by Reinke, Sara
“Back off, asshole,” Julien snarled, his pupils widening, his upper gum line suddenly tingling as his canine teeth began to drop.
“Or what, strigoi?” Vučko sneered. “You think you scare me? You don’t.”
With a menacing grin, he strode forward. Sofiya uttered a soft, birdlike cry and tried to scramble out of his way, but she was too late. Vučko grabbed the girl by the back of her neck and threw her, sending her flying like a rag doll tossed by an angry child, crashing into the wall by the foot of Julien’s bed.
“Sofiya!” he cried as she crumpled to the floor, landing in a small, shuddering heap. “You son of a bitch—leave her alone!”
“Is my face so offensive?” Vučko seethed, stalking toward Sofiya. “My scars so terrible you can only look at me with disgust?”
“No.” Sofiya had started to cry, her voice sob-choked and strained. “No, no…!” She looked toward the bed, wide-eyed and terrified. “Julien, please!”
“I said leave her alone!” Julien shouted. He strained against his bonds, the edge of the manacles cutting into his ankles and wrists.
“I see the way you look at him,” Vučko said, glancing back at Julien. “The way you touch his body, how you put your hands all over him. Dirty little whore—do you like it? Do you imagine yourself grinding on him? His mouth and hands on you, his cock inside you? Do you think he’s more of a man than me?”
“Please,” Sofiya mewled as Vučko grabbed a handful of her hair, wrenching her head back. “Ya devstvennitsa!” I’m a virgin!
“Ne dlya ochen' namnogo dol'she,” Vučko said, slapping her hard. Not for very much longer. Blood sprayed from her nose, spattering against the water-stained wallpaper as she again fell to the floor. He squatted in front of her, shoving her legs apart, ripping her shorts down from her hips. “I’ll show you who’s more of a man.”
“No!” Julien roared, and as he drew his legs back, summoning every ounce of adrenaline-infused strength the bloodlust had given him, he ripped the footboard of the bed loose from the frame. It broke free with a shriek of rending metal, and the entire bed came crashing down on that side, leaving Julien craned at an angle, his back arched against the mattress.
Vučko whirled at the sound, his eyes wide and startled, and with another furious cry, Julien rammed his feet forward, bringing the entire footboard of the bed—still anchored by the chains to his ankles—with them. The top rail—cast iron and as thick as baseball bat—smashed into Vučko’s mouth, sending him sprawling backwards. Julien heard the distinctive, moist crunch of shattered teeth, and when Vučko sat up, swaying as he stumbled to his feet, his mouth was little more than a bloody ruin.
“You…son of a…bitch…!” he said in Russian, blood peppering and spraying from his lips as he spoke. Blinking once, as if in dazed surprise, he turned his head and spat—a tooth flew out of his mouth, bouncing against the floor. “You son of a bitch!” he exclaimed again.
He charged at Julien, bellowing furiously, his boot steps shuddering through the floor. Julien jerked his legs back, folding his knees toward his chest, catching Vučko against the footboard as he launched himself in attack. Vučko snarled, swinging his fists and clambering over the footboard, trying to reach Julien. Just as he clamped one of his hands against Julien’s throat, his palm mashing down on his windpipe, Julien heaved mightily, unfurling his legs and twisting at the hips so that when the footboard knocked Vučko backwards, it also forced him to fall sideways. Julien rolled with it, crossing his arms and feeling the tether of the chains draw taut around the pipe as he moved. Planting his feet on the footboard, he could leverage his weight against it now—and he did, bearing down against the top beam as it fell beneath the shelf of Vučko’s chin.
Vučko thrashed beneath him like a hooked fish, but his struggles weakened quickly as the iron cross-bar cut off his air supply. He stared up at Julien, eyes bulging, his face flushing from bright red to dusky plum in rapid transition, and pawed helplessly at the rusty iron bars pinning him down.
“Please…!” he croaked, his tongue lolling from his mouth, his fingers fumbling against the rusty iron bars.
