Judas Bane

by Hera August

  The thud above her shatters her daydream.

  God, what was that?

  She gets up on her elbows, not sure she really heard it. Then a smaller thud sounds.

  Judas.

  Belle is out of the bed in a shot, her fingers grazing the doorframe for support as she hastens for the stairs. She checks Toby quickly, who is snoring away before she zips back up the stairs, taking two at a time. The air around her aches as she gulps small amounts in. She doesn’t know why she’s so scared.

  He probably just needs more water...

  Every time her fingers touch the cool knob, her heart stops beating. She pictures him standing like a mountain over her, his gun pointed directly at her heart. His appraising eyes will speak the words ‘S.U.C.K.E.R.’ outright, then turn pleasing and satiated as he pulls the trigger. She steels herself, ignoring the things she can’t control and turns the knob.

  Chills chase up her back as she takes in the room. Her eyes squint, the dark overshadowing the impending sunlight in the small attic.

  Oh God… no!

  Judas is on the floor, face down; blood trails out from under his side and spills across the wooden floor.

  “Judas!” She rushes to his side. “Judas!” Rolling him over, using all the strength she has to move his weighty mass, she pushes at his solid hip, well below his wound. “Come on,” she pleads. After a few seconds of pushing, his dead weight gives in, and his body lays against the bottom of the futon. She shakes him. His face is the color of bone, paler than any human she’s ever seen. “Oh God, Judas, wake up." She yanks at the top of his tight black t-shirt, her other hand cradling his face. “Judas, I need you to wake up.” She slaps him in the face, hard, hitting him again and again. “Judas, wake up!" After the seventh slap, his pale cheeks are dark with red splotches. “God, please…” Her desperate whisper consumes the nothingness around her. “Please,” she urges, pushing her hair back from her damp face.

  “Judas.” She pulls at his shirt, her forehead presses against his, and she fiercely orders her next words, “Open up your eyes, goddammit—now, Judas!” She taps at his bruised cheek. “Give me something, please... Wake up!” She crushes her face to his. A tear drops onto his nose and then, as if the tiny drop of moisture revives life in him, he awakes with a startled gasp. She withdraws, her hands still framing his face. “Okay... You're okay." She can’t fight back her grin. She doesn’t want to.

  His face turns a sickly gray. She looks down at his side. The blood around his wound is oozing small drops. “Listen to me, I need you to stay still and put pressure on the wound.” She grabs the pillow above his head. “Hold this against the wound…. Judas...” Her fingers clasp him underneath his chin, forcing his attention solely at her. “Look at me." His half-lid eyes are unfocused, the blue overcast with fever. He licks his upper lip sluggishly like it takes all the strength in the world to do so. “I need you to look at me, okay? Focus, Judas. You need to go to hospital—”

  He responds fast, shaking his head as he tries to sit up. “No! No they’ll kill me,” he rasps. “I'm fine… just fine."

  “Then let me get you some medicine." Before he can utter his next words, she cuts him off, “I don't have time to argue with you.” She gently moves his chin up, his eyelids drifting up and down. “Judas. Pay attention. I'll be right back. I’m going to get you some meds, just don't move. Keep the pillow on your wound." He moves his mouth to talk but coughs hard into his hand. The congestion in his cough sounds like it has the beginnings of bronchitis, but Belle forces herself to ignore that possibility. She brushes her hand up and down his arm as his coughing fit dies down. “Shssh… It's okay."

  “No…” He shakes his head again, his face red and taut. “…They'll get… suspicious."

  “Let me take care of that,” she says, ignoring his weak protest. “I know someone who can help. Just please listen to me and stay still. I don't want your wound opening anymore. I'm going to get bigger gauzes and more disinfectant for the wound." His lids are bobbing again. If she doesn’t get the help he needs, she’s going to lose him. She squeezes his chin with her fingers. “Hey.” She jerks him up hard. “Did you hear me?" His breathing evens out a bit, but it remains shallow and faint. His stare meets hers after several seconds of struggle. “Promise me you’ll do as I say." He nods his head. “Promise me."

