Return of the Assassin (All the King's Men) (10 page)

"We've tried, but we can't reach them. They're in Europe on some kind of tour."

"Keep trying. In the meantime, let's go pull some of my blood."

They left the broken boy behind, and she led him to a small room in back, slipped on gloves, and prepared him.

As his blood flowed through a tube into a collection bag, Micah stared up at the pocked, white ceiling. He had a lot to chew on. Malek, Gina, Lakota, Sev, and now it looked like Chicago had been used as a collection center for lab rats in Bishop's experiments. He thought about the broken boy, Savill, hooked up to machines, traumatized so violently he had to be placed in an induced coma. In the very next room, a mysterious, marked male recovered from God only knew what. And more victims were on their way, and who knew what ailments and afflictions they would bring with them. On top of that, Trace was still sitting in the king's dungeon, and Micah had no idea whether he was surviving or if his power was slowly eating him alive.

As Dr. Snow removed the tube and bandaged his arm, he sat up and combed his fingers through his hair.

"Thank you, Micah," Dr. Snow said as he slipped out the door.

Micah was a tough-assed male, but even he had limits. He pulled out his phone and called Sam. She was his anchor. His life's blood. The one person who aligned his mind, body, and soul in the midst of chaos. Just her voice would make everything right, even if only for a few minutes.

"Hi, baby. I was just thinking about you," she said.

"Hey you. Anything good?"

"It's always good when I think about you." She laughed that effervescent laugh that was uniquely hers.

In an instant, his heart mended…and he took his first real breath all night.

And that was what a mate did for a male. Made him whole. If only Malek would realize that.

Led Zeppelin blasted through the sound system in the seven-thousand-square-foot basement Brak had called home for the past twenty-six years, four months, and nine days. But who was counting? He had no windows or exposure to the outside world, and the basement was more a prison than a home, despite its luxury accommodations, but it was better than the last hole he had been relegated to by his keepers.

Jacob and Haslet were two vampires who, if Brak was given the chance, he would love to destroy. And that was saying something, given that he hated killing. Ironic since that was exactly what his keepers made him do whenever they felt the whim. He didn't have a choice, though. If he refused, they would hurt his father, and Brak wasn't about to lose the only family he had left. If using his power for harm was what it took to keep his father safe and hope alive that one day they would be free again, then he would do it, even though it mentally and physically devastated him.

Brak set down the set of one-hundred-seventy-five-pound dumbbells he'd just shredded his last set of biceps curls with, snagged his towel off the bench, chugged the last of his bottle of water, and shut off "Kashmir." As he crossed the room to the kitchen, he wiped the sweat off his chest and arms, and grabbed another bottle of water from the fridge, which was growing empty. No worries, though. Another delivery of groceries was due in a couple of days.

He downed the water by the time he kicked off his shoes and made his way to his studio table. A grand piano rested in the open space a few feet away, and a pair of guitars sat on stands along the wall. He sat down behind his massive studio table, with its computers, mixers, and equipment, and slipped on his headphones. The only thing that made his isolated imprisonment tolerable was his music, his art, and books. And surfing the Internet.

The world sure had changed since he'd been captured and made into a slave, and he often fantasized what it would be like to see with his own eyes the cities that had sprung up like lighted forests all over the planet. All he knew of this new world, besides what little he saw while he was set loose to work for his keepers, was what he had learned through reading books or on sites such as Wikipedia. Well, and what Cynthia told him. Cynthia was his friend. She watched over him while he recovered from his servitude.

He was lucky his keepers even granted him access to this new thing called the Internet. For over ten years he had surfed and learned like a sponge, enraptured by the wondrous images on his monitors. He even watched movies. Real movies. His favorites were science fiction and romance, which he had learned from Cynthia was strange.
Most men don't enjoy romance,
she'd said. But Brak wasn't like most men. He was innately gentle, with simple wants, and a desire for the kind of companionship the men in the movies he watched found with their women.

Sadly, that wasn't meant to be his life.

For an hour, he got lost in his music before checking the balance of the bank account Cynthia had helped him set up. She shouldn't have, but she was always helping him do things his keepers didn't want him doing.
Sshh. Just between us,
she would say, holding her index finger in front of her lips. Brak got the distinct feeling Cynthia wanted to help free him, and when she talked about the outside world, she always seemed to be teaching him what he needed to know to survive. She browsed the Internet with him, showed him maps of the world, taught him the names of all the states, and explained that all the different lines were roads or what she called highways. She showed him pictures of cities, and how they had grown up from before he was imprisoned. And she had taught him about banking and investing, which he was able to do online.

