
“Fuck, Issac. I may not have liked your relationship with the lass, but I didn’t hate her.” He ran a hand over his face. “I never wanted this. Never.”
Issac shook his head, unable to respond, the emotion thick in his throat.
Tristan sighed. “Have I been an arse? Yes. I wanted to protect my best lad from eventual heartache, from—”
“This,” Issac finished for him.
They fell into companionable silence again, the wind rustling the nearby bushes. Centuries of friendship thrived between them, shrouded in understanding. Tristan’s guilt over constantly taunting Astasiya was palpable, his deep regret over how it all ended equally tangible.
“I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Issac. Just name it.” The vow in his words was underlined in submission and remorse. “If I could bring her back, I would.”
“She’s dead,” Issac whispered. “She’s gone, Tristan.”
“I know.”
“She’s never coming back.”
“I know.”
“I don’t…” Issac swallowed. “I don’t know what to do.”
Tristan snorted. “You kill the son of a bitch who did this to her. That’s what you do.” A violent image plundered Issac’s thoughts, courtesy of his best friend.
Jonathan strapped to a chair.
Screaming.
Blood.
Fire.
Archaic forms of torture appeared.
More blood.
A mere corpse coming back to life, only to have every heinous act repeated.
“You’re quite imaginative,” Issac said, his voice rough.
“That’s just the beginning. By the time we’re done with him, he’ll be a shell of a man. A fucking ghost.” His bright green-hazel eyes shone in the moonlight, pure malice dripping from his features. “He’ll pay for what he’s done.”
“Yes,” Issac agreed, sitting up slowly to mimic Tristan’s position. “Do you suppose he’s hiding behind his Sentinels?”
His progeny smirked. “Only one way to find out.”
“What are you proposing?”
“A distraction.” Evil intent graced his features. “Luc found two Sentinels who arrived late to the massacre. He kept them alive for questioning. I’m not convinced they’ve given up all the details yet. Maybe some sensory deprivation will help loosen their tongues.”
Issac had been so wrapped up in funeral preparations that he hadn’t visited the prisoners of war yet. He’d barely even thought about them. “I doubt they know much.”
“Still, a fun distraction nonetheless.” His shoulders rose and fell in an elegant shrug. “Why not give it a go, yeah? Perhaps it’ll provide a new way to numb your feelings?” He nudged the empty bottles to punctuate his point.
Aya wouldn’t like this, his conscience warned.
Aya isn’t here, a darker part of him growled in response.
Issac glanced at her grave for the millionth time, taking in the headstone and the fresh dirt. He placed his palm above her, closing his eyes.
They took you from me.
Retribution is required.
You understand, right?
His heart panged in response to the silence. Fuck, he missed her voice. Her smile. Her touch. “You left me too soon,” he whispered. “You promised me… Always.”
But those bastards intruded on the vow and took her away.
They killed her.
And now that the funeral was done, Issac could focus on the future. On his revenge. Starting with the two Sentinels Lucian had kept alive.
“I’ll visit you, Aya,” he vowed softly.
He opened his eyes to find Tristan standing several yards away, having given him a moment alone.
This was their final goodbye.
Issac’s acceptance of her fate.
She’s never coming back.
But we will meet again.
“I love you, Astasiya. Always.” He stood, gathering the bottles. Tristan met him several steps away, his suit in far better shape than Issac’s. “Find Jacque. I want to go to Hydria.”
A twinkle of approval glistened in Tristan’s gaze. “Of course, Sire.”
Why is it so dark in here?
Because my eyes are closed.
Stas blinked.
No. That’s not it.
What happened?
Why do I feel so weak?
She curled her fingers, numb from the cold.
What is that smell? Earthy. Her nose twitched. Dirt. The hell?
“Hel…?” Fuck, her throat resembled sandpaper. Dry. Unused. Everything felt raw. Her muscles were stiff. Her limbs unmoving. Her lungs hardly worked, each breath tasting of soil.
Her eyes burned as she tried to clear the lump from her throat, her body a foreign vessel. Almost like that time she woke up after Lizzie—
Stas’s eyes widened as an onslaught of memories assaulted her.
The wedding.
The reception.
The Sentinels attacking the beach.
Fire burning in her veins.
Issac’s agony.