“Touch her again, and I’ll kill you,” Julien said, his eyes fully engulfed in blackness now, his fangs hooked and fierce, forcing his mouth ajar. “You hear me, motherfucker? Touch the girl again and I’ll—”
His voice ripped up into a sharp, hoarse cry as a sudden surge of electricity—like being doused with napalm from head to toe, from the inside out—tore through him. He convulsed against his chains, his entire body heaving in violent spasms, before he fell sideways, dragging the footboard with him as he fell. Dangling by his wrist cuffs against the ruined bed, he gasped for breath as spasmodic aftershocks shuddered through him.
“Oh, mišiću,” he heard Nikolić say, clucking his tongue in a chastising fashion as he walked into the room. “What have you done now?”
Julien opened his eyes, blinking dazedly at the bigger man, who approached with a patently false smile, flanked on either side by more of his men, all armed. He squirmed as Nikolić reached down with his free hand, clamping hold just beneath his chin.
“You broke the bed,” he observed—always one to be fast on the uptake. With a quick glance at Vučko, who had managed to sit up, groaning and bleeding, he added, “And one of my men.”
“Yeah?” Julien had bitten his tongue hard enough to draw blood when he’d been electrocuted; with a grimace, he spit now, aiming purposely for Nikolić’s wrist. “Well, your man there…he was about to help himself to a little piece of your investment property…if you know what I mean.”
And because Nikolić followed his pointed look toward Sofiya, who still huddled against the wall, trembling, Julien knew he understood his meaning only too well.
“What’s a little girl’s virginity go for these days, Nikolić?” he asked. “Five thousand dollars? Ten? Whatever it is—I just saved your ass that much by saving hers.” He spat again. “You’re welcome, asshole.”
Nikolić turned to Vučko. “Is this true?”
“No, šef.” Vučko’s voice was little more than a hoarse croak, the cartilage of his larynx crushed by the footboard. With a glare, he shoved a shaking forefinger at Julien. “I found that little whore rubbing herself all over him.”
“That’s a lie!” Julien snapped, and Nikolić tightened his grasp against his jaw to hold him still.
“She had his dick in her mouth,” Vučko wheezed, stumbling to his feet. He turned his face and spat; another tooth hit the floor. “He was begging her to fuck him. Look at her—her shorts are pulled down. She was ready to do it!”
“He’s lying…!” Julien seethed, and this time, Nikolić crushed his chin enough to make him cry out.
“Ćutati!” Nikolić snapped. Shut up! Keeping his vise-like hold on Julien’s face with one hand, he pulled out a pistol—one of Julien’s own Nighthawk Custom T4 9-millimeters—from a hip holster with the other. Sofiya whimpered from behind Nikolić as he forced the muzzle between Julien’s lips.
“I’ve known Vučko for twenty years,” Nikolić said. “We fought together during the Siege of Bihać in 1994. His face was riddled by shrapnel after he tried to shield me from a mortar explosion. He sacrificed his eye to save my life. I’ve never doubted his loyalty to me, or his word.”
Do it, then, Julien wanted to yell at him, but he couldn’t do more than bare his teeth around the oily gun barrel and snarl unintelligibly. Spare me your boring-ass war stories and shoot me, you stupid son of a bitch!
“Until today,” Nikolić remarked, and Julien gulped as he jerked the pistol out of his mouth. In the same fluid movement, Nikolić swung his gun arm around, leveling his aim at Vučko. Without hesitation, without even giving Vučko the chance to sputter in frightened surprise, he squeezed the trigger. The nine-millimeter round punched into the thick muscle spanning the length of Vučko’s right thigh, and with a sharp yowl, he went down with a crash.
“The girl’s pants are down, da,” Nikolić said to Vu
čko as he writhed on the floor, clutching at his leg. As he returned his cold gaze to Julien, that cleft between his brows deepened. “But his aren’t. Strange for a man you say had his cock in her mouth.”
He released Julien, leaving him to flounder back, then fall clumsily against the listing mattress. Julien gasped for breath, still dumbfounded by the unexpected turn of events, his ears still ringing from the sharp report of gunfire in such cramped and confined surroundings. Something on the floor beside the bed caught Nikolić’s eye; when he leaned over and picked it up—the little brass angel wing pendant—Julien nearly groaned aloud.
