Blood of My Blood (30 page)

Her voice hadn’t changed. Not at all.

“Hello, Jasper.”

The first words he’d heard from her in years. They hit him harder than he anticipated, stabbing tears out of his eyes. He dug at them with his fingers, a rage more potent and dangerous than any he’d ever felt before swelling inside him, so fulsome and massive that it overflowed and threatened to explode him.

Had he imagined this was over? Had he really considered surrendering to Billy? Here she was, the woman he’d assaulted and stolen and lied for. Looking so identical to the picture he’d kept all these years that it was as though the time had not passed at all, as though he were a child again. But for the subtle lines around her eyes—those hazel eyes, so like his own, so unlike Billy’s—and the slight, silvery tint to her hair, she could be the exact same person he’d last seen before going off to school that day years ago.

His mother. Alive, before him. He could see her. Hear her. Now he only needed to
find
her.

“Where is she?” Jazz demanded. “Where is Sam holding her?”

Billy tsked and sighed a sigh that would have been familiar to any long-suffering parent. “I don’t think he’s gettin’ it, Belle. Want to set the boy straight?”

Jazz’s eyes drifted from Billy back to the iPad. His mother, he realized, was smiling wryly, her lips curled in bemusement. There was no fear in her eyes. No worry in her expression.

No
.

No. No
.

No
.

“Jasper,” she said, “don’t you have anything to say to your momma? It’s been so long. I’m sorry I had to go away, but… a Crow King’s business is never done.”

“No!” This time it erupted from him. He couldn’t hold it back. “How did you make her do it?” He turned back to Billy, his fists clenched. “How did you force her to become—”

Billy held his hands up, palms out, his face contorted into a “Don’t look at
me
!” expression. “Force her? Boy, I couldn’t ever force your momma into anything. This was all her idea. She sure does like her games.”

“You’re lying,” Jazz said, but he knew that wasn’t true. He had spent his entire life listening to Billy’s lies and Billy’s truths. He knew how to tell one from the other.

Billy was—for once—telling the truth. In fact, Jazz
realized, his father had always told him the truth. At least, as well as he could.

“You know that old sayin’, son,” Billy mused. “ ‘Behind every great man, there’s a great woman.’ Well, I, son, am a
magnificent
man.” He gestured to the iPad, where Janice Dent, the Crow King, Belle Gunness, Ugly J, gazed out, smiling. “Funny, that, though. Women’re so proud when they say it about a doctor or a president or a king. Not so proud when it comes to a fella like me. Now… why is that, do you think?”

“Because my sex is consumed with its own self-righteous victimhood and self-pity,” his mother said matter-of-factly.

“I believe you might be right about that.” Billy grinned.

Jazz staggered backward a step. The sight of his parents both smiling at him, utterly soulless, their hearts dead as stone—it poleaxed him. He couldn’t breathe.

The dreams.

The cutting.

And the…

Oh, God.

He dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. Was this shock? Was he going into shock? He couldn’t breathe, and his vision had gone blurry.

He’d touched… He’d
touched
…

Hands pressed to Weathers’s cheap carpeting, Jazz tried and failed to draw in a breath. His lungs had turned to stone, the first step in the paralysis when gazing upon the cursed visage of the Gorgons.

Beautiful
, the Impressionist had said.
But the way you
die
is so ugly
.…

And beautiful she was, his mother. Ugly, too.

Jazz would choke to death on his own history, here in Doug Weathers’s apartment. And it was, he knew, what he deserved. For the hubris of thinking he could possibly conquer his own past and overcome Billy. For the arrogance of thinking he had outwitted his father and deduced the ultimate punch line.

For the weakness of a boy’s love for his mother.

Everything he’d believed, everything he’d clung to in his life, had been worse than a lie. It had been a deceit. Deliberate. His safe haven had turned into an ambush.

He stared at his hands, red flushed and wavering, blurring into the carpet pattern. Suddenly everything made sense and nothing made sense. Billy’s ability to evade the police wasn’t quite so magical when the cops were looking for a single male. Or for a man with a hostage. When Billy and Mom drove out of New York, they must have looked like any other happy married couple, sailing right through checkpoints. Mom leaving had been planned, and Billy’s excising her from history was just one more item on the to-do list.

