The Bastard (25 page)

“I found my truck.”

“Oh.” Dray cleared his throat in a guilty sound. “Yeah, she was out of her mind. I tried to stop her.”

“You lie.”

“But I’m pretty.” The humor did nothing for Vike. Dray quieted, his voice dipping into commiseration. “I had to give her some way to get rid of the hurt or she’d go nuts. This situation’s fucked six ways from Sunday, man. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Hang with Lacy. I’ll call you.”

He clicked the phone off and closed his eyes, leaning on his demolished passenger’s door. What was he going to do? There was no way to fix this. Lacy shouldn’t have seen his healing. He knew what it looked like, what it felt like.

Zale. The bastard did this deliberately. Why? What purpose did hurting Lacy serve? Even if he hated Vike, Lacy was Scionim. They were drawn to protect her, not break her heart for a twisted version of the truth. He couldn’t control his body’s reaction to a Vangelus Breath of Life any more than he could grow horns.

The pain in her eyes scalded his memory. She didn’t deserve that wound. He hadn’t inflicted that hurt. Zale had. Fury burst through his blood like venom, bleeding across his newly healed stomach. His heart ached, an agony that ate deep into his soul until it cried for mercy. He had no mercy. Rage squelched it. God damn Zale to the lowest pit of Samael’s lair.

He’d shown her the ugly scene but hadn’t explained it. Zale’s creation prevented him from lying. Nothing but truth could cross his tongue, but giving Lacy nothing was worse. He let her think Vike had betrayed her. It wasn’t Vike who did the betraying. Zale betrayed him.

His axe handle solidified in his palm as his feet thundered toward the elevator. He bypassed the automatic doors and charged up the dimly lit stairwell. Scarlet ringed his sight and the drums of battle echoed in his blood. He was barely human at the minute. He knew it on some deep level, but it didn’t matter. Lacy mattered.

He was going to feed Zale his own fucking heart, if he could find the tiny lump of crystallized ice.

Myth’s eyes went wide, white showing around the brown as he jumped out of Vike’s resolute path. The low sounds of conversation drew him like a moth to a flame and he welcomed the burn of fire. Kicking the common room door open, he tightened his grip on the wooden handle.

Rex bolted from the couch, shock swinging his jaw wide. Nomad glanced up from the pool table. “No, Vike!”

Zale stood shirtless, jersey shorts low on his hips, damp towel around his neck, and sweat streaming down his back. Vike took one second to focus on a single drop trickling along his spine, then hurled his axe.

The team leader’s arms splayed wide as the force of impact knocked him to his knees. The axe handle quivered as Zale’s bones stopped the blade’s flight. Blood arced, spraying the white wall with a macabre splatter of crimson. Nomad cursed and dove for Zale. Myth and Rex piled on Vike, taking him to the ground in a struggling mass of arms and fists. Omen barked, adding to the chaos.

“What the sweet fuck are you doing?” Rex ground out, plastering his body across Vike’s chest. Vike tried to force the Roman from him. He couldn’t get any leverage with Myth pinning his arms.

Nomad pried the axe head from between Zale’s shoulder blades and jammed the towel against the gaping wound. He swiveled on one knee. “God damn it, Vike. You hit less than a quarter inch from his Mark.”

“Let me up and I won’t miss again.” Myth’s huge hands flipped him and his cheek ground on the tile floor, someone’s knee on his neck, another in the small of his back. He fought but there was no escape. “Why, you cocksucker? She didn’t understand.”

Zale lifted his head, his gaze as cold, as empty, as Samael’s soul. “I need fighters, not lovers. She made you soft.”

“Soft?” Vike snarled, a pure animalistic sound that powered through his bones.

“If you hadn’t had your mind on her, maybe Gen would still be here.”

Guilt so sharp it cut drove into Vike’s heart. That night replayed in his head, every move, every action. He’d been focused on saving Lacy. Not once had he turned and offered Gen any help. Granted, Gen would have been insulted, but he might still be here. He wouldn’t be a silent handful of dust, soul-sleeping in a box.

“Damn, Zale, that’s cold,” Myth muttered.

“It’s the truth.”

Zale couldn’t voice a lie. But he could side-step the truth better than a pro. Gen died and Vike had done nothing but his job. He’d protected the Scion. Losing Gen had been like swallowing barbed wire. It hurt and would hurt for a long fucking time. Guilt was simply a bonus.