“Take Vučko to Andrei, have him dig out that slug,” Nikolić growled to his guards, curling his fingers around the charm and sparing Julien a dark glance that let him know only too well that Nikolić knew exactly what it was, where it had come from—and what Julien had hoped to accomplish with it. As he turned, he hooked Sofiya beneath the arm, hauling her unceremoniously to her feet. He stomped toward the door, dragging the girl along behind him. “Then get Dr. Morin in here. Our little mouse has gone and pulled out his precious chest tube.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I see you got my note,” Mason said, pressing a square of Vaseline-coated gauze over the ragged hole where Julien’s chest tube had been. Moments earlier, he’d sealed this same hole with a neat, tidy row of sutures, sliding a needle in and out through Julien’s skin with a deft and gentle hand. He cut Julien a dry glance as he taped a sterile dressing over the greasy gauze, keeping gentle pressure against the site. “Though this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
Julien managed a soft laugh. “Hey, I had to improvise.”
They sat together in Julien’s room; the ruined bed and blood-stained mattress had both been removed. One of Nikolić’s men had kindly taken a sledgehammer and punched a new hole in the wall, this one closer to the floor, so that Julien’s chains could be lowered enough for him to sit on the gritty, dusty floor, his arms bound behind his back.
“You could have blown that lung all over again.” Snapping off his vinyl gloves, Mason then ducked his head, slipping a stethoscope loose from around his neck. “Frankly, I’m pretty shocked you didn’t.” He slipped the earpieces into place then leaned forward again, pressing the cool diaphragm against Julien’s chest. “Breathe for me.”
Julien inhaled deeply. “The son of a bitch was going to rape a little girl.”
“Again,” Mason murmured as he moved the stethoscope down toward Julien’s side.
Julien took another deep breath. “I couldn’t let that happen, Mason.”
“And again.” Now Mason leaned past Julien, resting the diaphragm against his back.
“She’s just a kid,” Julien said.
“Last time,” Mason said, sliding the scope piece just beneath Julien’s shoulder blade and in toward his arm.
“I’m a prick, yeah,” Julien growled. “But I’m not a complete son of a bitch.”
“You’re not a prick,” Mason said, and when he drew the stethoscope away, leaning back into Julien’s line of sight, Julien saw he was frowning. “And don’t give me that bullshit about how I don’t know you anymore. You haven’t changed. You’re still reckless, impulsive, thoughtless, bull-headed, and completely infuriating. Exactly as I remember.”
“Yeah?” Julien arched his brow. “Well, you’re still insufferably overbearing, pompous, and pretentious. Exactly as I remember.”
The hard line of Mason’s mouth softened into a smile and they both burst into quiet laughter, leaning their heads together.
“God Almighty, I’ve missed you,” Mason said, clapping his hand gently to Julien’s cheek. With an anxious glance behind him toward the doorway, he cleared his throat and drew stiffly away. “And your lung sounds are all clear. For now anyway.”
There were no guards in the room. Although one had escorted Mason down, he and the other man Nikolić had left at Julien’s door had ducked out into the hallway for a moment. They’d been laughing together, with the other guard pulling out his smart phone to show something, a video online of one sort or another. They’d closed the door only half-way behind them, presumably to keep an ear on Julien and Mason.
“Any idea what Nikolić’s got Edith working on yet?” Julien asked in a low voice. “You said something before about a research project Phillip had started?”
Mason nodded. “But I don’t know what. Phillip’s dead…”
“I know. I heard,” Julien interjected quietly. “I…I heard about your father, too. I’m sorry, Mason.”
Shit like that always sounded insincere, even if it wasn’t, and he hoped like hell Mason didn’t think he was offering him empty bullshit.
Mason nodded again, his gaze averted. “Thanks. Me, too.”
“It wasn’t…Aaron, was it?” Julien hated to ask, but the question that his brother might have taken matters into his own hands in Lake Tahoe had been simmering on the back burner of his mind ever since he’d read that magazine article announcing Michel’s death. He had to know.
“No.” Mason looked back up at Julien, his eyes misty and momentarily forlorn. “It was Phillip.”
“What?” Julien blinked in surprise and Mason nodded grimly.
“He would’ve killed me, too, if it hadn’t been for Aaron. Your brother saved my life.”
