Punished

by Samantha Stone

  This child’s mother is dead.

  * * * *

  Raphael jabbed the screen on the treadmill with so much force it cracked. Sweat snaked to his neck and chest as he stepped off the incline, stopping in front of the weight bench. He lifted five hundred pounds up, brought it back.

  Like with the others, he hadn’t enjoyed letting Leon go. The wait, however, ate at him like acid. He glanced at the screen of his cell phone. It was still black.

  Quickening his pace, his breath came out in pained grunts.

  He didn’t know if Leon had been killed like the others. If he were, the blame would be heaped on his shoulders, and now Heath’s. Both of them would die for crimes they hadn’t committed.

  That’s not true.

  They would die for the crimes they committed years ago.

  Again, he looked at his phone as he lifted. Nothing. The man was to let Heath and him know where he’d been told to take a woman this night, supposing he was still alive.

  He probably wasn’t.

  Raphael had been so green and stupid, so easily led. In old Estonia, many people had been accused of being werewolves or witches, sometimes even both. It was as common as Twitter wars today, only macabre and corrupt. When a man’s sheep would die, suddenly a malicious witch had preyed upon him. When a woman was raped, a werewolf had lost control and taken her.

  They were both killed, just to be safe.

  Now Raphael could see that under the torture he’d inflicted, a poor goat farmer would admit to having the appendages of three men and a woman in order to stop the pain, to simply end his short life devoid of the light of mercy.

  Half a century ago, Raphael killed two innocent men. He didn’t understand why he’d been allowed to live, why his small village embraced him as a protector and hadn’t shunned him for bringing lies and shame upon them all.

  He’d been ignorantly following orders. The man who decided the fates of those people, who could turn a werewolf trial into a witch trial, or determine that, while innocent, someone should be killed for keeping information to themselves, was a werewolf himself. Hans Ivar was the father that orphaned Raphael never had. The members of Ivar’s church looked up to him, and were the only family Raphael had known. They trusted the good priest’s judgments without question.

  Ivar held the trials to mislead the villagers. He was protecting his reckless pack, none of whom had ever faced repercussions for their actions.

  “You have too much potential for me to let you pass your peak,” he’d said to Raphael on the night he finally learned the truth. He’d just lived to be a score and a half. “You were meant to be one of us, a vârcolac like my father and the man who came before him. Now you are truly my son.” He’d bitten Raphael, and instead of claiming the family who’d fed him lies his entire life, Raphael asked to be punished for the innocent lives he’d taken, the innocent people he terrorized. And for what?

  For nothing. He swung the barbell up. He’d ruined so many lives for absolutely nothing.

  He hadn’t killed since, embracing the regulations of the clan prohibitum. It was his penance. Without it, he didn’t deserve to live, should be extinguished.

  Alexandre swung into the room, interrupting Raphael’s thoughts. He put the weight down.

  “Guess who shared a bed with a beautiful woman last night.” Alex hopped onto the treadmill jauntily.

  “Heh,” Raphael said absently.

  “Hey, did Cael break the treadmill again? I told him, anger is for punching bags and cockblocks, not treadmills or women.”

  What Alex first said registered. Raphael leapt over the treadmill, his hand gripping Alexandre’s throat, slamming him against the wall. Plaster fell over them, dusting Alexandre’s shocked visage.

  “You slept with Mary?” Raphael growled. He’d been so distracted by Leon that he hadn’t given the woman much thought until now.

  The notion of someone touching her gave him base, violent urges.

  Her expression had caught his attention the night before. She’d been apprehensive but overcame it; joy washing over her as she’d danced. Her beauty kept his attention. She had full lips that stretched into a wide, giving smile. Her up-tilted eyes kept a twinkle, her long, dark hair a stark contrast to her creamy skin. Suddenly, he wanted that hair to slip through his fingers like water.

  After less than half an hour in her presence, he wanted her writhing underneath him, calling his name as he made her his.

