The Bastard (31 page)

No matter how many times she bit her cheek, blinked her eyes or wished it away, she couldn’t wake up. This was real. The torches stung her eyes with smoke and she could smell the thick copper of Erik’s blood mixed with the salt of his sweat. The silk that whispered against her thighs was real. Her mind shuddered in disbelief.

Sela crossed to Rex, her fingers stroking across his shoulders. “Cunning and an intimacy with politics drew me to this one. He possessed the nobility of lineage and the grit of a soldier. His entire life was a battle for survival shrouded in finery. Gaius Julius Augustus Germanicus was destined for greatness but became known as the mad, bad Emperor of Rome. His future was cut short and little remains of his name but ridicule over exaggerated exploits of his debauchery and incestuous relations with his sisters.”

She turned to Lacy with a saucy grin. “You would better know him as Caligula.”

Lacy’s gasp sucked in warm air. Rex lifted his face, refusing to acknowledge her shock. His gray-blue eyes sparkled, but he never once glanced at her. Ironically, she had no trouble imagining him as an Emperor of Rome. His snobbishness, his entitlement, his love of luxury all fit perfectly into that scenario. And she knew his sexual appetite was excessive but his sisters? That was just sick. Her stomach heaved.

She had to tear her focus away as Sela stepped to the next man. Myth towered over her, his almond-brown chest hard beneath her trailing finger. The snake on his skin shimmered in the torchlight until it looked like a living animal, embracing him in a deadly hug.

“A king, the greatest in the land of Uruk. He was never bested in battle, never lost a wager, never caved beneath social pressures. He waged war and the enemy crawled in fear for he spared no pity on the losers. Legend says so powerful was he that not one man interfered when he enacted his right of First Knowledge and raped the new brides of his generals. He dared to emulate the false gods of his time and seek eternal life. I granted his wish. His tale is one of the oldest epics recorded by history. School children are taught his name as Gilgamesh.”

Lacy’s heart pummeled her ribs. The ache spread until her breath came in short, hard pants. Sweat broke along her forehead and stuck the silk gown to her back. Myth was so eloquent, so refined, she had little trouble believing he’d been a king. But rape? She couldn’t process the incompatibility.

Omen lifted his head, his stubby tail wagging as Sela crossed to Nomad. His jaw thrust forward, a defiance that echoed in his spread-legged stance and crossed arms. The delicate fingers tripping over his biceps didn’t make them twitch.

“The first of my choices for my band of warriors, the first of many things. One of the most despised names in history. He built a city when the concept was unheard of, mastered the Earth and its bounty.” Her hand fell to Omen’s broad head. “The popular biblical accounts say he was cursed with a mark. A mistranslation of the word
owth
, actually. He was protected from death by an
omen
. In his time, his name was Qayin, but you would know him better as the Father of Murder, the first man who killed, Cain.”

Nomad’s livid glare nailed fast to her, pinning her with an almost physical hit. Lacy had grown up hearing the Bible stories but in her adult life assumed they were metaphors, allegories to teach a lesson. Now she sat not ten feet from the first murderer ever. Revulsion wrinkled her nose. She’d die for her sister, could not imagine ever deliberately hurting Annie.

Dray tilted his face into Sela’s palm, his eyes closing as she stroked his cheek. “The last of my chosen, the final precious gift I held until just the right warrior was born and had died. Thousands perished under his rule but he never wavered, never veered from what he believed in his heart was right. Mercy was unknown to him and for this, his name sparked terror in the hearts of an entire generation and beyond. Even today, few alive cannot tell you of the embellished exploits of Wladislaus Dragwlya. History calls him the Tepes, the Impaler, or more commonly Vlad Dracula.”

Dracula. He was real? Lacy shook her head, trying to erase all the movie images of fangs and bats and coffins. She knew Bram Stoker’s novel was supposedly based on a real prince, the real Vlad Dracula, but to have him standing in front of her, his dark green eyes hard and his mouth wedged tight was unfathomable. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that the man who devoured gummy worms by the pound was the same man who’d dined in a field of thousands of impaled enemies.

Clasping her hands over her racing heart, Lacy shook her head. This was too much, too horrific. These men who she’d cooked for and laughed with, trusted with her life, they were evil. It took all her willpower to lift her eyes as Sela walked to Zale.