Locking his furious gaze on his general, he vowed revenge. “But you can die, asswipe.”

Zale stood, wobbling a bit before his shoulders pulled back. The bloody towel fell away, hitting the floor with a wet smack. “True, but I’m not that easy to kill. Your enemies have less to worry about than your friends.”

He calmly walked to the elevator and pressed the Up button, oblivious to the wet red cascading down his spine. Before the doors slid shut, he saluted Vike.

“It wasn’t my fault!”

Frustration erupted with his battle cry. Frenzy fueled his muscles and he powered up, shaking both Rex and Myth like a dog shakes off fleas. The Forsaken backed away as his sword formed in his hand. They darted out of the room as he hefted the blade. He felt the madness blazing in his eyes, burning like hot coals. Every ounce of pain over Gen’s death poured into him and he lashed out.

The couch was his first victim, guilty only of being closer than anything else. His blade flew and destruction fell. The coffee table exploded, sending shards of wood into the air. The plasma screens crashed from the wall in piles of sparking wires and electric fizzles.

Memory slammed into him. Gen’s laugh, his battle cry, the fear in his eyes as Second Death approached. It morphed to flashes of Lacy, the two blending in his heart. He’d lost them both. Vike screamed and swung. Balls scattered like rats as the pool table was reduced to patches of green felt and Plexiglas. DVDs flew in all directions and the sound system split into several chunks. Nothing went unscathed but it wasn’t enough. He still hurt. He needed more damage.

Moonlight streamed in the kitchen window, filtering over the divider. He turned with a snarl. His feet moved, propelling him through the doorway. Hot pants dried his mouth as he fixed on the bright splash of color framing the window. Confusion swarmed in, then cleared with a slam of his heart.

Lacy’s curtains.

The kitchen was her domain though it had stood in numerous variations for decades before she was born. His hand curled in the fabric and her face filled his mind. The swags were ruffled frilly things with garden flowers along the border. He’d watched her add them to the online shopping cart along with cotton bras and sweatpants and tee shirts but said nothing, merely handed her his credit card, enjoying her delight.

Why curtains? His index finger brushed a yellow bloom. She brought color and life to this room, to this place, to his life. Realization smacked him upside the head. This fabric garden was Lacy’s stamp, a stake to say she was here and this was where she felt in control.

He looked around. A dishtowel hung on the oven handle to dry. A grocery list was stuck on the corkboard. Beside it was a directory of the Forsaken’s cell numbers, both lists in purple pen. The kettle sat ready to fill in the morning and the mug he’d bought her, the deep green one, waited beside the pot. An old portable radio was tucked in the corner. He pressed the ON button and country music burst to life. Lacy’s station.

His blood still pumped, but clarity descended. Lacy had irrevocably changed H2Q. He could never enter this room and not smell bread baking or a stew simmering, not see her smiling face as she measured and scrubbed and laughed while taking care of them all. This kitchen was hers and could never belong to anyone else. Just like him.

He wasn’t a hero. He was a Viking. He was a Forsaken. It was time to stop believing in fairy tales and accept the truth.

Fear grabbed hold of his gut. She was out there where the Third could get her. Dray stood guard but it wasn’t right. Vike had vowed to protect her. He was going to protect her whether she liked it or not. Nothing could repair what they’d lost. But he could keep her safe, damn it.

He would make sure she lived long enough to build the natural Immunity that prevented Leeches from hurting her again. Then he’d let her go, let her curse and hate him until she was old and gray. His love would last long enough for the both of them.

He called his weapons to his tattoo and bolted through the common room, dodging the debris and heading for the medi-room. The glass-fronted cabinet was an antique Nomad had bought when it was new. It had no lock. Vike rummaged through the vials and bottles, boxes and packages until he found what he wanted. It was in the back, half-full and with a fine layer of dust along the bottle top. He blew it away and grabbed a handful of cloth.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rex stood, one hand on the doorframe.

“It’s time to go
a’viking
.”

“And that means what? Does it involve killing another pinball machine because that was so not cool. It was vintage, dude.”

Cold liquid sloshed over his hand as he slammed the bottle to the counter. “I can’t bring Gen back, but I can Lacy.”

“And she has no choice in the matter, I see.” Rex eyed the soaked cloth Vike was shoving into a plastic bag. “Nothing says ‘I love you’ quite like chloroform.”