  If he’d made different decisions, decisions that hadn’t damned him to an existence of deserved exile, he would have thought this woman was his mate, the one woman whose love he was meant to cherish for the entirety of his life.

  But he would never deserve such a gift. Finding a mate was so rare, most weres never found their other halves in their immortal lifetimes.

  Even so, Alexandre couldn’t have her.

  “Okay, I stayed on her couch. And you’re thinking of the wrong sister, bro.” Alex was eyeing him warily, but Raphael could see a touch of amusement. “Mary’s cute, but she pales in comparison to Leila’s absolute hotness.”

  Raphael punched him.

  “Not the face!” Alex shouted admonishingly. “How am I supposed to ask Leila out with a black eye?” His expression darkened, becoming serious for the first time since he’d entered the workout room. “So you want Mary, right?”

  Raphael gave him a short nod.

  A muscle twitched in Alex’s jaw. “I’m glad to hear that, man,” he said. “Because I saw a guy hit her today, and you’re just the man to take him out.”

  Rage clouded Raphael’s vision. Had that been what she was scared of at Thump? He would make sure no man ever hurt her again. The alternative was wholly unacceptable. “Consider it done.”

  “I’ll help, of course. I like her, and it would’ve upset Leila, had she seen.” Alex said Leila with the reverence generally reserved for a deity.

  “Heath said you have the address for where that asshole was supposed to take Leila?” Raphael could see the fury in Alex’s expression, his eyes changing from blue to yellow.

  Raphael pulled it from the pocket of his gym shorts and handed it over.

  Alex’s yellow eyes became gold before his claws made an appearance, shredding the paper.

  “The man was to take Leila to where she already lives.” Alex’s voice sunk octaves, its gravel making him hard to understand. Raphael felt his own rage blossoming again, blood dripping from his clenched fists as they, too, released razor-sharp claws.

  “Mary’s boss tried to kidnap Leila,” Alex shouted, his fist tearing through the treadmill’s plastic front. Alex lifted the machine over his head and tossed it at the wall.

  Raphael let the waves of anger lap over him. He was unworthy to avenge these women, he knew. Yet he would still take this man who tried to kidnap an innocent woman, this man who marred the beauty of Mary’s face, into death with him.

  The screen of his cell phone lit up, Leon’s number popping on the screen. The same address he’d given the night before, the address Alex had just torn was the first part of the message, followed by: HE’LL KILL ME IF I DON’T BRING HIM SOMEONE TONIGHT.

  * * * *

  Mary tried not to shake as she tied a black apron around her waist. She’d already taken too long buttoning her crisp white shirt to her neck due to trembling hands. A glance in the mirror showed three angry red stripes across her cheek, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  Mary had desperately hoped she wouldn’t have to serve Richard and his business associates tonight. Now, although she dreaded it, she wasn’t afraid of their hands, or even being hit again by Richard. She feared for her life. The worst thing I can do is let on that I know. If she seemed ignorant of what he’d done to his wife, he might let her go. She would leave—she had no death wish. The longer they keep me here, the lower my chance of survival.

  Albeit terrified, she’d come to terms with the danger she was in. She already texted Leila, telling her to pack their things. Ma
ry also told her to leave, without her, as soon as she could.

  There was no argument—Leila sent a simple response. Done. Let me know when you’re safe.

  “Mary,” Richard called, his voice jovial, excited. “You’re needed.”

  She shook her hands once, twice, trying to get rid of the tremors. She pasted on her most bland smile and walked down the hall to the men’s half of the double parlor. She allowed herself one breath before she opened the pocket door.

  “Would ya’ll like anything from the kitchen?” she asked the room. Three men Mary had seen a few times before sat on the leather sofa, smoking. Richard opted for the large armchair across from them. All wore impeccable suits and the unmistakable air of wealth. None of them had drinks in their hands, a strike against Mary.

  “No, Mary dear, but we would like our drinks now. You’ve made us wait,” Richard chided. His voice was gentle, but the expression on his face was unmistakably peeved.

