Return of the Assassin (All the King's Men)

by Lynne, Donya

  Deacon. Their other brother. Apostle's twin. The one who died when Apostle had been the intended target. Bishop was never going to forgive him for Deacon's death. Deacon had been the prodigal brother. The pinnacle of evil in Bishop's eyes…and the perfect manager of Bishop's operation. A title Bishop wanted him to take, but in which Apostle had no interest. For obvious reasons. He glanced down at the dozen or so welts on his belly to remind himself of just one of those reasons.

  Apostle turned for the bathroom. He wanted to shower. Cold water helped lessen the miserable burn and itch of his wounds.

  "Where do you think you're going, brother?" Bishop said. "Get dressed. Our guest will arrive soon and I can't have you looking like…that." Bishop raised his hand and gestured toward Apostle's marred stomach.

  "Maybe you should have thought of that before punishing me, dear brother." Apostle started for the bathroom again. "And clothes irritate the stings."

  "You insolent fuck!"

  Apostle turned to find Bishop already on him, his eyes flashing red. With a violent shove, his back crashed into the wall as Bishop pulled a dagger from his sleeve and sank the blade into the side of his abdomen. Bishop's other hand gripped his throat in the mother of all choke holds.

  "You do as I say, you miserable fuck." Bishop got nose-to-nose with him, and he cringed and grunted as Bishop twisted the knife. "Not that you'd notice or be grateful, but my pets gave you a gift. And now you'll see just what that gift is, not that you deserve it. I almost wish now that I could take it back." He yanked the knife out and stepped away, anger and frustration seething through his clenched teeth.

  Apostle looked down at the wound and clutched his side as he stumbled forward and fell to his knees. "What the fuck? What the hell's wrong with you?"

  "Just watch, brother." He nodded toward the knife wound. "See?"

  Apostle peeled his hands back and gasped. The wound was already healing. Before his eyes, the edges of the wound pulled together and repaired itself as if on a time-lapsed recording. What had taken days before now took only minutes. "What the—?"

  With a casual turn, Bishop entered the bathroom, rinsed the blood off the dagger, and dried it on the towel as Apostle stared after him. "The scorpions were genetically altered with vampire DNA. And not just regular vampire DNA, because not even vampires heal that quickly." He returned to the room. "My bio-hackers made a few modifications, and we found that using scorpion venom enhanced those alterations exponentially. So…" Bishop offered a crooked grin. "When they stung you, they implanted their designer DNA into your own genetic makeup. The aches, the lethargy…" Bishop picked up his cigarette and settled it between his lips before continuing. "Even the itching." He waved his hand in an arc as if encompassing all Apostle's symptoms. "They're all part of the changes taking place in your body, Apostle."

  Apostle stared openmouthed at him. What was Bishop saying? That he had not only begun altering his own DNA, but he had also done the same to Apostle? Without his permission? Apostle didn't want to become a hybrid. He wanted no part of the vampire gene code in his body.

  Damn Bishop! And damn his bastard Frankenscorpions!

  Bishop sauntered away, that goddamn cigarette leaving a sickly sweet trail. "Even now, you probably don't feel much pain, do you?"

  Apostle frowned, then shook his head. "No. Not really." But so what? Real warriors felt pain. They lived for it. The pain kept them sharp in the field of battle. It kept them from getting careless. And Apostle was a warrior, not some glorified lab rat.

  Someday Bishop would pay for what he had done. Apostle was nobody's fool and nobody's bitch, least of all Bishop's. Fuck him. Decision made. Maybe not tomorrow, and maybe not next week, but soon Apostle would have his revenge. A day would come, and he would get payback for the sin Bishop had committed against him in the name of science, and then he would be gone. Out of there. On his own again. Just the way he liked it.

  "See?" With a flippant wave, Bishop turned away and fondled the felt bag on the bed, unaware of the mental battle raging inside Apostle's head.

  "See what? That you're psychotic." Apostle stood and stalked into the bathroom. He flipped on the water and grabbed a washcloth from the rack.