Billy had told the truth. He’d said that Jazz wasn’t a virgin. He’d said that he hadn’t hurt Mom—

What did you do to Mom?
Jazz had demanded.

And Billy had shrugged.
Do? What did I do to your mother? Nothing
.

Lie was truth and truth was a lie. Mom had given him Rusty as a puppy, and Billy had skinned the dog alive in front of him. Was that part of some plan? Had that been
designed
into his life?

And of course there was

like that

it’s all right

it’s not all right

it’s right

Jazz threw up. Violently. His stomach contracted over and over, his esophagus rippling savagely. Everything he’d eaten and drunk spewed from him, gushing like a water pipe, a fire hose, an artery. Burning bile scalded his throat, his tongue, and everything that came out of him wasn’t enough, as his stomach kept seizing, forcing out nothing more than his own hollow cries.

A slick of puke, streaked with protein-bar chocolate and glow-red Gatorade shimmered inches from his face. His jaw strained, his body tried to force more out of him, but there was nothing left, and he hung poised over his own sick, dry heaving.

“Billy, darling, how’s our boy?”

“Pukin’ up his guts and then some,” Billy said conversationally.

“Sounds pretty rough from here. Maybe you can make sure he’s not aspirating anything into his lungs.”

Billy came around the sofa and stood over Jazz for a moment. Jazz knew from the sound of his feet and from Billy’s Nikes, which came into view to his left, the toes inches away from Jazz’s hand.

“Looks okay,” Billy said.

“I told you he would have an extreme reaction,” Mom said in an
oh, you silly boy
voice.

Jazz hiccupped powerfully, his whole body spasming. He almost lost control of his arms and spilled onto the floor, but Billy stooped down quickly, grabbing Jazz under his arms and keeping him elevated.

“Whoa, there! Looks like he might be a little worse off than we—”

Billy didn’t finish the sentence because Jazz jerked his head up. His skull rattled as he connected with Billy’s jaw, shutting his father up with a satisfying
Uck!
sound.

“What’s going on over there?” Mom demanded from the iPad.

Billy stumbled back, still entangled with Jazz, pulling Jazz over at the same time. Jazz pushed off with his legs, propelling himself bodily at Billy’s midsection, knocking his father off-balance. Together, they collapsed onto the floor.

“Billy! What’s happening over there?” Mom sounded concerned.

“Nothin’ I can’t handle, darlin’.” Billy shoved at Jazz, who had thrown his full weight on top of his father. From his position lying atop Billy, Jazz was able to pin one arm down. With his free arm, Billy brought a powerful fist down on Jazz’s back. Jazz bit back a scream and scrambled to bring his legs around to hold down the other arm.

“You got some fight in you after all!” Billy chortled. “Good for you! Our boy’s got spirit, Belle!”

Jazz resisted the temptation to trash-talk. He needed all his breath, all his strength. He’d been faking the tenuousness of his leg before, knowing Billy would note every shake and stutter of it. It actually felt pretty good, thanks to the
painkillers and antibiotics. But even with his leg secretly functioning, they were still too evenly matched. Jazz was younger, true, more resilient, but he was also more worn-down. And he’d just puked up his only sustenance. Billy was older but prison buff, his body like a piece of shaped steel.

He blinked away memories, shreds of emotion, vile thoughts. No time for sentiment. Or remembering. He had to be a machine. He had to shove all of it away to deal with later and just focus on Billy. Nothing else mattered.

Holding down one arm with his legs and the other with his hands, Jazz risked using one of those hands to reach back toward his pocket and the Taser. Billy, sensing weakness and incipient freedom, bucked his body and rocked back and forth, trying to shake Jazz loose. Jazz willed himself to be heavier, riding out the thrashing as he got his fingers on the Taser.

Just as he withdrew it from his pocket, Billy managed to find leverage with his feet, arching back and throwing Jazz off just enough that his arms were freed. Jazz brought the Taser up and then arced it down, but before it touched his father, Billy twisted, turned, and heaved Jazz off him, dumping him in a pile on the floor. Jazz’s finger twitched on the trigger, and the Taser spat its last electrical charge into the uncaring air.

“How many times did I tell you,” Billy asked, now standing, “that you
measure twice
—”

“Cut once!” Mom chorused in from the iPad.