What? Julien thought, stunned. There hadn’t been time for him to speak at any length with Aaron upon his return to Kentucky, but Az sure as hell hadn’t mentioned anything like that to him. In fact… “What about Tristan?” he asked. “I thought…I mean, our father…”
“Aaron didn’t hurt Tristan,” Mason said—another surprise. “That’s why he was sent there, I know—to kill him—but he didn’t do it. He couldn’t. Not after he realized…after we told him…”
Julien shook his head, confounded. Az couldn’t do it? But he brought that heart back with him—that stinking thing in the Ziploc bag. If it wasn’t Tristan’s then…?
“What the hell are you talking about?” he whispered.
“Tristan is Lisette’s son,” Mason said. “Hers…and my father’s.”
Julien drew back, his eyes widening in shock.
“They fell in love. That’s why Phillip hated him so much. Why he…” A pained crimp formed between his brows. “Why he murdered him. Phillip wanted Aaron to take the blame for Michel’s death. And when he found out I was named Michel’s primary heir in the will instead of him, he figured he’d take me out, too.”
“Lissie and your father…?” Julien said softly. He couldn’t wrap his head around it; his sweet, flaxen-haired sister, she of the sunshine-bright smile and the mean left hook. Lissie and Michel Morin? And they…holy shit, they had a son?
He’d seen Lisette over the years, of course, from a distance or through photographs when she’d traveled in Mason’s company. Sometimes there had been a boy with them, but he’d always assumed this to be Lisette’s son with Phillip, her husband. Never in a million years would he have imagined…
“My father knew.” This sudden realization hit Julien like a drop kick in the balls. There was no way Lamar couldn’t have known—hell, he’d ordered Aaron to California specifically to kill Tristan Morin. A brother for a brother, a son for a son—that’s what he’d told Az, because Tristan had been Mason’s brother, and Michel’s son. Killing him would be Lamar’s vengeance for Victor’s death on the dueling field centuries earlier.
“He has to have known,” Julien whispered in dismay. Not just about Tristan being Michel’s son—but Lisette’s, too.
“Phillip must’ve told him,” Mason said. “Since it sounds like they were working together even before Nikolić came on the scene.”
“But Lissie’s okay,” Julien said—a pleading statement more than a question. “He didn’t hurt her, did he? That son of a bitch—if he touched my sister, I’ll…” His voice faltered as Mason’s expression softened, his brows lifting in sympathy. “What?” he whispered, feeling a knot of dread suddenly form in his gut, cinching
slowly, steadily. “What’s wrong? Lissie…she’s okay, isn’t she? Goddammit, Mason…!”
“She’s dead.” Mason reached for Julien, touching his face. “I’m so sorry, Julien. She’d been sick…very sick. There was nothing we could do. My father tried everything he could think of…”
“What?” That knot in his belly drew taut, nearly snuffing the breath from him. Again, it felt as if he’d taken a physical blow, this one even more brutal and cruel than the last. Visions of Lisette flashed through his mind—images from his memories of her smiling at him, laughing with him, fanning smoke from a small blaze upward with her skirts as he’d shimmied up the trunk of an old, crooked tree in search of bee hives. He remembered the smell of her hair and skin, sun-kissed and golden, after afternoons spent swimming, when he’d lie on his back with her spooned beside him on one side, Aaron on the other, with his arms around both of them as they looked up at the clouds.
That one looks like a butterfly…see it there? He remembered her lifting one slender arm and pointing skyward before letting her hand drape back down against his belly or his heart, and how her hair would always seem to get beneath his nose, tickling him.
Dead? he thought, a pain so deep and visceral seizing him, for a moment, he couldn’t catch his breath. Not Lisette…oh God, not my Lissie…!
Mason must have thought he’d weep; his hand slipped from Julien’s cheek to cup against the back of his head. It was a comforting gesture, one that might have once coaxed tears, no matter how proudly or fiercely Julien had struggled to contain them. But those days were gone—long since dead and buried. He didn’t cry anymore. Not for anything or anyone. Not even his sweet sister.
“We have to figure out what Phillip and Nikolić were working on.” He lifted his head, the icy hardness in his eyes and voice reflecting what he’d mustered to shield his heart. “Whatever it is…those sons of bitches…we have to try and stop it.”
Mason nodded. “Nikolić let me talk to Edi this morning, but she hadn’t found anything out yet. His girlfriend, Anna’s taken her to some kind of makeshift lab nearby. They’re combing through Phillip’s old computer files.”