Mom.
She’d found her in the afterlife, or in a dream. A nightmare. Her mother rambled on and on, talking about drowning, Osiris, Sethios, and then disappeared, only to reappear again with the same words. And always an apology.
We failed you.
But she never explained what she meant. Each time she started, she vanished. And when she returned, the gibberish restarted. Repetitive agony.
Hell.
Except, this was new—Stas waking up in a dark room.
She spread her fingers across the cushion beneath her, which ended only a few inche
s to either side. Where she hit a wall.
Uh.
Tingling erupted down her limbs, her toes wiggling.
Ever so slowly, sensation overwhelmed her, causing her stomach to churn. It felt as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Her tongue, thick in her mouth, made swallowing impossible. Not to mention the rocks taking up residence in her throat.
What is happening to me?
She still couldn’t see, despite her open eyes. Her heart beat loudly in her ears, the only sound in her strange space.
After several minutes, or maybe hours, her arms flexed, her wrists able to move to test the walls on either side of her.
Solid.
Weird.
She slowly—so, so slowly—trailed her fingers upward to find a similar wall above her face.
Her brow furrowed. Am I in a box?
How bizarre. Why would she…
“Oh,” she choked out. “Oh no.”
Ground.
Cushion.
Box.
Darkness.
Her heart stopped.
Her breath stilled in her throat.
No.
No.
No.
This cannot be happening.
She pressed against the wall, the surface above her face. It didn’t budge.
No!
They wouldn’t, couldn’t… Oh God.
She started to squirm, panic overriding her stiff muscles. But she couldn’t move. The box held her tight. The ground above her immovable.
A broken scream scratched her throat, hysteria strangling the sound.
“Issac!” His name hurt, her vocal cords belittling his name to a hoarse whisper. “Issac!” she tried again.
Oh, fuck.
They buried me alive.
They fucking buried me alive.
But I’m not dead!
Balthazar!
Anyone!
Help!
She yelled with everything she had, but the note left her on a breath. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her nails embedding in the material surrounding her.
I have to get out of here.
I can’t…
This can’t be happening.
“Issac!”
Oh God, not again.
Pitch-black.
Hell.
Stas’s lungs burned, her mouth parted on a soundless scream. Because a voice required air, and this box… this box contained none. She’d used it all up days, months, years ago. Fuck, she had no idea how long she’d been trapped in this loop.
Darkness.
Suffocation.
A few minutes in the white space, sometimes accompanied by her mother.
Repeat.
Help me! she screamed the words in her mind, hoping someone, anyone, would hear them. Issac…
He gave her this necklace, saying to use it when she needed help. She turned it on at some point, right? But it didn’t work. Or maybe she did it wrong.
Her fingers clasped around it yet again, finding it in the right position.
Please… Please come for me.
It hurt.
No air.
Yet her lungs kept trying to breathe.
And then bliss. These few moments of death, or wherever her soul went, were becoming her favorite.
“Astasiya,” her mother murmured, agony in her voice. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry we failed you.”
This again.
“I still don’t know what you mean, Mom.”
“I know, I know. We should have explained, should have made sure you knew… Oh, time is running out again. Love is worth the sacrifice. Your father and I, we’ll never regret our decision, no matter what happens. I love you, little angel. Love…” She flickered and disappeared again, leaving Stas with no additional answers. Every speech was the same, all about sacrifice.
A tear tracked down Stas’s cheek, followed by an agonized moan as she was sucked back into her own personal hell.
The darkness.
Again.
Issac, she cried. Anyone. Please.
But there was no oxygen.
Only pain.
Only… death.
Stas started counting.
Each visit to hell lasted just over three minutes, give or take. The first ninety seconds provided her with the most mobility. After that point, her limbs began to fail and all she could do was wait for death.
Fifty.
Fifty-one.
She scratched at the surface above her face, her nails splintering and shooting pain up her arm. But she worked through it, knowing her time was limited.
Sixty-two.
Fuck, it hurt.
But no one was coming for her. She had to save herself. And this was the only way—to dig out of her prison.
What happens when the dirt enters the coffin? she wondered, not for the first time.
I start digging.
Or that was the plan, anyway.
What choice did she have? Sit here and wait? Die over and over again? No.
Seventy-eight.