She didn’t touch him, instead looking up into his face with an almost apologetic expression. Lacy braced for the unknown.

“My leader, the general to my warriors, my right hand in battle. He was created in perfection, gracing the streets of Paradise beside myself and other Vangelus, as the leader of the Seraphim Guard. He was cast out, cursed to the Earth and –”

“Satan!”

Lacy shrank back, her thighs digging into the golden seat. Now she knew where she’d seen the cruel perfection of Zale’s face, why it filled her with fear and dread. It had been captured in artists’ renditions throughout history. His dark, deliciously cool and handsome face only lacked the pointed goatee to be the classic embodiment of the Devil.

“No!” Zale spat.

Sela did touch him then, laying a restraining hand on his arm. “He was cast out, but not for fighting with the Third. A lie to protect his friend cost him his wings and as punishment, he is unable to voice another lie, not even to save his life. He never bowed before the
Ha-Satan
, not even when offered riches and wealth. For this, Samael, the master of trickery, adopted Zale’s countenance for over a century. It’s his face that has been portrayed as the human devil throughout history. In Paradise, he was called Azazael. On Earth, he was known by no name, just a title, one he gave himself, Ba‘al Zebûb… Beelzebub. He was called the Lord of Flies or The Death Bringer.”

Zale’s gaze dared her to mock him, to speak out. She had no words. Her stomach surged but there was nothing to expel and only a vile taste flooded her mouth. It was too much, too ugly to comprehend. They couldn’t be guilty of such cruelty, such despicableness. They were protecting her, made sure she felt welcomed and safe and had checked on her sister. Or was all that a lie as well?

There was only one man left to identify, one man she didn’t want to learn about.

Erik’s shoulders were pulled back, his chin lifted in defiant pride. Bloodied, beaten and braced for the worse, he wasn’t ashamed. He didn’t cower or shy away, looking straight ahead, prepared for whatever was handed to him. Fists knotted to white-knuckled hammers on his thighs, he struggled to pull himself to a stand.

Sela waited until he was on his feet then rested her hand on his shoulder, where no wound marred his skin. “My fierce Berserker. When violence was praised and conquerors ruled, he was a king. History and the
Fagrskinna
sagas claim his hunger for battle was overshadowed only by his lust for power. Latin texts calls him
fratris interfector
and state that, to ensure his throne, Eiríkr Haraldsson murdered nineteen of his twenty brothers. It earned him the title Eric Bloodaxe.”

The room spun. Dizziness descended and Lacy swayed in the chair, gripping the arms to keep herself upright. Nineteen. He’d killed nineteen brothers. All for power and position. It couldn’t be true. Not him. Not the man who protected her, made sweet love to her, smiled at her with that ‘I’m bad and you love it’ smile.

“Tell me it’s a lie. Please, Erik. Tell me you didn’t kill your brothers.”

Erik closed his eyes. “I can’t tell you that, Lace.”

Lace.

Gripping the armrests, she levered herself out of the chair. Her eyes were gritty with tears. A weird numbness settled and she vaguely wondered if it was shock. Salt tinged her lips as she licked out. Something primal in her marrow urged her to move, to escape.

“I can’t think right now. I… I have to go.”

No one made a move to stop her as she stumbled toward the elevator. The magnificently simple and elegant silk gown disappeared in a blink, replaced with new, stiff jeans splattered with blood. Lacy’s eyes connected with Erik’s.

A plea lay buried under the steely gray but she couldn’t give him an answer. She jammed the Close button and let the doors slide shut.

His
valkyrja
had looked him in the eye and fled. Pain radiated through Vike’s back but the ache in his chest hurt worse. Their secrets had all been laid bare and she walked away. Love always hurt. He never learned.

More raw on the inside than his shredded skin, he took a step toward the elevator and his knees turned to water. Rex and Nomad caught him before he hit the marble. A hiss seeped from his lips as they lifted his arms, draping them over their shoulders. He leaned on his friends, as he had for centuries. These were the only people he could trust.

All but one. He caught Zale’s quiet stare. “I won’t forget you voted against her, Zale.”

