by Hera August
Judas Bane
by Hera August
Copyright © Hera August 2015
The right of Hera August to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
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Dedication
To the one that saved me when all was lost…
Table of Contents
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part Two
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Part Three
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Prologue
“YOU’RE KILLING HER!”
The laughter that cuts through the screams in the basement, pulls Judas’ soul raw, and tears him at the seams.
The low-hanging light-bulb flickers on and off. A chill passes over him through the tiny slit window as the wind assaults its cold, icy breath onto his naked skin. He curls his knee closer to his chest, rattling the chain that has him forever bound to the rusty bars of the cell door. Chains that burn his wrists and ankles like hellfire.
He is in Hell.
He bangs his head into the stone wall, shuts his eyes against the living, wrenching nightmare. But with his ears, he can see all that is happening, feel everything that’s being done to her. Her throat-bursting, heart-splitting screams surge against the darkness, beating, pummeling his senses. He opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. He’s falling. Falling into a pit of emptiness and despair.
He can’t look. He can’t.
“Please stop, please stop,” he mumbles over and over again. His desperate tone makes his plea inaudible, but it still echoes around the eerie, empty basement. These are the last words he utters this day.
He’s a coward.
Why isn’t he doing anything to save her?
He’ll never forgive himself. Never.
Her screams come from the darkest place he’s ever gone. They claw into his skull, torture his mind. But that isn't what will haunt him till his last dying breath.
It's the silence after.
He can’t hear her...
Why can’t I hear her anymore?!
He prays that he doesn’t make it pass dawn. Prays that he’ll be next to die. For somebody to end him and make the pain go away. He’ll never be right in the head, he’ll never be whole again.
He may as well be dead.
Despair creeps into his bones when he hears boots pound the stone floor, and the creak of the cell door opening.
Towering over him, the monster’s haunting words sting against his cheek, “You’re weak, boy.” He kicks Judas in the stomach, hard. It feels like a thousand daggers stab into his body at once. Groaning, he clutches his body, holding his chain like a wounded tail. “This was all your fault, Judas. You made me do this to her.” His fat fingers dig into Judas’ scalp as he forces Judas to look him in the eye. Judas says nothing, his eyes watery with the sheer pain and his breathing comes out in sharp, shallow rasps. “Toughen up. Or you’ll be next.”
They say seven is a lucky number. But seven is when the earth opened up and Hell became his world. The horrors inflicted on him, the things he saw... he died that day.
I should’ve never let her out.
Why did I let her out?!
Six years later...
IF IT BARKS LIKE A DOG…
In the underground, dogs are only good for one thing.
Making money.
The worst of the worst and the best of the worst gather in the under-guts of the city to get a chance at that money, bringing their best dogs to ensure victory.
But these aren’t ordinary dogs. Humans are less predictable than real dogs. If trained right, they can do anything and everything. Judas has been training every single day for this moment.
His first fight.
At thirteen, he’ll show them who’s best. He’ll earn his place to be Vladimir Kulich’s right-hand man. And one day, he’ll take over the business.
“Win this for me and I promise—all this will be yours when I’m gone.” Vladimir paces around him in a small concrete room. A single light-bulb burns in the ceiling, making everything gray and washed out. Judas can hear the surging of cries and applause from outside.
The door opens, and two men drag a body from outside, blood smearing across the cement floor. Judas is unaffected, doesn’t track the movement at all, all-the-while Vladimir smirks. “It’s your turn now, Judas. Make a good show for me, yeah?”
They leave and enter another concrete enclosure, walls twelve-feet high and lined with strings of razor wire, and an open ceiling that lets all the teeming masses above look in.
“Kill him,” Vladimir orders.
Judas’ eyes narrow, his brow hoods, and he lunges for the blonde-haired fighter in the cage. Another teenage boy like him. Only, he’s a lot bigger than Judas.
Judas moves in a flash, lips curl back in a snarl. His first target is his opponent’s face, leaping in the air so he can pummel the other fighter with a volley of quick, hard punches to the head. He’s a machine, all movements pre-programed and second-nature. The crowd roar with a mixture of disgust and delight.
Hard, muscled arms wrap around Judas, yanking him down. Damn near crushing him. But Judas keeps on beating the big kid’s face in, busting his nose, and blood spatters from the impact against the split lip. Judas twists hard and shoves the other boy against the wall, the razor wire ripping into his flesh as Judas pushes and pulls his opponent from side to side. He just keeps on going. He can’t stop.
