Corrupt Desires

by Jennifer Bene

  “Just like your mother.” Charles patted her cheek, confirming that there would be bruises as even the light tapping made her flinch. “Give me a name, whore.”

  A bitter laugh bubbled from a burning throat. “I’d never even been near the resistance until yesterday, when you tried to have me killed.”

  “Do you think I’m a fool?” he hissed, and before she could answer an affirmative he backhanded her again, ring burning a streak of agony across her cheek bone as her head snapped to the side. Ears ringing, she stared across his desk, papers and a closed laptop, until she saw something shiny and lunged for it.

  Knocking papers off his desk, she felt her hands close around cool metal, but then he had her wrist in his, pinned to the desk as he set the gun down farther away and pried the thing out of her hand. A letter opener. Probably not too sharp, but sharp enough to go through soft places. As if he had the same idea, he placed the point in the hollow at the base of her throat, pressing until she lay back against the desk and went still.

  Meeting his cold eyes with her own rage, she hissed, “There’s no information to trade. I don’t want to hear your bullshit lies about my mother, and I don’t know anything about the resistance.”

  “You expect me to believe Bryant brought you here for this foolhardy assassination attempt without you being one of the gutter rats crying about equality?” Pressing the point in harder, she tried to fight it, to ignore the pain, but as the ache turned into a line of fire that trailed downward, there was no avoiding the cry. “Where is the resistance based, Ophelia?”

  The boarded-up church flashed in her mind, and her expression must have changed because that grating chuckle came again as he leaned over her.

  “Tell me and it won’t hurt nearly as much.”

  Fuck. She’d never been able to hide her feelings on her face. Regan always told her she was an open book, and now it was finally going to get her killed — because even if she could dredge her memory for the nearest intersection, she wouldn’t give them up.

  They were the only thing standing between this monster and everyone else in the fog.

  “Tell me,” he hissed.

  “You’ll kill me either way,” she replied, draining all the emotion from her voice. Resigned as she relaxed under his grip and stared past him to the ceiling.

  “Killing you would be easy. Killing is boring, it’s why I have people who do that. But torture?” he asked the question to the air, lifting the shining letter opener as if he were inspecting it. “Torture is art. Inflicting pain, suffering, without letting the person lose consciousness? Without letting them escape? That’s the challenge I have always enjoyed.”

  Fear fluttered behind her bruised ribs like a trapped bird, panicked and desperate, but she swallowed and ignored it. “Let me guess,” she mumbled in an empty voice. “You tortured my mother?”

  “Sometimes, but she learned what I liked and gave it in exchange for what I could provide her.”

  Forcing a smile, she realized her lip was split as it stung. “You were so pathetic you had to bribe my mother for kinky sex? That’s your story?” A rough laugh left her chest as she sucked her bloodied lip into her mouth for a moment. “I don’t know why you thought I’d trade information for that even if I knew anything.”

  Slamming the letter opener down on the desk, Charles reached for the gun, pressing it against her side as he covered her mouth in a harsh grip that made her whole face hurt. “Stop talking before I put a bullet through a part of you that won’t kill you as quickly as it did him.”

  Past tense.

  No. Nonononononono…

  Screaming against his hand, she arched off the desk, clawing at his wrist, reaching for his face before he jerked his head away and fired a shot. Her whole body stilled for a moment, trying to find the wound, but then she realized he’d fired into the desk next to her. It gave her a surge of adrenaline. Managing to get her knee between the two of them she kicked him back, scrambling to a sitting position just as Charles grabbed a messy fistful of her hair.

  But she could see Bryant. Curled on his side, completely still, and pain cracked her chest open. A wail escaping as the bastard above her smiled. He fucking smiled.

  “Help him,” she begged, and Charles threw her to the floor.

  “Help him?” Charles mocked, digging the warm gun muzzle into her aching ribs as he planted a knee in the small of her back and pressed. Vertebrae grinding as she keened into the floor. “The spineless traitor deserves every last painful breath. He deserves to hear you suffer for his mistakes in his last moments.”