Her muscles were already tiring, sweat stinging her eyes.
So dark.
So cold.
Yet her lungs burned, begging for oxygen that didn’t exist in this small space. It felt as if she were collapsing into herself, her body spasming with a need that couldn’t be met.
Eighty-three.
No, ninety-three.
Wait…
Her thoughts spiraled, her arms and legs convulsing. And still she tried to breathe, to pull in the air she so desperately craved.
Issac, her heart whispered. Oh, Issac.
Why had he left her here?
Why didn’t the tracker work?
Why can’t you hear me?
Please, Issac, her soul begged. Please find me.
But a logical part of her knew it was futile. He buried her because he thought she was dead.
No one is coming for me.
I have to get out of here.
During her next round, she’d keep digging.
It’s my only hope.
21
Issac
Issac couldn’t breathe.
“I miss dreaming. An odd admission, to be sure, but a fact. Aidan believes it’s tied to my ability to control vision. I’m not sure I agree. It’s almost as if there’s nothing more to hope for in this world. A shame considering I’ll live forever. Perhaps immortality is not as exciting as I once thought.”
—Issac Wakefield
Vita mutatur, non tollitur
Everything burned.
It kept happening. Pitch-black, no oxygen, just a vacuum of insanity pulling him to consciousness only to drown him again.
Three minutes of agony.
Ninety seconds of opportunity.
Fuck, it hurt.
So much.
His nails bled as he fought at the confines holding him beneath the surface.
His arms shook.
His chest ached.
Suffocation drove his mouth to beg for air. An impossibility. A lethal fate.
Everything tingled, withered, died.
Only to come face-to-face with a pair of pleading green eyes, begging him to help in the midnight hour, to save her…
Issac woke on a gasp, his palm over his wildly beating heart. Fuck, that felt real. Too real.
Another bloody nightmare. He couldn’t remember the last time he dreamed before this week, but every night since the funeral, he dreamt of Astasiya. Always the same—her begging him for help.
Guilt. He didn’t save her, something he would forever live to regret. And it seemed his subconscious was nowhere near ready to grant him peace. Not surprising. He buried Astasiya only four days ago.
Her screams ricocheted through his thoughts, sending him to his feet. There would be no more resting tonight.
Balthazar knocked on the door. “Wakefield, Luc and Alik are in the living room watching some American football, if you want to join.”
Apparently, I
ssac wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. A glance at the clock showed it was just after three in the morning.
As sleep was no longer an option, he might as well distract himself.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” he replied, dragging his fingers through his hair.
“I’ll make you some coffee,” Balthazar offered, clearly aware of the nightmare that had awoken Issac.
“Cheers,” he replied.
Astasiya’s presence surrounded him as he moved around the guest suite of Balthazar’s home. Her scent lingered on the pillows, her clothes in the drawers, even her toothbrush remained in the bath.
Tristan had tried to convince him to stay with them on the other side of the island, but Issac refused. He needed the reminder of Astasiya’s life to stay grounded, to focus on the task at hand. It comforted him to keep her presence close. He could almost pretend she was still here.
Not the healthiest course, to be sure.
Pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, he met the others in the living area, not caring at all that he resembled an invalid. He hadn’t shaved in a week. But why bother? All that mattered was killing Jonathan. The bastard wouldn’t care if Issac used a razor or not.
“Wakefield.” Lucian nodded from the recliner, a beer in his hand.
“Lucian,” Issac replied, leaning against the wall rather than sitting. “Anything on Jonathan’s whereabouts yet?” Mateo had spent the better part of the last four days trying to locate the son of a bitch, but to no avail.
The Hydraian King shook his head. “Nope. He’s a ghost.”
“We’ll find him.” Balthazar held out a mug of freshly brewed coffee. “Black. No cream or sugar.”
“Thank you,” Issac murmured, blowing across the steaming liquid.
“I still vote we just kill everyone at the CRF,” Alik said, his focus on his phone, not the television. “It’s the only place he could be hiding.”
“Too many innocents,” Lucian replied. “And it would be just like Jonathan to not be in the one place we expect him.”
True. If Issac had learned anything about the bastard over the years, it was his penchant for doing what was least expected.
Like killing Eli.
And sending an army to attack a wedding party.