The Bastard (Baddest Boys in History)

by Inez Kelley

  “I need a bathroom.”

  “Through there.” Erik pointed to a door off to the right.

  Lacy ran. The door swung wide under her push. Nausea roiled through her, but the stench nearly brought her to her knees. The small room was walled in expensive painted tile, but it smelled exactly like a men’s room — stale urine and some growing fungus she didn’t want to examine. Her stomach lurched and she leaned into a sink that needed to meet some Spic-n-Span. Her stomach had nothing else to lose. Icy cold water tingled her fingers as she splashed handfuls over her face.

  The breaths she gulped were musky, tasting of grime and soap. Her mind whirled and her body spasmed, leaving Lacy dizzily clinging to the porcelain bowl. Someone beat the hell out of her. The haven from her teen years had burned before her eyes. She had no home. She had no job. Dawson’s Diner had fallen victim to arson. Nine people died. It was her fault.

  “Please, God, make it stop.”

  Too much. It was too much. She couldn’t handle any more. Darkness narrowed in, her vision going dim. Blankness descended as she fell to the floor.

  Chapter Seven

  “Fucking horse tranq?” Nomad threw himself into his chair. “Shit, Rex, why not just run over her with a tank?”

  “Didn’t have one.” Rex took his own seat. “I swiped what I could find in the veterinary tent, sue me. I only tapped her a little, enough to knock her out.”

  Located on the lower floor beside the Hall of Infamy, the War Room was aptly named. It resembled a business conference room dipped in military décor. The high-glossed wood table shimmered with faint green thanks to the computer screens facing each chair. Maps of various countries lined the walls. A clear, computerized strategy board hung over the table, small red icons marking various places in the world with suspected locations of high Leech activity. A cursor resting in the far corner blinked neon green. The blinks kept rhythm with Vike’s pounding head.

  “What’s with bringing the Cake here? I told you to find a place to stash her.”

  Vike didn’t even bother glaring at Rex. “Name one place safer than H2Q.”

  “We don’t bring dates into our quarters,” Rex growled.

  “She’s not a date, she’s a Scion and our job. Just shut the fuck up and deal with it.”

  He rubbed his temples. Since becoming a Forsaken, no mortal substances affected him. Medications, drugs or alcohol had no effect, not even in massive quantities. He and Gen had tested the theory several times, drinking gallons of liquor. They never even got a buzz. But he felt hung-over now. There had been countless times over the centuries he’d been in pain and had to deal with it without the luxury of relief. The sharp bite of a battle wound consumed him, but a headache just annoyed the fuck out of him. He couldn’t even sleep the damned thing away.

  “Vike did the right thing.”

  Sela took her seat at the head of the long table. Vike was never sure if their placement was by design or accident, but the oldest of the group sat closer to her while he, Dray and Rex sat at the opposite end of the table. His eyes darted to the empty spot across from him and a keen loss ricocheted through his sternum. Life, and afterlife, had taught him that the pain would fade, but for now, Gen’s absence stung like a fresh cut.

  For one long moment, he sat with his eyes closed, his mind filled with a rough and rowdy Mongol who’d loved cheap fast food and expensive cigars. Gen would normally be slouched in his chair, boots propped on the wood, clipboard in his lap, his scrutinizing focus darting from person to person. Vike opened his eyes, half expecting to see that shit-eating grin, but the chair sat empty.

  There should a hand-rolled Cuban cigar smoking in the crystal ashtray and a bottle of apple juice sweating on the table. A wry smile itched along Vike’s mouth. The asshole had loved the stuff, bought it buy the case and guzzled it like a camel. Strategy sessions could last for minutes or days, depending on the target. Talking dried their mouths and even if they didn’t need fluid, it helped.

  Zale handed several frosty water bottles down the table from the small fridge behind him. He froze with a bottle of juice in his hand. His fingers tightened on the glass before he shoved it back inside the fridge. He poured a tall glass of goat’s milk for himself then took his chair.

  Vike shook his head. Milk was for infants not yet weaned. Milk, goat’s milk, cow’s milk if there was nothing else, was all Zale ever drank. But then, he wasn’t normal, was even more unnatural than the rest. Every Forsaken had lived and died as a human. But Zale hadn’t been born as one.