Good dogs never stop.
Overconfident, Judas steps back, and round-house kicks his enemy in the s
tomach. But when his opponent lands on his feet, he goes right on the offensive, driving his knee with a running start into Judas’ chest, over and over.
Blood starts to ooze out of Judas’ mouth, dappling the ground in crimson blossoms. His vision blurs for a moment and his opponent grabs Judas’ knee, shoving it down before delivering a hard kick to Judas’ jaw. Judas slams into the unforgiving concrete underneath him, the pain ricocheting into his skull.
Another rousing blast of commotion from above roars into Judas’ ears. Bets are going wild, and in both directions; most convinced the bigger fighter will win.
Blood is coming out of Judas’ nose, a red rivulet splitting in twain as the fluid diverts around his mouth. But Judas doesn’t quit, his blue eyes still wild and shinning with violent purpose.
Judas rolls out of the path of his opponent’s stomping boot, twice more as the other teenager repeats the action. Then Judas leaps up and returns the assault with another flurry of punches to the torso.
Judas jumps and kicks the blonde in the throat, crushing his windpipe. He doesn’t give the big kid a chance. Judas takes out his knee next, the snapping of bone almost audible over the din overhead. The other kid tries to fight back, launching one fist toward Judas. But Judas catches it at the wrist, then breaks it at the elbow. One leg rises, straight and rigid, then comes down, hard and fast, so that Judas’ heel connects with the top of his opponent’s head. The blonde hits the ground, barely moving.
"Kill him! Kill, boy! KILL!"
He can only hear Vladimir’s voice.
What Vladimir wants, Vladimir gets.
The kid underneath him tries to get up again. Stupid dog. Judas lets the other fighter get to his knees before he kicks him over, slamming him down on his back. Gasping for air, Judas stands over him, body thrumming with adrenaline and throbbing pain.
“Kill him, Judas!”
There is no hesitation. Judas jumps, both feet tucked in, then comes pounding down onto his opponent’s skull. It’s like a water balloon breaking against the floor.
Judas’ first kill.
And it won’t be his last.
Seven years later...
“OH, BABY. BET YOU’RE REAL TIGHT down there. Shssh, it’s okay. You know you want this. I’ll make you feel real good. I promise.”
Belle's pulse pounds in her throat as his tongue grazes against her neck, burning her skin. He must have spiked her drink. She doesn’t remember getting into his truck.
“Wanna know what it’s like to be a real woman?” He snakes one of his hands underneath her top, groping the flesh underneath. Tears well under her eyes and her throat stings with the bile rising up and down her throat. But the knife is so cold against her neck, she dares not move.
He forces her to bend over the hood of his truck, yanks up her mini-skirt and wrenches her panties down. There is nothing she can do. She is helpless. A lamb to the slaughter.
He is going to rape her.
The Sun seems to set faster out here in Providence Valley and what little light is left in her world, vanishes.
This isn’t happening. This is not happening—
A loud rumble pierces the air. For a second, her mind reads it as thunder roaring. But this isn’t thunder. She sees something moving in the distance. A dark shadow.
And it’s heading straight for them.
The dark figure rides up like a stallion, skids to a halt, the mud splattering beneath the rubber and metal. A large presence dismounts the bike and the crunch of heavy boots pound the ground as the roaring engine of a motorbike fills her ears.
“Get the fuck off her.” His voice is fierce, oddly comforting in this nightmare. He steps toward them, his gun pointed. She can only see little more than his silhouette against the burning Sun and through the haze of her tears.
“Fuck you, shit-head! Stay the fuck outta this.” Her assailant jerks her up from the truck, dragging her back with him. “You ain’t gonna shoot-for-shit unless you wanna hit this bitch.” The edge of the knife cuts deep, and the feel of warm liquid trickles down her neck.
She’s nearing on death.
“I won’t ask again. Get your hands off her. You know who I am? The fuck you think you are telling me what to do?”
From behind her, a bitter laugh slices the air. “I’ll tell you who I am, asshole.” His free hand reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a gun, aiming it head on. “I do what the fuck I like. So you see, this is how it is—I’m taking this virgin bitch to Hell and you're gonna motherfuckin’ die with her.”
“I’m warning you.” The mysterious voice is low and guttural.
With her attacker’s attention on the other man, the pressure of the knife lessens. He’s going to kill her either way.
So she moves.
Driving her elbow as hard as she can into his stomach, his gun goes off and the bullet hits its target. The stranger plummets to the ground. He doesn’t move.