Brak thought her instruction was odd, given that he was locked in enslavement for God only knew how much longer, but he loved talking to her. He felt like they were conspiring to break him loose, even though he knew there was no way that would ever happen. He would never leave his father behind and in danger like that, so as long as Jacob and Haslet had his father, Brak was relegated to be their puppet.

"Brak." Jacob's voice barked over the speakers in his cell, loud enough to be heard even though Brak was wearing headphones.

He slid the headphones back on his head so that they rested around his neck. "Yes?" Oppression weighed down his voice. There was only one reason why his keepers spoke to him. They had a job for him to do.

"Time to earn your keep," Jacob said.

Burden weighed on his heart, but Brak set the headphones aside and pulled his long hair back before securing an elastic band around it. He had his father's features, built tall and muscular, with a strong angular face and wavy, dark brown hair. But Cynthia said it was his smile she liked best. Not that he smiled much. He didn't have much reason to smile, except when Cynthia was around. She made him laugh. When she was in his prison home, he felt his spirits lift. The only good thing about these jobs he performed for his keepers was that he got to see her.

But that was the only good thing. Talk about a Catch-22. To receive a little ray of sunshine, Brak had to go through hell.

"Fine. Send her in." Brak sat down on his bed, and he rubbed his sweaty palms up and down his thighs as he mentally fortified himself.

His powers had never been intended for this purpose. Trace was the destroyer. Brak was supposed to be the healer. And together they were yin and yang. Two halves that made a whole. But now Brak had to play destroyer, and his other half was gone. He had never learned what had happened to Trace after the death of their mother. All he knew was that after she died, Trace was gone and Father fell into suffering that led to a coma induced by their mother's magic.

The door opened and Cynthia walked in and smiled, her brown eyes twinkling. She was a sweet girl, the daughter of his last attendant, who had retired from her role of service.

"Hi, dahlin'." Her Southern accent brought an instant sense of calm over him.

"Hi." Brak rubbed his hands over his thighs again. He hated that he had to do this.

Jacob's voice came over the speaker. "The usual protocol."

The usual protocol: Kill the targets and return in thirty minutes or less…or else his father would be hurt.

He exchanged glances with Cynthia, who sat down next to him, her face the picture of compassion. She knew how much he hated the way his life had turned out.

Brak held out his hand as he usually did and waited for her to give him what he needed.

She opened her canvas satchel and pulled out a wrapped bundle, which she unfolded until she set two metal badges in his palm. They looked like officer's badges. "Chicago Police" was written on both.

Brak sighed, lay back, and closed his eyes as he caressed the first badge with his thumb and forefinger.

His mind raced across the miles, so fast he couldn't focus on the blur of trees, cars, houses, buildings, and past doors. Within seconds, he was standing outside a dark cell in what looked like some kind of modern-day dungeon. Inside, a dreck lay on a small, lumpy mattress.

At least the target was a dreck. His keepers usually sent him after vampires or humans. Still, his power was meant to heal, not kill, and he would suffer the consequences of abusing what his
mother had bestowed upon him in the womb. He always suffered from using his power, but misusing it made the sickness worse.

With a sigh, Brak's spirit form passed through the bars of the cell.

The dreck sat up, suddenly alert. "Who's there?"

Whoever this dreck was, he couldn't see or hear Brak, but as with most of his victims, he sensed him. Much like humans sensed ghosts or when they were being watched, Brak's targets often felt when he was near.

He didn't know what this dreck had done to deserve the death sentence, and as much as it pained him, Brak pushed forward, knowing that if he didn't do this, his father would suffer. So, Brak suffered for them both.

With the ease of air passing through a door, Brak's invisible hand plunged into the dreck's chest and wrapped around his heart.

The dreck—Brak saw that his name was Grotek—jolted with a grunt, and his eyes shot wide as he clutched his chest. He clawed at Brak's ghostly, invisible hand, trying to grab it or push it away, but it was useless. Brak had Grotek in his grip, and once a victim was in his grasp, there was no escape.