  Keys tapped as Myth uploaded a file and an image appeared in front of them all. Vike angled his monitor to reduce the glare. The picture of Lacy looked like it could jump off the screen.

  “Lacy Nicole Cooper.” Sela broke into his thought train and he snapped backward, putting distance between the monitor and him. “Age twenty-eight, single Caucasian female, no offspring, no identifiable religious preference, initial attack by the Third three days ago. Blood tests confirm she’s Scion, and both Vike and Rex felt the blood-song.”

  “Vike felt more than the blood-song.” Dray snickered.

  “Bite me,” Vike muttered.

  “Not you, but the Cake, yeah, I’d bite her.”

  He was across the table before he thought. Dray’s chair tipped back, then toppled under their combined weight. Vike never lost his hold, determined to break Dray’s neck.

  “Here we go again.” Nomad shook his head. “What’s with you, Vike? You’re sucking the drama-tit lately.”

  “Get off me!” Dray kneed Vike in the balls and swift pain exploded, popping white lights in his vision.

  “Knock it off, both of you.” Sela snapped.

  It took a concentrated effort to pull his hands from Dray’s neck. They glared at each other and flopped back in their seats.

  “The destruction I get. They want her helpless. But why is the sister alive?” Myth leaned forward and steepled his hands. “She’s diabetic so they won’t take her, but why not kill her or use her as bait?”

  “Because Lacy and her sister are worse than Scion.” Nomad sighed.

  Vike’s head snapped up. “Worse? How?”

  “There are certain markers in the blood, a slight variation in the gene.” Omen laid his big ugly head on his master’s thigh as if comforting him. “They’re not just Scion. They’re Scionim, descended from one of the Seven.”

  “The Seven.” Horror blended with shock. The highest rank of Vangelus, the Seven. The Forsaken had protected numerous Scion during Vike’s time but never a Scionim. He hadn’t even known any still lived. Except there were two. One was protected by her own medical condition and the other one he’d tucked into his bed. Lacy wasn’t just Cake. She was fucking seven-layer Cake with raspberry filling.

  “Scionim,” Sela murmured. “Of course. That’s why her soul melody seemed different when I touched her. And why Annie still lives. She’s diabetic, but that gene might not be passed to a child. Samael’s holding her as a reserve.”

  Nomad nodded. “At first, I thought maybe her bloodline could belong to any of the Patricius but those assholes that were aligning with Samael were too busy planning their attack on Heaven and a little human pussy didn’t interest them.”

  Vike’s headache skyrocketed into brain spasms. He couldn’t think of Lacy’s bloodline being spawned by some unholy angel that got kicked out of Heaven. It was bad enough realizing her ancestors still had their wings.

  “Wonderful. One of the Seven got his celestial nuts off eons ago and Lacy’s going to pay the price or, twenty years from now, Annie’s kid will fill the spot.” Sourness filled Vike’s mouth. He chugged water trying to wash the taste away.

  “Annie can wait. Time is on our side there. All humanity will pay the price if Samael claims Lacy,” Sela said. “To combat the Holy Seven, Samael needs Seven Chiefs. Only six Vachangelus, what humans call Archangels, were cast out and now bow to him as his Chiefs. He needs another. Scion can become Minions but only a Scionim can be turned in
to a Chief.”

  “Why don’t we just kill her and box her dust?” Nomad asked. Vike tensed and Omen’s head snapped up, teeth bared in a warning growl. The mutt wasn’t above taking a chunk out of any Forsaken who came at his owner.

  Killing a mortal seemed cold, but they all knew that death wasn’t an end, that life on Earth was a temporary state for most. Dying was simply passage into a sleep that would lead to a final eternal destination. But Nomad was still an asshole. “We’re not killing her.”

  Nomad rolled his eyes. “Whatever. It’d be easier.”

  “All we have to do is keep her here until the Immunity kicks in. Then Samael can’t make her one of his Chiefs. She’ll be safe and Holy War is prevented.”

  “Or we could stop this whole thing right now by trotting our happy asses upstairs and dusting her.” The duh look on Nomad’s face spiraled red into Vike’s sight. Omen’s growl grew louder.