No, no, no! Help me, please!
With no time to think, she swings her clenched fist up into her assailant’s nose. He bends forward, winded. If she runs now, he'll only shoot her. She has to act fast.
Belle tries to kick him in the balls with her heel, but misses, hitting his thigh instead. Before he can aim the gun at her, she grabs hold of his hand and bites down, hard, on the first exposed skin she finds, tasting blood as he drops the gun.
“Fuck! You fucking bitch!”
He doesn’t stay off-balance for very long and lands a punch at the side of her face. Her head splats hard into the mud as she plummets to the ground. It hurts everywhere.
“I’m gonna fuck you with this gun, bitch!” His hands wrench at her leg like tentacles.
This is it. This is her end.
All of a sudden, he lets go of her...
Her vision doubles and through the ringing pain inside her head, she hears two more shots. Did her attacker release her only to kill the other man?
Oh God, Oh God, I’m next...
She tries to get up and run, refusing to die, but she’s dizzy, and only manages to drag her crumbling body a couple of inches before someone grabs at her.
“Please! Please don’t hurt me, please!”
"I’m not gonna hurt you—hold still, goddammit." Someone strong and sturdy scoops her up before carrying her in a set of big, burly arms—one side drenched in blood. The punch to her head must have hit her hard because her head begins to sway, her vision slowly fading.
She doesn’t remember anything after, except: A silver cross glistening over ‘Olivia’ and her whispering the words, “Please don’t hurt me...” before darkness consumed her entire world.
Part One
Sleeping Beast
I’m not afraid of the dark.
I’m just afraid of what’s in it.
Chapter One
Four years later…
Previous day…
“I WANT THIS DONE, JUDAS. Soon as possible. No mistakes. You hear me?" The static on the cell crackles. Vladimir is angrier than usual; not that he can blame him. Betrayal has a funny way of bringing out the worst in people.
“Got it."
“No mistakes. The minute you’re done, get back here. We’ve arrangements to take care of."
“Consider it done. Back Monday morning latest."
“Good.”
The line goes dead and Judas knows exactly what to do. This job courses through his veins; it’s second-nature to him.
Someone disrespects you? You get rid of them.
Someone double crosses you? You get rid of them.
It’s that simple. Get in, execute the mission, then get out. Leave nothing behind. He knows exactly what to expect.
Someone is going to pay.
Someone is going to die.
BELLE HAS TO RUN at night.
Night time is perfect for the quiet. And it’s been one of those days where silence is the only thing that feels right and good.
She turns right and heads uphill toward the public park. The sh
ops are closed and dark. Aside from the glow of the street lamps, the only lights are coming from the local church.
Peace...
It ate at her.
The unhappiness over the past five years has slowly become this living, breathing thing. It follows her wherever she goes.
Her running becomes a jog as her legs begin to weigh her down.
Keep moving… Just keep moving.
Wentworth Creek has always been an untroubled little town and the slow-measure pace of life here makes her more determined to escape. Stanford. Only a month to go. And then freedom.
This town isn’t simply sleepy and tiresome, but dead—
She stops dead in her tracks.
A noise disturbs her train of thought. She hears someone—something—up ahead. She’s not alone in the night and fog. She looks ahead, then behind, and then to the other side of the street. No movement. She’s unaware of any sound other than her own raspy breathing and thudding heartbeat; only instinct tells her to be on alert.
Probably just another runner... at night...
As she sprints up the sloping main street, through ripples of amber light, through the shadows cast by the trees lining the pavement, she still sees no signs of movement, other than her own, and the thin fog through the windless air. The only sounds are the pat-pat of her sneakers and her labored breathing.
Yes, Belle has to run at night; it’s like being the last person on Earth.
But when she rounds the building on the street corner, she crashes into a... a wall?
It’s hard and grunts, “Watch it.”
“You watch it.” As soon as the words spit out from her mouth, Belle feels the chill in the air, fear seizing her heart.
She looks up—way up—and discovers a looming tower of chiseled features. The full Moon’s silver light penetrates the mist surrounding whoever she just collided with. Her nerves stand at attention. All is revealed in the milky, shimmering, lunar glow. He’s handsome, more than handsome, and looks to be in his mid-twenties.
Her movements stop when her body inside does. A ruckus of awareness strikes beneath her gray sweats and skin—and every layer in between. She goes to reach for something, but she doesn’t know what. Leather stampedes her senses and the scent cracks her into alert. He stops from retrieving whatever is in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.