  Bishop turned an exasperated glance Apostle's way. "Dear brother, there is a fine line between psychosis and genius."

  "Uh-huh. And you're walking it." Apostle stepped into the bathroom doorway, dabbing the wet cloth over the wound, which was already nearly halfway healed.

  A knock came at the door and Bishop sneered. "That's right. And you'll do good to remember that, little brother. Now, get dressed while I let in our guest."

  Stalemate. For now. But one way or another, this conversation wasn't over.

  Apostle watched his Malcolm-McDowell-A-Clockwork-Orange-demented brother leave the bedroom. All Bishop needed was one set of fake eyelashes, a cane, a glass of milk, and a white suit with what looked like a large diaper strapped to suspenders on the outside of it, and Bishop would be the star of his own Stanley Kubrick film.

  Whack-o!

  Voices came from the main room, so he finished wiping the blood from his torso and inspected the mostly healed wound before grabbing a fresh shirt from his suitcase.

  When he entered the main room, Bishop was handing the felt bag to someone Apostle had never seen before. This must be Jacob, the vampire traitor who owned Maddox's son, the assassin who could do with his mind what others couldn't even do with their hands.

  "Here are the items you asked for," Bishop said. "When can I expect the job to be done?"

  "As soon as I get back, I'll put our phantom on it."

  Bishop caught Apostle out of the corner of his eye. "Ah, there you are. Finally." Bishop turned toward the vampire. "Jacob, this is my brother Apostle. I'm grooming him to take Deacon's place."

  Apostle noted the disdain with which Bishop spoke, and anger bubbled inside him like water about to boil. So, Bishop could consort with vampires like they were his best friends, but when it came to his own race, his own flesh and blood, Bishop treated him like he was the enemy. That was fucked up right there.

  He stepped forward and barely restrained a snarl of disgust from the smell of vampire in their hotel room.

  "Apostle, this is Jacob." Bishop gestured to each in turn.

  He shook his hand but remained back, wary of him. It didn't matter that Jacob held the key to eliminating the last remaining tie between Princess Miriam's abduction and him. Apostle didn't like Jacob. And he didn't like putting his fate in the vampire's hands. Not one bit.

  He had a bad feeling about this. At least that's one thing the Frankenscorpions hadn't altered: his gut instincts. And his gut told him shit was about to get real.

  And this time, Apostle had no intention of sticking around to experience the fallout.

  CHAPTER 4

  Malek settled deeper into the easy chair and brushed the woman's blond hair aside. He growled and dropped his head back at the sight of her lipstick-stained mouth bobbing up and down on his cock. That's right, Trina, how do you like your lipstick now?

  Every muscle in his body strained, and his chest heaved for breath as his fingers fisted Trina's hair. She had been at it for over twenty minutes, and he was no closer to coming than he had been an hour ago. His orgasm took up shop in his nuts and drummed its fingers as if a warm mouth and slippery tongue weren't a good enough reason to come out and play.

  Bruises covered Trina's arms from where he had held her down and fucked her earlier, and her hair was a bird's nest of tangles compared to the perfect coif she'd sported after leaving Four Alarm.

  Still, as hard as he had taken her, he couldn't come.

  He knew what the problems were. Yes, problems, because he didn't have just one. Malek was monumentally fucked up and only getting worse with each passing hour. He longed for two females. One dead, one alive. A war of wills battled within the confines of his skin, and his flesh and his mind were the battlefield. Talk about your split personalities. Right now, Malek w
as his own worst enemy, with one-half of his psyche rooting for Carmen while the other cheered for Gina. In the middle was indecision and torment, and that's where Malek lived.

  The rational part of him that knew the truth dimmed a little more each day. It withered away like drought-stricken grass, its roots dying and lifting from the soil. Before long, there would be nothing left that made sense. He was on borrowed time, a male on the path of self-destruction. But there was enough of his rational side left to comprehend at least on a very small level that he was in serious trouble. As in, he was losing the battle with his mind and would eventually implode. And most likely die. But he was powerless to stop the out-of-control freight train that felt more like a sun getting ready to supernova.