  “She’s of Holy blood. She stays alive unless we have no choice.” There was a softness in Sela’s voice, a kindness that was couched in ominous caution. “Protect Lacy Cooper well, my warriors. She cannot be allowed to fall into the Third’s hands. We must find the stolen Scion soul-boxes before Samael Awakens them and prevent him from claiming any Scion still living. That, boys, is our new mission in this war.”

  Rex jabbed a cigarette out in a crystal bowl. “We’re fucked.”

  Sunlight shone behind a thick wall of drapes, casting the room into a shadowy haven. Lacy snuggled deeper into her pillow then remembered it wasn’t her pillow. Yesterday crashed into her and she sat up, pushing the blankets back. She still wore her tee shirt and panties, but her jeans and hoodie lay across a chair beside the dresser.

  She climbed from bed and searched for her cell. It was nine-thirty-two in the morning. Her battery was dangerously low. She couldn’t even complete a call to Annie before it died. She didn’t see a landline anywhere.

  Anxious to find Erik and his cell phone, she headed toward the open bathroom door. The bathroom was slightly less disgusting than the one she’d stumbled into last night, but she eyed the toilet with trepidation. Nature forced her to lower her standards.

  Her image in the streaky mirror took her back. Her scrapes and bruises were gone. Ripping her tee shirt off, she stared at her stomach. Smooth, unblemished skin. She ran her fingers over her ribs. They didn’t even twinge with her exaggerated inhale.

  “What the hell?”

  She craned her neck, searching every millimeter of her skin. Not one tiny greenish-tinged bruise remained. No pale pinkness from her forehead scrape. Not even a zit on her chin. Darting back into the bedroom, she checked her cell. It glowed a split second, just long enough for her to check the date. She hadn’t slept two weeks away, just about twelve hours. Twelve hours of deep, blissful, dreamless sleep that had begun when she passed out in the bathroom.

  Her brain cramped. Sela’s kiss. It had felt different. Not different in that it’d come from a woman, but different like she’d kissed a battery. Every injury she had, that she now didn’t have, had tingled. But nobody could cure with a kiss, could they?

  Lacy shook her head, shoving off her fears. She watched too many movies. Her lifestyle was pretty healthy. Maybe her injuries weren’t as bad as she’d thought. At least she was alive, something that nine other people couldn’t claim. Guilt weighed down on her shoulders but physically, she felt great. Energy pumped through her veins and her muscles nearly crackled with health and vigor. She needed to move.

  The pounding water was like nirvana and she lathered and rinsed, shampooed and managed to avoid gagging at the soap film on the shower walls. She even managed to not cringe at the less than sanitary clean towels. If she was going to stay with Erik, her first order of business was going to be cleaning this damn bathroom. Maybe she couldn’t stop whoever was after her, but she sure as hell could wipe out a few million germs.

  Ignoring the niggle of bad manners, she dug through Erik’s dresser until she found a tee shirt and a pair of sweat shorts. They were too big, but she pulled the drawstring until it hung to her knees to tighten the waist. She’d have to get into town sometime and pick up some new clothes. At least her purse sat on the dresser, spared from the flames because it had been locked in his truck while she worked the fair. She had her wallet and her credit cards and about sixty bucks in cash.

  Unshed tears stung her nose. Her life had been reduced to the contents of a knock-off handbag.

  A note perched on the bedside table caught her eye.

  Lace,

  Kitchen is on level one if you’re hungry. I’m working down in the basement, but will come up and check on you later. Rest. Remote’s on the couch.

  ~Erik

  Rest was the last thing she wanted, but a cup of tea would be wonderful. Her grumbling stomach could use some food, too. She tied her damp hair back into a ponytail and bounded out of the room barefoot.

  The outer room held the same panel-draped wall, a couch and an entertainment center that rivaled the one downstairs. A gorgeous ocean print took up the entire wall above the couch but there were few other personal touches. A pair of skis and a set of snowshoes were piled in one corner. The coffee table looked like it had clock parts strewn across it.