  The murkiness clinging to him parts for a second and he holds her gaze. “Promise,” he barely whispers.

  She releases him gently, taking another cushion from the futon and places it under his head. “I'll be right back. Just hold on.”

  His eyes are already closed. She allows herself a second to study him, then glances out toward the window. Outside, the Sun has risen. But in her world, it still feels very much like night.

  There is only one person who can help her. And the thought of it makes her sick to the stomach.

  Time to make a deal with the Devil.

  Chapter Eight

  MOTEL 66. I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN.

  He is right where she expected him to be. At a motel. With a prostitute. Belle had phoned him, asking to meet, saying it was urgent.

  She sucks in a deep breath. She’s just about to undo five years’ worth of self-therapy.

  “Emmett.”

  “Isabelle Dela Cruz. Finally come to your senses.” He sways a little as he saunters out from his motel room. “Would you like a threesome? I don’t mind paying.”

  Emmett Irving is a decent looking man to any passing woman. He’s tall with chiseled good looks, blue eyes, light-brown hair, and a doctor. His jaw is sharp and strong, and he has a great build. His All-American exterior will make any unsuspecting woman take a second and third detailed gaze. But if they find out what he’d done to her, they’ll see what lurks beneath is rotten. All the way to his blackened soul. Her skin crawls with an army of slugs and she wants to… run. Hide away. But…

  For Judas. He’ll die if I don’t do something.

  “I, um…” She just needs to do it. Time is not on Judas’ side. “I need a favor."

  The corner of Emmett’s mouth tugs up. “I must have heard wrong. You want what?"

  “I don't have time for games, Emmett. I need your help and I need it now." After several slow seconds of stretched silence, he moves in close.

  “So, Isabelle,” he says, his snake-like voice sending shivers down her spine, “you’ve come back for more, Petal." The nickname shoots through her core like a poisoned arrow. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It makes her stomach hurl.

  He risked his life for you once; you owe him.

  “I need antibiotics and a few other things."

  “Excuse me?” Emmett pretends not to pay attention to her. She should have known he will make her beg.

  She locks gazes with him as he leers over her. “I don't have time for this, Emmett. I need you to do me this favor. You’re the only doctor I know that can help."

  He slithers in closer, scratching his eyebrow when he eyes the length of her body. “And what do I get in return?” he says, stroking a cold, lifeless finger down her neck.

  She smacks it away. “I don't have anything you want."

  “You'd be surprised."

  Her response is terse, “Whatever. I need antibiotics and whatever else for an open wound."

  “Open wound?” he asks, his brow lifting. “What exactly is this for?"

  "None of your damn business. I'll pay you now but the favor will have to come later." His faux contemplation is well staged and lags on for several minutes. Belle twists her watch over to get a look at the time. “Emmett. Now."

  “What about a doctors prescription.” He’s smiling so smugly she wants to kick his teeth in with her steel-toed boot.

  She doesn’t cover the impatience in her voice, replying, “That's part of the favor. I don't have it.” She closes her eyes and chokes up her next word, “P-Please."

  “Well,” he smirks, “since you know how much I love it when you beg me to do things for you."
/>
  He walks her over to his Porsche and pops the boot open. “You’re in luck. Have some with me.”

  He shifts a few boxes before opening one. “Here's a topical antibiotic. Make sure to put it on twice a day. Here's an antibiotic, take it with food.” He extends out a paper bag and says, “All the other stuff is in this bag.” When she reaches to take the bag, he snatches his hand back. “Who's this for?”

  “That's between me and my maker.” She locks eyes with him again.

  “And my favor?"

  Belle grabs the bag. “For another time and place.” She tries to hand him a one-hundred dollar bill—it’s the last of her saved money from her dinky summer job at the grocery store—but he closes her hands around the money, with no intention of releasing her.

  “Oh, Isabelle. Your favor is worth more than money.”