Her voice itself cut. It slashed at him, carving hideous new tattoos into him, whirling arcs and dripping gashes of memory and pain.

Put it away. Put it all away
.

Jazz bounced to his feet with a vigor he did not truly feel. He couldn’t let Billy know exactly how winded he was, he thought, as he struggled to control his breathing. His heart was pulsating like a drum solo.

“Jasper,” Mom said, quite calmly, “the fact that you think you can kill your father should tell you something. It tells you that we trained you well.”

“We?” Billy asked.

“Oh, fine. I know, I know—I had to leave before the training began in earnest. It’s hard, being a career woman
and
a mother. You have no idea. I didn’t want to leave, but I had to. Still, Jasper, consider this: that bloodlust you feel right now? That anger? There are better uses for it. Instead of using it all up, you can embrace it. Nurture it. Let it grow. And use it at our sides. A happy Crow family.”

Jazz wiped a gummy residue of vomit from his lips. He was still holding the Taser in his other hand, and at just the moment when someone wiping his lips would have finished and returned the hand to his side, he instead raised the hand holding the Taser and hurled it at Billy. In the split second it took for Billy to react and move to bat the thing out of the air, Jazz leapt.

Billy stood openmouthed for a moment, in shock, and then he realized what was happening.

He’d expected Jazz to leap right at him, using the momentary distraction of the Taser to his advantage.

Instead, he’d hurled himself at the
sofa
, crashing into it so hard that it tipped over, spilling the iPad to the floor, along with Jazz.

Who immediately rolled up onto his feet, crouched low as Billy bolted in that direction.

Only to find Jazz already there, wielding the knife Billy had left on the back of the sofa.

Billy stopped just out of reach, smirking. “Little boy’s got himself a pig sticker. You remember how to use one of those, boy? Remember what Dear Old Dad taught you?”

“Yes.” Jazz shifted the knife to his right hand. There were different ways to hold a knife. He deliberately used the worst grip for this situation, with the blade pointing down and the edge pointing outward. This grip made for excellent power, but poor defense—you had to raise your arm over your head to strike, meaning your opponent had open access to your chest and belly. It looked badass in the movies, but it was a novice choice.

Billy tut-tutted. “You sure you want to be doin’ that, Jasper? I ain’t lookin’ to check out today, but I want you to have a sporting chance.”

“Stop playing with him,” Mom said. The iPad now leaned precariously against a table leg, turned on its side. “Take that knife away from him, and let’s put an end to this.”

“I’ll just be a moment, Janice,” Billy said. He flexed his fingers. “You ready, boy?”

“Born ready.”

Jazz raised his right arm, ready to strike, and Billy charged him, forgetting something important.

Forgetting that Jazz wasn’t a prospect.

Prospects were afraid. They squealed and ducked and did
anything to avoid pain. Sometimes they froze up instead, and the pain became inevitable.

Jazz didn’t move, but it was a deliberate choice. He knew how Billy would try to blitz him, try to chop at the elbow to make him lose the knife while also shouldering him in the chest to knock him down.

He knew this because he and Billy had practiced it together many, many times.

When Billy collided with him, just before the arm came up to strike his elbow, Jazz quickly dropped his arm back to his side, the knife catching along Billy’s shirt as he did so. It parted the fabric and sliced a narrow furrow into Billy’s upper arm.

Boom. Billy’s weight and momentum smashed into him. Jazz went with it, using his left arm to hook around Billy’s neck, dragging his father down to the floor with him. They crashed there like prizefighters, grunting and groaning. Jazz’s teeth rattled, and his left leg whined as Billy landed on it.

Billy lay half-on, half-off him. Before his father could exploit his upper hand, Jazz rapidly switched to a fencer’s grip on the knife, slashing out with it just as Billy rolled away from him, sensing the arm movement through the contact of their bodies. With a moan he wished he could suppress, Jazz rolled over and managed to shove up onto his knees. Billy was only a few feet away, down on one knee, glaring.

“Not bad,” he said. “It’s a good knife, ain’t it? Your girlfriend sure liked it.”

“You gonna talk or you gonna fight?” Jazz sneered. “Always did seem like you couldn’t tell the difference.”