  A bar separated the room from a tiny kitchenette in basic white. The small refrigerator held nothing but beer and ketchup. Lacy curled her lip. How did bachelors live this way?

  She didn’t have a key so she left the door unlocked and went into the hall. Looking left and right, she saw nothing but white walls that stretched for what seemed like a hundred yards. She turned right for no other reason except she was right-handed. At one point, the wall angled and there was another nondescript door. This same bend and stretch continued. Each segment contained two doors, which she assumed meant two apartments. A silly thought about leaving a trail of breadcrumbs struck and she snorted. That required bread, something Erik didn’t have in his apartment.

  There had to be a set of stairs somewhere. She stopped beside a third door with a frown. It was cracked open so she pushed on it. Laundry room, nothing exciting there and no way downstairs. She tucked her bottom lip beneath her teeth and tapped on another door. When there was no answer, she turned the knob. She stuck her head inside and light from the hallway spilled in. It was someone’s apartment and, although the layout was exactly like Erik’s, this one was so colorful it hurt her eyes.

  Layers of silk drapings, tufted pillows and ornate gold candleholders created a rich, exotic feel. The walls were a deep plum and the heavy fragrance of incense lingered. Light winked off something silver and she craned her neck for a better look. Three curved swords lay on the counter. One had tassels streaming from the hilt, one rested on a sharpening stone and one held dark smudges.

  Who the hell lived here? Genghis Khan? She shut the door quickly.

  Near the fourth door, she found an elevator. She pressed the down arrow and watched the numbers above the doorway light up. She made a mental note of her path for when she returned. She was going to have to put a marker up somehow or she end up walking into the wrong apartment.

  The inside panel of the elevator intrigued her. An unmarked button sat at the bottom, beneath the basement garage level. It was black where the others were normal white with numbers. Ignoring the whisper of curiosity, she pressed One.

  Noise assaulted her when the steel doors slid open. Both televisions were blaring, one an Arabic news station, the other a soccer game. On one of the long couches, two men studied stacks of papers and compared them to separate laptop screens, not bothering to glance up. Vike had spewed off names last night but she wasn’t sure…

  The dog stretching reminded her. Omen bites. Omen belonged to the swarthy-skinned man with the beard wearing the “You! Out of the Gene Pool” tee shirt. Holey sweatpants and dingy socks didn’t mesh with the intense intelligence in his eyes as he scoured a page.

  What was his name? She couldn’t remember. He pushed thick dark brown hair out of his eyes then dro
pped his hand and gently scratched the dog’s back. Omen wiggled closer to his touch. Any man who loved a pet that much couldn’t be too big of an asshole, she thought.

  The notion vanished when he suddenly looked up. His scowl seemed sliced into his craggy face. The spreadsheet in his hand crinkled as he nudged the man beside him.

  This one she recalled. Myth. The snake tattoo was a hell of a calling card. He pointed a remote at the sound system and the television volume lowered. “Good morning, Lacy.”

  “Morning.” Clearing her throat, she stepped closer. “Erik said there was a kitchen around here.”

  He motioned behind him. A long counter separated the kitchen from the living area. She’d been so out of it last night, she’d missed it. “Ah. I see, said the blind chick.”

  Myth chuckled. “Sela made sure there were fresh groceries. Help yourself.”

  Sunlight flooded the room. Only half the kitchen was open to the living room. The other half, the functional half, astounded her. It was a cook’s dream kitchen with industrial grade appliances, granite countertops, and rows of cabinets. She ran her fingertips over the cool marble top of the center island, perfect for dough prep. She hurried to a stove with six gas burners. The hinges moved soundlessly as she cracked open the double doors below. She exhaled slowly. There was a warming drawer.

  Unlike the other rooms, this one was spotless. The ovens looked like they had never been used and the refrigerator was pristine and filled with fresh food. Wildly opening cabinets, Lacy mentally cataloged every item. There was enough food for an army and then some. Front and center, she found the Holy Grail.

  She sucked in the fragrance of imported English Breakfast tea. She didn’t recognize the label but the scent alone invigorated her. In minutes, she had a kettle heating and was digging for the makings of the breakfast to end all breakfasts. She’d never been so hungry. Her hand paused on a sack of potatoes.