  She yanks her hand away and takes long strides to escape his clutches, almost turning into a jog when he calls out, “I hope you're ready because you owe me now! And I intend on paying you a visit real soon, Petal."

  A DYING BEAST.

  Her head cranes to the side, the attic door thuds softly behind her. His sickly presence grazes her vision.

  Just... still.

  Unforgivably aching beauty. So real and tangible. And yet the closer she comes toward him, the further away she seems. One slow foot moves in front of the other. Tiny beads of sweat break through on her forehead. The attic, her haven, it doesn’t even resemble her hiding spot. His presence wrecks the illusion her mind has taken years to build up. She wants to hate him. Hate him for stealing away her simple recluse life. But she can’t.

  She keeps coming back.

  Belle stops a foot by his bedside. He hasn’t moved. He’s on the floor with the mattress behind him, just the same as when she left him. His whole face is lit up. There are no dark shadows. Just a smooth, plain surface of skin and stubble. It’s impossible to tear her eyes away.

  Do I have to wake you? Being awake makes the nightmares true...

  Belle's fist tightens. The paper bag she’s holding crinkles. Judas stirs, his head turns to the side. She kneels, watching him the whole time as her body trembles. She removes the blanket with ease, but when she looks at his t-shirt, she licks her lips.

  There’s only one way this can be done…

  Forcing herself not to think, she lifts and pulls the thin material back over his head. Her limbs, her arms, freeze for one second. She swallows the moisture in her mouth when her eyes trail over his tattoos, his lean hips, his narrow waist, his eight-pack and the sexy V-lines of his obliques. Everything from his chest and biceps is cut to perfection and rock-solid. There are several scars all over his body, like he’s been in a lifetime of fights. It fits his story about being in a gang… But one scar stands out for Belle. There’s a small circular scar on the side of his upper arm… It’s the bullet he took to save her life four years ago. Her thighs clench and a ribbon of yearning unfurls deep in her core.

  But beyond all the beauty, there’s so much blood. It’s an endless ring around the small puncture of flesh. The amount of blood soaked around the wound looks like a grenade has gone through his side. She pours the rubbing alcohol onto the clean cloth, placing one hand above the wound and wiping with the other. Some of the blood is old and some of it is fresh, just from this morning. Belle does her best to remain detached through the rusty smell of the blood and the deep black hole that begins to show once her strokes work through the mess. His shallow breathing picks up a notch and her hand tingles in awareness for a split moment, only to heighten when he groans.

  God, he sounds so sexy, so manly when he makes those deep, low noises... There is something so wrong with me…

  “Stay still, okay,” she murmurs.

  He doesn’t answer but she knows her words haven’t fallen on deaf ears. His body becomes like a living statue underneath her again. Alive but as posed as a flower on a windless day. She leans back, finished with the cleaning part. The bullet wound doesn’t appear so threatening without all the blood covering it. She’s never realized something so small can cause so much damage.

  Looks certainly are deceiving.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  Judas swallows a few times before he hisses out, “Fine,” as the alcohol seeps through the open wound. The topical medicine soothes the injury before she places the gauze over, using the medical tape to secure it in place. He isn’t bleeding. She hopes it stays that way. Belle pulls out the antibiotics from her bag. “You took my clothes off,” he says. “Always the quiet ones.”

  Is he smirking at me? Is this all a game to him?

  “I'll get you a clean shirt when I get the chance and I didn’t take everything off…" She can feel the heat rise in her cheeks.

  He doesn’t say anything for five minutes. Her eyes finally roam near his face. His eyes are shut, but he’s definitely awake; his face is way too tense and straining now to pass for slumber.

  “You don't have to lie, you know.” She waits for his reaction, each ticking of the clock seeming to grow louder each second.

  “I'm… fine.”

  ‘Fine’. Always fine.

  Belle shakes her head, lifting the bottle of pills in front of her and reads the label carefully. “I don't believe you."