  Of all times she needed to be brave, to be a warrior, now was it.

  She needed fire, Bryant’s fire, but there wasn’t enough time to think before he shifted atop her and then grabbed her right arm, bending it backwards until she yelped. And then she felt him tugging at a finger and she closed her fist tight. “NO!” she shouted, panicked, desperately seeking the detached numbness she’d had just moments before.

  “Just like your mother. More fucking trouble than you’re worth.” A fist in the hair at the back of her head, arched back, and then slammed forward. Pain exploded behind her eyes, a bloody nose, possibly broken. “Location, whore. Where are they?”

  “Fuck yo—” A scream cut through her words as blinding agony shot up her arm, stealing the air from her lungs as she immediately began to sob.

  “You’ve got four more fingers on this hand, Ophelia. Location.”

  “Wait, please, God, wait,” she begged, hating herself, but the pain wouldn’t stop. With every twist of her hand the pain returned, nauseating in its intensity. He’d broken her pinky finger, definitely broken. He grabbed her ring finger and she choked on a sob. “CHURCH!”

  “What?” he asked, voice still so infuriatingly calm.

  “An old church. Boarded up.” Hating herself for saying the words, she swallowed blood and took a shaky breath when he shifted his hold to her wrist so that the torment abated slightly.

  “Where? Give me an address, and I’ll send my men.”

  “Tell me what you did to my mother, and I’ll tell you everything.” Laying on her cheek, she ignored the throb of her cheekbone and stared at Bryant. Had that been a sound? A breath? A twitch of his arm when she’d screamed?

  “Fine. I supported her, and you, her bastard brat, because she was convenient. No one was going to photograph her if she showed up somewhere with bruises, a black eye, a bloody nose. It let me… be myself.” He stroked down her back, easing the pressure on her spine the slightest amount as he took a walk down a psychopath’s version of memory lane. The fact that it was about her mother was something she had to push away for now. “She used to talk constantly. It was irritating, but it kept her calm, and I assumed she was ridiculous, inane. With all those fairy tales and wild stories in her head all the time, I wasn’t as… careful as I should have been around her. Over the three years I fucked her, I relaxed. I made calls, I brought my work with me to her shitty little apartment. A few times, when you were with her parents, I even brought her to my apartment and let her stay there if I had to run out for a meeting.”

  Nausea swept through her because she couldn’t remember it. Any of it. Why couldn’t she remember her mother with bruises? A bloody nose? Why could she only remember a smiling woman full of magic?

  “But, unfortunately, she wasn’t an utter fool. She learned too much. Started talking about the COF, telling stories about the COF, and I couldn’t have that. So, I helped her condition a little. Gave her some things that made her hold on reality a little less… firm.”

  “You drugged my mother?” Phee couldn’t get a full breath, her entire life was shuddering around her, cracks spider-webbing through all of the ideas that had formed the foundation of who she was as the final piece fell into place.

  “Yes. It took a few months for the damage to be permanent, but I’d say it was worth it. No one ever believed her, did they?” Charles chuckled, a ragged, evil sound.

  So many false t
ruths. So many things that she had always believed, that everyone had told her to believe. Mom was sick. Lie.

  The Cabal of Freedom never tried to hurt your mother. Lie.

  She couldn’t take care of you. Lie. You’re better off without her. Lie. Lie. LIE!

  “NO! WHY?” she wailed, everything hurt, inside and out, tears falling as she struggled to breathe through the burning ache in her chest.

  “Because rising to the top of the COF has always been my goal, Ophelia, and I will not allow anyone to put that at risk. Not a whore, not my brother, not my nephew, and definitely not a pathetic little uprising that we will crush in a matter of hours.” Grabbing onto her hand again, she screamed as he found her ring finger once more. “Now, the address.”

  Hiccupping on her next sob, she shook, staring at Bryant and wishing she could know if he were alive or not before she made a potentially terrible choice. Tongue tracing the blood on her lip she swallowed and closed her eyes, going limp in defeat. “The church is near the corner of south Nortok Drive and Hembrull. Big and boarded up, stained glass windows, can’t miss it.”