The leader merely nodded, acknowledging his words. When the elevator doors opened, the trio limped inside but he heard Dray’s low question. “She knows now. What happens if she can’t accept who we are?”

Sela’s voice was soft but firm. “Then I will take care of her.”

Chapter Seventeen

Lacy stared at the elevator panel for a long moment. Her brain was numb, rapidly shutting down from emotional overload. The other part chanted to run, to hide, to keep herself safe. Safe from what? An angel and her wicked henchmen? In what fairytale did that shit make sense? Disney, Mother Goose and Hans Christian Andersen had missed a story or two. The Brothers’ Grimm, however, had a goldmine just waiting to be written.

She hit number One.

Her jaw dropped when the doors whisked open on the main floor. A tornado had torn through the common room and not one piece of furniture was left intact. Glass crunched under her sneakers from shattered bulbs as she edged along the wall. A lone blinking orange light flickered in a demolished pinball machine, lilting to one side like a capsized boat. Her foot hit the red billiard ball and it rolled sluggishly under the broken couch.

She needed to hide. She darted down the hall, streaking past room after room. The Roman bath was too exposed. The medi-room had too many memories and none of them pleasant. Myth’s office would be stupid.

In desperation, she ducked into the library. The musty scent of old books clung to the darkness. Three reading lamps and an overhead light were available but she crouched in the dark, tucked behind an overstuffed chair. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she waited.

What was she waiting for?

The knife in the back of her jeans pressed along her spine. She drew it out, gripped it with both hands. Easing back onto her butt, she deliberately took a huge breath and blew it out slowly. Exhaustion descended, falling on her shoulders like a dump truck full of gravel. They weren’t going to come after her. If they’d wanted to kill her, they’d had ample time to do that. After all, they were all murderers.

She couldn’t process a single thing, not any more. A chaise lounge sat before an unlit fireplace. Using the last of her conscious thought, she crawled to it, shrugged out of her coat and draped it over her shoulders like a blanket. She shoved the blade under a small throw pillow, her fingers curled around the hilt. No wonder Dray had slept like this. They were all monsters.

Weren’t they?

She was asleep before she could think of an answer.

“Damn, he’s a bruiser,” Rex groaned under Vike’s weight.

Zale shook his head. The Roman talked too much. He watched as Nomad shoved the mattress back into place. Normally he wouldn’t be here, preferring to leave the men to themselves to heal, but Sela requested he make sure Vike was as comfortable as he could be. For all her power, her heart was too tender at times. He did her bidding without complaint. Unlike Rex.

Dray fingered the severed wrist restraint then tossed one to Zale, who caught it absently. There were several marks along the cut-line, where Lacy had just scratched the leather surface. Zale scowled at the bed, imagining how she’d positioned herself to cut the band free. She had to have held some sort of knife in her teeth. He’d thought removing the door hinges had marked her determination. This was far more telling.

He made a mental note to not underestimate her. Lacy apparently had a healthy will to live.

The Viking had succumbed to sleep before the elevator had finished its short trek. They stripped him from his clothes and maneuvered him onto the bed face down and cleared out, leaving Nomad to do his medical thing while Zale stood watch. It only took a few minutes and then Nomad stood, eternal weariness lining his face.

“He won’t sleep long. I padded his Mark but that’s all I can do. Healing that’s going to take a while, several weeks at least.”

Zale nodded. That had been Sela’s intention. Nomad patted his leg and Omen trailed him out of the room. Zale turned to follow when Vike’s pants rang with some country song.

His stomach clenched. That was the same melody that Lacy used when her sister called. He waited until all the Forsaken left the apartment to pick up the discarded pants, digging for Lacy’s now silent phone. The text on the screen turned his blood cold.

“L, package delivered 4 u. Weird shit happening. Need 2 tlk. R U ok? Call me, A.”

Without a thought, he pocketed the phone and stepped onto Vike’s balcony. Every apartment and downstairs room boasted an exit to the courtyard. They were convenient for when Leaping and he used it now to Leap to Annie’s porch, shielded by the night. The itching in his Mark told him the house was being watched. For pure intimidation, he walked to the steps and scoured the view with a visible snarl. A fight would be welcomed right now, but no Leeches challenged him.