Wincing, Brak squeezed harder. His instincts fought and nagged him that this wasn't how his gift should be used. Nausea roiled in his stomach, and pain shot through his head, but still, he squeezed harder as the dreck struggled. He had no choice.

"Sshh, it will be over soon," Brak whispered, more for himself than the dreck. Trying to comfort those he killed made him feel less like a monster.

Grotek's heart vibrated as if putting up one last surge of fight, and then it finally stopped beating. The dreck slumped forward and Brak let go and pulled out his hand. Grotek fell backward on the bed.

Brak didn't have time to mourn the death—and, yes, even drecks deserved to be mourned. He had to find the next target. He concentrated on the second badge, and within a split second he flashed to one cell over in the same dungeon, where another dreck—he saw his name was Chane—paced near the front of the cell. Clearly, he had heard Grotek's struggles next door.

"Grotek?" Chane called out in the dark as he stopped and peered through the bars. He stood directly in front of Brak.

"I'm sorry," Brak whispered. He reached through the bars and gripped Chane's heart.

Chane shrieked and tried to pull back, but it was too late. He gripped the bars of the cell and pushed, but Brak held strong and pulled him back, inadvertently slamming him against the bars with such force they rattled.

"Don't struggle," Brak said. "It only hurts more if you struggle."

If only his victims could hear him, he could ease them.

Unfortunately, Chane fought to free himself, causing his heart to rupture. Brak lost his grip and tore into Chane's lung as he tried to keep the dreck from falling, but all he did was create a bigger mess. Brak grimaced as Chane fell backward and crashed against the floor, his body arching in a violent show of muscular spasms as he coughed up blood. And then he fell still.

Sure, they were drecks, and they had obviously broken some law against the vampires to be locked up, but causing such horrific injuries when he should have been healing them left Brak feeling empty and horrid. He was an abomination. A freak of nature.

"Hello?"

Brak turned toward the voice that echoed quietly through the narrow aisle. Something about the voice sounded familiar.

"Who's there?" The deep male voice came from another cell.

Brak's ethereal spirit drifted, curious now about who else was in the dungeon with him who had a voice that touched him in a way that felt right…familiar…so like his own.

With a frown, Brak stopped. No. It couldn't be.

"Hello?" The male spoke again, more quietly, as if he sensed Brak, too.

With anticipation driving him, Brak whipped through the darkened aisle and around another corner until he reached the cell where the voice had come from. He peered in, and there, in the shadows…he could see…

"Traceon?"

Trace sat on the floor, his back against the wall, his pale eyes frantic as he clawed his own forearm. "Who's there?" Traceon's eyes darted back and forth, and then narrowed as he strained to see through the darkness. "I can f…feel you." He seemed agitated, and both forearms were streaked with scratch marks, as well as remnants of what appeared to be self-induced bites.

Brak passed into the cell. Was this possible? He had thought Trace lost. Dead. But here he was. His brother. His twin. His other half. The one who balanced him.

"Traceon." Brak touched his brother's face.

Trace visibly calmed, and the agitation left him as he sighed. This was what they did for each other. They brought balance to each other's power. Brak allowed Trace to heal his deep-seated depravity, and Trace allowed Brak to embrace something darker without the nasty side effects he would no doubt experience as soon as he returned to his body. But he and Trace needed to be together for the fusion of their power to be effective. Together, they were more powerful than any creature known on earth. Mother had seen to that from their conception. It was her way to protect them.

"I'm here. You can't hear me, but you can feel me, can't you?" Brak brushed his hand down one of Trace's forearms, and then the other. The cuts and fading scars disappeared. How perfect it felt to heal, not hurt. This was what he was made for. Kneeling down, he placed his invisible hand on Trace's forehead. "Find peace, my brother."

Trace's power required constant maintenance to keep from blowing out of proportion and tipping the scale toward mutancy. How had Trace survived this long away from him? Without Brak, Trace should have been dead by now. Unless he had found another way to control his power.

The idea of what it took for Trace to stay under control sent a shiver through Brak's ethereal manifestation.

"Brak?" Trace lifted his arm and stared at his now-healed skin.

Brak had to hurry. His time was running out. With a leap, he entered Trace's body. Trace sucked in a loud gasp, and his body jerked violently as he accepted his brother's spirit inside him.