  “See? Was that so hard, whore?” Releasing her hand, Charles climbed off her back. She waited until his footsteps carried him to the desk, and then she half-crawled, half-dragged herself to Bryant.

  Pushing herself up with her good hand she began to cry, letting out the sobs that made her ribs ache, every inch of her face hurting, but it didn’t matter as she draped herself across Bryant, hugging him with her left arm.

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m aware of the insurgency, and I have the location of the resistance’s base of operations.” Charles’ voice was thick with victory, gloating. “I don’t think Bryant is going to be able to help you, cunt. Don’t worry though, when the police get here I’m sure they’ll be happy to fill all the holes he’s left behind.”

  Listening as he chuckled at his own disgusting joke, she pressed a kiss to Bryant’s side, whispering an apology, begging him to stay with her.

  “Yes, I’m still here. Are you mobile? It’s in the fog, of course.”

  There was no more time, and she didn’t need anymore. She was a blazing fire, a righteous inferno, her mother’s name a tattoo of molten gold over her heart as she closed her fingers around the metal at the base of Bryant’s spine. Flipping the safety, she pushed herself up through a yelp of pain, and pointed the gun at the bastard who’d ruined so many lives in so many ways. The smug smirk on his face disappeared in an instant, his cold eyes flicking to the gun on the wrong side of the desk just as Phee pulled the trigger. The kick was worse than she had imagined as it jerked her body back, but she heard his shout of pain. Stumbling to her feet, she wavered, dizzy, but not too dizzy to brace the gun as best she could and fire again, and again, and again, until the gun clicked instead of whispered another bullet into Charles Holbrook’s corpse.

  Someone was talking on the phone he’d dropped, and she jabbed the end button with her shoe before weaving her way back to Bryant. Dropping the empty gun next to him, she let the tears come again.

  Pressing her fingers to his neck, she closed her eyes, chanting, “Please, Bryant, please. I’m begging you, fucking be alive.” After a moment there was a flicker under her fingers and she pressed harder. Weak, and erratic, but there. It was there. “Oh God, stay with me. Please.”

  Shifting, she had to twist to get her good hand into the pocket with the phone, dragging it out to dial the first number as she waited, and waited. Nudging him to his back with her elbow, she saw the bloody spot on his ribs and clambered for the jacket his uncle had ripped off her. Pressing it hard to the bullet wound, she pleaded with the universe that what she was doing was helping and not hurting.

  No one answered the first number, and she bit back a sob as she dialed the second. Listening to it ring as she pushed harder on the bullet wound, almost dropping the phone in shock when she heard a low groan from Bryant. “Hey! Bryant, wake up. I’m calling for help, okay? You have to stay awake.”

  Dim turquoise eyes cracked, eyelids blinking before they closed again.

  “BRYANT!” she shouted and another groan escaped as she put as much weight on the wound as she could manage one-handed.

  “Phee… no...” The words were weak, but she’d heard them, and when she looked down at him she saw the pain in them that had nothing to do with the bullet wound in his chest.

  “Holbrook! Give me an update!” The gruff voice of Easton came over the line and Phee flinched away from Bryant’s gaze.

  “It’s me, Easton. Phee. We need help, Bryant got shot, and I’m hurt. We’re at his uncle’s house on the second floor in an office. I can’t get him downstairs by myself.”

  “Update on the mission first. What’s the status on Charles Holbrook?” Easton was harsh, and she wanted to scream at him to fucking hurry up because Bryant had way too much blood under him, and all she wanted to do was pass out beside him so that everything would just stop hurting.

  “I fucking killed him. Is that a good status update, asshole? Now get someone here and save Bryant before he bleeds out!” she shouted into the phone, and then whispered an apology to Bryant when he winced.

  “You? You killed Charles Holbrook?” Easton had disbelief in his voice.

  “I swear, Easton, if you don’t have someone on the way here, the second time I empty a gun into someone it’s going to be aimed at you.”