  With perfectly parted thick brown hair and few lines on his tanned face, Richard looked like the type of man to donate to shelters for battered women, not a man who would kill his own wife. His smile was so charming that Mary hadn’t found fault with him until months into her employment. Stupid, stupid.

  “Of course,” she answered. “What would you like?”

  With four drinks in mind, she moved to the wet bar at the far end of the room as the men began talking. Surely they couldn’t hurt her here. The intricate rug at their feet was worth thousands. A huge Blue Dog painting hung on the wall, standing out from darker pieces depicting rivers. Blood would spoil the room, she decided. Expensive vases would break, and the detailed molding would be stained. She was safe, for now. Besides, surely the other men were run-of-the-mill Garden District well-to-dos. Richard would do nothing untoward in front of them.

  Slightly more secure in her safety, she brought them their drinks and asked if they would like anything else.

  “Actually, yes. Mr. Gaspar has requested that you sit in his lap. It seems a female’s touch would be the perfect cure for his headache,” Richard said, gesturing to a dark-haired man on the left side of the couch. The man smiled at her, revealing perfect teeth and dull brown eyes.

  “Sir, if you’d rather, I’d love to go fetch you some aspirin,” she implored.

  “No.” Gaspar reached out a hand. She tried not to recoil. “You’ll do just fine.”

  The misery that had been slowly drowning Mary for months swept her under. She could have sworn the men in the room could feel it too, enjoyed her reaction, as all of their eyes brightened, their smiles widening.

  She’d been wrong. She wasn’t safe here.

  So she did the only thing she could do—she took Gaspar’s hand and let him pull her against him.

  His breath against her neck made her cringe, but it was his erection that made her want to reach back and twist his head in a full circle. She knew she couldn’t, and focused instead on keeping her face blank.

  “You like this, yes?” the man next to Gaspar asked her.

  “I just hope his headache eases,” she managed, avoiding his gaze.

  Fingers lifted her chin. Richard’s face was inches away from hers. “You will like it and hate yourself for it,” he told her. His eyes had turned black again. With his words, Mary felt odd, as if there was something so close to touching her, but couldn’t quite reach.

  She tried not to gape at her boss, who was obviously touched in the head. She wanted to be sitting anywhere but where she was.

  “She doesn’t feel pleasure.” Gaspar’s breath tickled her ear. “How strange.”

  These men were all absent from reality, it seemed. “Would you like your drinks refreshed?” Mary asked, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.

  The men ignored her. “Perhaps I could—” Gaspar began.

  “Do it,” Richard said, too eagerly. “After her outburst earlier, she deserves to be punished. Besides,” he continued, grabbing a hunk of her hair, “I’m sick of this color. When you have her under control, you will have her wash this shit out.” He let go of her hair as if it disgusted him.

  She’d dyed her hair because she knew he preferred her natural color. At least I did something right. She didn’t know what Richard meant by under control, but her gut told her that simply wouldn’t happen for them. They could hurt her, she was sure, but they couldn’t control her.

  Gaspar’s arm tightened to a vice around her. Now she struggled. “What—”

  His hand covered her mouth, his other hand catching the corner of her vision.

  He held a knife. “You’re going to do as I tell you, or I’ll cut you.”

  She panicked. She bit his hand, drawing blood. “No!” she shouted as he withdrew from her face. Frantic, she tried to rise, only to feel the sting of the blade run deeply up her thigh. She stilled; he was inches from her femoral artery.

  “You will eat this.” Gaspar shoved something bitter into her mouth. “And listen to me.” He brought his rum and coke to her lips and tilted it back, forcing her to wash it down.

  He brought the knife back to her leg. “Look at me,” he said. She obeyed, watching blood pour from her leg in her peripheral vision.

  She was losing too much blood, she realized, feeling faint. This could kill me.

  “Once we have her, can we get her sister?” the man on the far end of the couch asked hopefully.

  No.