  He coughs, and when his hand covers the rasping sound, she sees the burn it causes in his eyes. When it subsides, he dares a quick glance her way, but instantly looks back at the ceiling. “Well, how nice for you."

  She sighs, hovering closer to his top half. “I have some medicine.” She holds it up but her words fall onto nothing. “Judas. Please sit up. You need to take this." The look he gives her catches her off-guard. The unfound intensity is blinding. “I... uh… this will help."

  He tries to sit up on one elbow, but like a domino, he nearly topples back down. She catches him from underneath his arm and supports him the rest of the way. His eyes never leave her.

  The bottle cap pops open and she hands him two white pills. “This is an antibiotic for the fever and if there’s a possible infection... If there is any fever it should—"

  “I know what antibiotics do.” He discards the pills in his mouth like it’s candy. She looks away for a second, his eyes on her.

  “I brought you some...” Her words fade as he groans again. It does something to her; the noises he makes. “...water." She scratches her nose. There is nothing left to do now but wait. “Well, there's, uh, water up there if you'd like some. It's good to have some fluids in your stomach especially with the antibiotics in your system."

  “I'm good.” She finally returns his stare after she pretends to appear busy with something in the medicine bag.

  “No you're not. You know you could be dying, right?"

  Tightness creeps around the corners of his eyes. A smile forms but none of it reaches beyond the slight but very sexy dimple on his right cheek. It’s enough to make the unknown inside her react.

  “What’d you care?"

  Belle shakes her head. “You’re really not used to people taking care of you."

  His stare frosts into an unmistakable glare. “Don't like it."

  “Why not?”

  He heaves out a long breath. “What's with the twenty-one questions?" She winces slightly at the bite in his voice.

  So much for letting my instincts take full reign. Why do I even bother?

  The more she sits there, the more outraged she becomes. “Fine. I'll be back in an a couple of hours to change your dressing and give you more meds.”

  He nods at her, his profile rigid, and his gaze fixes to the attic wall. “Try and restrain yourself from taking my pants off, now.”

  Huffing at his immature remark, she gets up, collects everything, and stuffs the bag with the bloodied rag and paper towel. He struggles to lie back down, gripping his side when he rests on his back, finally letting himself breathe once he’s pressed into the comforter. He falls asleep soon after.

  The day passes by quickly and
soon it’s night time. She has attended to Toby all day, making sure he’s fed and changed regularly, but she spends most of the day in the attic looking after Judas. She really should have spent the day packing for college or something… It’s late and she doesn’t know why she’s still up here. She should ring her parents to find out when they’ll be home.

  But she’s fixated on watching him sleep.

  His face, his features, as before, are disturbingly angelic and a bit devilish. His hair is ruffled from fevered sleep, matted and tousled, but for some reason, it fits him. A stray strand lays across his sweaty forehead. Sweat is a good sign. It means the fever is going down, the pills are working. More rest, more medicine, and hopefully he’ll be back to himself in no time. And more importantly, out of her life.

  Her hand separates from her straying consciousness when she smoothes the small silk piece from his head. She sighs, knowing if he was awake, she wouldn’t dare be so bold. She almost laughs imaging his cold, sour response. Her fingers feather across his thick eyebrow as they fall from his face. She moves to walk away, but something warm wraps around her wrist.

  The cry clings to her throat and she turns, guilt staining her blazing cheeks. “I—I was just…” Her gaze locks with his. His cold blue eyes liquefy. He waits patiently. “I, um, well I couldn’t sleep so I was just… I mean I was thinking—”

  “You were watching me.” A ghost of a smirk fades to nothing.

  Her temper picks up a gear as he draws out his little game. “No… No of course not. I was just checking on you.” He lingers, not revealing an inch of what’s stirring beneath the surface. “I wasn’t trying to bother you. Go back to sleep.” She moves but he holds onto her wrist, gently but possessively. “You mind?” She jerks her arm, but it doesn’t move a centimeter from his strong clasp.

  “Thank you…" His whisper is barely audible.