  Pushing Trina off his cock, he pointed across the room. "Get on the bed. Now."

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and regarded him for a second, and then got up and did as he said, crawling onto the bed then turning over to lie back. The promise of the extra thousand kept her compliant with his demands.

  "No," Malek said, stepping up to the foot of the bed. His aching cock jutted out like an antenna. Only it wasn't receiving. Or transmitting. The damn thing was practically useless. "This way." He pointed at the foot of the bed. "Lie this way and hang your head off the side."

  With fearful hesitation, Trina turned and settled onto the bed so that she was face-to-cock with him. With a subtle shift, she hesitated but wrapped her arms around his hips, knowing what he wanted. But the nervous look in her eyes made it clear she wasn't overly eager in the new position that had her staring up at his erection as if it were a demon.

  "Open up."

  Like a good girl, Trina opened and pulled him closer, taking the head of his cock into her mouth again. Her teeth grazed his flesh as she fought back the urge to push him away. The extra thousand bucks certainly did its job to keep her manageable.

  Bending over and planting his fists against the mattress on either side of her torso, Malek began thrusting his hips forward and back, pushing his cock deeper with each stroke. In no time, he was pounding his cock down her open throat. He'd never done this to a woman, but then, he was doing a lot of shit he had never done. Before long, if he didn't actually die from his internal torment, he would be as bad as Micah and have a whole BDSM theme in his bedroom. How about that? Floggers, maybe even a St. Andrew's Cross. Would Trina look good strapped up on the cross? Would that get him off?

  Ah, yes. Now his orgasm lifted one eyebrow with interest. It liked this, both the visual and the deep throating, as well as the gagging sounds Trina made as she pushed against the front of his thighs to keep him from driving in so deep. But still the little bastard wanted more.

  A bead of sweat dripped off Malek's nose and splattered on one of Trina's jiggling breasts. He needed to come, damn it.

  He would have come three times over by now if Gina was the one doing the honors, but then again, Malek wouldn't have been fucking Gina's mouth. He wouldn't have been fucking her period. You didn't fuck your mate. You made love to her.

  Shit! What was he thinking? Get that thought out of your head, Malek.

  That shit wasn't going to happen. He had already decided that no matter what his screwed up biology wanted, he wasn't going to play along. Not at the cost of defiling Carmen's memory. His first mate deserved better than that. So, his biological mating device needed to just get with the program and deactivate the Gina Project right now, because he wasn't giving in on this one.

  But the wick had already been lit. His balls liked the image of Gina on her back, her arms holding him as he made love to her. They drew up and tingled, ready to blow, but damn…it was taking forever to let go.

  Frustration rose inside him, and he doubled his efforts, pumping harder against Trina's mouth as he gripped her breasts and squeezed, allowing the briefest of fantasies about Gina holding him against her body to play across his mind in hopes just the thought of her would hurry his orgasm along.

  It didn't matter that Trina gagged, choked, and pushed against the front of his thighs. He was oblivious to everything except getting his goddamn orgasm to get with the program and let go, for the love of God. He couldn't take much more of this.

  Apparently his stubborn orgasm liked the small gift he had given it with the idea of Gina making love to him and decided to be nice, because literally out of nowhere, his release shot through his body and dribbled down Trina's throat as he slammed his hips against her face one last time.

  Not that he felt much relief. It hadn't been that big of an orgasm. Great. A consolation come. Now he would get to walk around with a semi for a few hours and feel all coiled up and ready to pounce on anything with two legs.

  Trina pushed him backward and came up choking, spitting, and gasping for air, gagging for good measure. After coughing through her gag reflex and swallowing his itty-bitty dribble of semen, she glared at him, but otherwise kept her mouth shut, probably for fear that if she bitched, he would revoke the extra grand he had promised her.

  No need to worry about that. He sauntered over to his bureau, his hard cock bobbing and dripping out one final pump of semen—as if his orgasm thought that would make things right with him—and grabbed his money bag. After pulling out a stack of hundreds, he counted out twenty then looked over his shoulder.