  Red filled Mary’s vision, from the blood or her anger, she didn’t know.

  “You will like this.” Gaspar moved his hand up her arm.

  “No!” Mary shoved at him, and this time, he let her go. She heard the knife thud against the carpet. “We should have her by now,” a man, she could no longer decipher their voices, murmured. “She can’t resist us,” another said. “She will want us.”

  “No!” she shouted. “I will not!”

  Hands reached for her. The knife was picked up. Richard, she realized, watched with interest from the opposite end of the room.

  Everything is red. These men are bad; everything is bad.

  Someone took hold of her, the knife biting into one of her shoulder blades.

  They wanted her, and they wanted Leila. They are evil. They can’t live.

  The red became opaque, until it was all Mary could see. It made her feel powerful. It whispered to her, telling her it was their blood, just waiting to be shed.

  Scream, it told her.

  She did, releasing all of her hatred and disgust. She could feel the force of her screams shaking the room, cracking the walls. Blood, not yours, coated her hands, drenching her.

  Mary kept screaming, wanting more.

  Chapter 3

  Wish watched this house every night, desperate to gain entrance and always refused. The damned blue paint on the mansion’s shutters and above its wraparound porch kept him from entering. Haint Blue, purposefully used on homes all over the South in order to keep his kind out.

  Unfortunately, it worked.

  He knew no one would ever paint over it, yet he came for as long as he could each night, always reaching as far as he could.

  His daughter and her mother lived there with the man who killed him.

  Natasha didn’t know he was dead. Molly didn’t know he existed.

  He hovered around the perimeter, trying to see what he could through the closed blinds.

  Wish hoped Natasha was well, and that Molly was the happiest child in New Orleans. He hoped there was more of her mother in Molly than him, despite Natasha’s false promises to leave Richard and run away with him. She was a good woman, so she must have become a wonderful mother.

  What if she isn’t? What if Molly is being mistreated, and you’ve done nothing about it?

  All he knew for certain was the child lived in the lap of luxury. That didn’t mean she was happy, or received everything a child was due. I hope she plays. She deserves fun, to have no notion of inhibitions.

  He thought about Molly and Natasha every night, wishing he could be
closer to them. If Molly looked out her window, straight at him, she may not be able to see him for all the dense trees surrounding the house.

  Wish kept a tight grip on his fragile thread of hope. Someday, his daughter would know him. If he could publish scholarly articles for a major university, he could find a way to have a relationship with Molly.

  A scream rang from the house. It was an unnatural scream.

  Wish quickly moved to hover near one of the front parlors, away from the bedrooms.

  The screams continued, increasing impossibly in volume.

  Banshee.

  Wish felt himself go even colder than normal, but he didn’t panic. Blood wasn’t freely flowing from his ears, and it would have been had the banshee’s ire been aimed at him. They were reasonable creatures that way.

  Someone had disturbed her. He heard a catch in her scream; whoever it was, they’d hurt her too. That someone was either in excruciating pain or dead.

  Still, worry gnawed at him. Something awful had happened in that house, and his Molly had better not have been a part of it.

  He bounced off the invisible force field as he tried, for the millionth time, to get in.

  The screams died, replaced by booted footsteps.

  Three fierce-looking men were walking quickly down the broken sidewalk. Unnatural lumps in their pants indicated dozens of weapons were strapped to them. They looked like they could take out most men barehanded.

  They were headed toward the house. Those men, men who looked like they ate four-year-old children for breakfast, were going to Molly’s house.

  Oh, hell no.

  Wish smiled darkly. Before his death, he was the youngest scholar to ever receive a PhD in Southern fiction and folklore. He was a nerd, and would have rightfully cowered before such men.

  Now he was a haint, and there was a reason people painted their homes to keep his ilk away. Now Wish would unleash it on The Rock, John Cena and Vin Diesel.

  Those men weren’t going near that house.

  *

  Raphael, Alexandre and Heath heard the screams over a mile away. They were Mary’s screams, Raphael was sure.