Vike ignored him. He jammed the bag in his pocket and moved toward the patio. Rex fell into step with him. “Two thousand years and I’ve never been involved with a kidnapping. Should be fun.”

They Leaped into the vacant lot beside Annie’s new rental. The house was smaller, cheaper and less well maintained. Vike’s senses skyrocketed. This area wasn’t safe for a human woman and could be a death trap for a Scion on Samael’s radar. A low vibration of evil warmed his Mark. The non-descript sedan from H2Q sat one house away and the driver’s side was empty.

The muscles in Vike’s jaw knotted. “Where the fuck is Dray?”

“Behind you, dipshit.”

Dray sat on a rusted barrel top eating Skittles. With his black hair and black clothing, he was more disembodied voice than physical presence.

“At least one Leech is watching but they haven’t shown themselves. Other than a stray cat, haven’t seen shit. Lacy’s about two-and-a-half sheets to the wind and her sister is playing bartender. So what’s the plan?”

“Bring Lacy home,” Vike breathed. “No matter how much she resists.”

Dray emptied the bag of candy into his mouth. “And the sister?”

“Don’t need her. Take the bedroom window. Rex, check for a way in the back. I’m going through the front door.”

Rex melted into the dark as Dray hopped from the barrel. His teeth flashed in the moonlight. “Fair warning. I’m copping a feel of that sister’s ass.”

Samael punched the End button. He wouldn’t have answered, but he had millions of dollars riding on that deal. Although he could afford to lose it, he despised losing anything. He rubbed his thumb against the bridge of his nose, trying to massage away what was quickly becoming a headache. It might be time to hand this business off to one of his Chiefs and move on. The excitement of controlling wealth, of moving behind the monetary scene to shape things, had long since lost its allure.

His second in command, Ashmedai, could take over easily, Sam mused as his gaze caressed his bounty. Finely cut crystal soul-boxes lined the shelves twenty high on three sides. This was but one of several of his Scion soul-box depositories. Satisfaction carved his smile bone deep and he chuckled, reaching out to stroke one cold box. Inside, the soul he’d stolen shrieked in terror. His eyes closed at the wonderful sound of suffering.

Ash had done well with this one. This Scion feared heights and so Ash had placed him at the top of a pinnacle, the tip not more than three inches wide. Below him waited a drop of miles, the bottom a distant black of nothingness. Just for pure fun, he’d send sharp, hard winds to rock the Scion on his precarious perch. Or maybe pelting ice to numb his gripping fingers. Or a swooping dragon diving and snapping fierce teeth causing the Scion to flinch and sway.

If he ever tumbled off the peak, Ash let him fall, let him choke on the fear of falling for three excruciating days before his body slammed into solid granite. The pain would last for a week without end and then in a blink, his Holy ass would be back on top of that pinnacle. It was simple, pure, evil genius.

Early in creation, the Vangelus had been randy bastards and spread their Holy seed far and wide. Unfortunately, most of the Seven’s bloodlines had died out before he’d began his quest to reclaim Paradise. So he’d made-do and gathered countless numbers of regular weak human souls to up his fighting chances in his bid to take over Heaven, stealing that precious dust before the Heavenly Gleaners could swoop in on invisible wings and whisk their Holy asses to paradise to await the End of Days.

He’d focused his Chiefs on living Scion. His legions had killed most of them, or caused their death. Slowly, his soul-sleeping intended army grew, one by one, Minion by Minion and Leech by Leech.

Sam’s hand fell to a waiting spot, a void in the line of soul-boxes. Every single one of his secret hiding places boasted such a spot in anticipation of finding the elusive Scionim. He had waited so long, hoped so hard.

And then, he’d stumbled across Lacy Cooper.

She’d handed him change for a twenty when he’d stopped for cheap coffee at some trashy diner after a weekend skiing with his latest banking clients. One touch and he knew. She was special. The song of the Scion was a beautiful blood tune, but hers was different. It was stronger, on an unusual octave, carried a more resonating cadence. Not just Scion, but Scionim. She belonged to one of the glorious Seven. She was his Unholy Grail.

He’d nearly danced with glee when he discovered she had a sister, but of course, that hadn’t worked out. The other was defective. It merely placed Lacy higher on his ‘must possess’ list. In fact, she was his number one goal at this minute.