  "Get out." He held the money toward her.

  "Fine by me." She flung herself off the bed, snatched her clothes, and marched toward him. Without so much as a thank you, she swiped the bills from his hand. "Do me a favor next time you see me."

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  "Ignore me." She grabbed the rest of her things and headed upstairs.

  Malek heard her call for a cab, and then she was gone.

  He heaved a sigh, although not one of relief. With his dick still hard and his orgasm laughing after teasing him with a Smurf-sized release, how could he feel anything close to relief?

  His own behavior sickened him. He was supposed to be the nice one. The guy who never forgot his manners and offered a polite smile to everyone he met. But now he was a bastard. He had abused Trina's body without a care for her feelings or whether or not he was hurting her. He had paid for her services, and in the same way someone rents a car and drives like a bat out of hell without caring if they nick the paint or dent the bumper, he had driven poor Trina until her proverbial wheels had nearly fallen off.

  He knew what he had done was wrong. Even a working girl like Trina deserved respect, but lately he couldn't seem to muster anything but degradation and contempt. Not for anyone, even himself. Every night, he brought his latest trick back to his home and abused the living hell out of her, all for his selfish need to beat the despair from his body. And every morning—if she lasted that long—she left tousled, bruised, and deflated, which left Malek to mentally flog himself for his crude and abhorrent behavior.

  The way he was now.

  Like an alcoholic, he promised every morning to clean himself up, but every night he discarded his oath and returned to the streets to troll for more. The vicious cycle did nothing to ease his already torturous inner dialogue.

  Full of pent-up frustration and self-loathing, Malek spun on his heel and barreled to the bathroom. Clenching and releasing his fists, he paced outside the shower, ready to snap, and then whipped forward to flip the shower on with an abrupt jerk of his hand.

  How much more could he take? Every day he felt himself losing his grip on reality, as well as his sanity. He knew he was monumentally fucked up. At some basic level of his awareness, he understood that The Voice was a product of his own making. A Mr. Hyde springing up in his mind from his usually docile Dr. Jekyll demeanor. But knowing he was his own worst enemy didn't stop him from arguing with himself on an almost daily basis. Daily? Try hourly. The Voice antagonized him relentlessly to give in to Gina's pull, but he refused, willing to sacrifice himself in the conscious realm for the sake of keeping Carmen's memory intact.

  He knew Carmen was dead. Deep down, wit
hin the belly of his soul, he knew she was gone from this earth, but on the surface he refused to accept that painful truth. By denying the truth, he kept her alive in spirit, alive in his soul.

  And that was where the agony erupted like a blown blood vessel, only on a volcanic scale. Now that his soul yearned to mate with Gina, there wasn't enough room for both females to set up house inside his heart. The result was an extinction level event that rivaled the fiercest battles in all of history: A historic grudge match between the Vikings and the Spartans. The Octagon of death between the Romans and Saxons.

  Was this what Micah had gone through after losing Jackson? Or Katarina, for that matter? If so, he had a new respect for his old friend.

  Malek threw himself under the shower of water, which hadn't fully heated up. The cool flow spilled over him, matting his long, black hair to his face, neck, and shoulders as he leaned against the cold, tiled wall on outstretched arms and turned his head up into the falling water.

  He and Micah had been best friends once, a long time ago. In the Middle Ages, they had trained together and grown up side by side as warriors. They had been more like brothers than friends. No, their friendship ran much deeper than that. He and Micah were kindred souls, so close that their lives practically mirrored one another. What happened to one happened to the other. That was how it had always been between he and Micah. A testament they proved over and over, even when they both took mates at the same time. Micah had mated Katarina, and Malek had mated Carmen within months of one another. But the magic connection between them was also a curse. When Micah lost Kat, it had only been a matter of time before Carmen died, too. Malek had feared her time was coming and petitioned King Bain the First to allow him to change her. But that was before the laws regarding human mates had been changed to allow for such a contingency, and the king refused his request. Within days of receiving the king's reply, Carmen was gone.