  Easton was laughing, talking to someone away from the phone, and then he came back to the line. “Holy shit, yeah, we’ve got a team heading your way. They were up there on a separate mission and they’ll be able to transport you guys back in a vehicle. Damn, Phee, Bryant should have recruited you sooner!”

  Phee looked down at Bryant, agreeing with Easton that she wished she’d met Bryant sooner, and hoping that he survived so they could have more time together. A lot more time. She’d had enough of today, she wanted to focus on tomorrow now. As many tomorrows as she could get between this day and the future when there wouldn’t be so much pain. “I agree, he should have. I’ll see you soon, asshole.”

  Easton just laughed. “Shit, I think I like you, Phee. See you soon.”

  When she hung up she leaned down, pressing a kiss to Bryant’s temple. He was covered in sweat, and she had no idea what to do for him. She’d just seen in movies and on TV that you should put pressure on a wound, so she had. She wasn’t sure if she was putting too much pressure, or too little, and she had no idea what else she could do, so… she just started talking. Ignoring the burn of her split lip, and everything else, to try and get him to stay with her. “Bryant? Bryant, I want you to stay awake. Just stay with me, okay?”

  He groaned and his eyes cracked a little, so she nodded, thinking as she looked around the room and tried to focus on anything but the dead son of a bitch who had hurt them both so much in so many ways.

  She used to talk constantly… all those fairy tales and wild stories.

  You’re so much like her…

  “I absolutely am,” she muttered to herself, repositioning so that she could keep the pressure on as she tried to think straight. “Right. Okay. I’m going to tell you a story, and you’re going to stay awake until these guys get here to carry us both out of here. And you have to hold on for me or you’ll never hear the ending, and it’s a good one, Bryant, so you better fucking listen.” Phee took a shaky breath and started, hearing her mom’s voice in her head, remembering what it had been like to have her running her fingers through her hair as she’d fallen asleep. Tears fell, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “Once upon a time, there was a great king of fire. He was strong, and brave, but he could never let the fire show because he lived in a castle made of ice, and the smallest slip of his fire could ruin everything…”

  10

  The room was dim when Phee jerked awake, pain bursting to life in her ribs, head pounding so viciously that she simply slumped back against the thin pillow with a groan. Her face felt hot, swollen, and she went to reach for it when someone caught her a
rm. “Hey, it’s okay, Phee. You’re okay, you’re at the hospital.”

  “Where’s Bryant?” she asked, her chest clenching as she saw the outline of Easton’s shaved head a moment before his dark expression came into focus.

  “Out of surgery and stable. He hasn’t woken up yet. Parks is with him, along with a lot of others.” Stroking her wrist with his thumb, he sighed. “He’s alive, safe. Thanks to you.”

  “His uncle shot him.” Flashbacks hit her in waves, the reality of what had happened bringing a hushed sob as tears burned the edge of her eyes.

  “Hey, hey, he’s okay. You saved him, and you’re safe too. I’m not going anywhere.” Easton squeezed her arm, the sound of a chair dragging over tile filling the silence. “Just sleep, okay? I’ll tell you when Bryant wakes up.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise,” he answered quietly, keeping his hand on her arm as he settled into the chair. It was easy to let the dark swallow her back down. She was so tired, the pain a dull thump synced with each beat of her heart as her mind echoed those words. He’s alive, safe.

  “He’s asking for her.” A big guy held onto the door frame of her room, backlit by the harsh fluorescents in the hall, but he was talking to Easton — not her.

  “We’ll be up in a minute,” he answered, and the man hovered a moment longer before he left and the light flooded back over her legs. They’d released her, but she hadn’t gone anywhere. Hadn’t even left the room she’d been in for almost a day… or was it more than a day? Phee licked at her bottom lip, avoiding the urge to pull it between her teeth, which would only split the skin again. A nervous habit that wasn’t helping anything.

  “You ready?” Easton asked, lounging in the other chair with his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankle. There was no urgency to him, and she appreciated it, but the only thing that would really help in this moment was a magic spell. Something that would erase what had happened. Something that would take them back to the morning where they were naked and wrapped in a blanket, watching the sun turn the fog to gold.