The Vampire's Retribution, page 29
Clayton cowered and slid down the stone wall as Michael sank down on his haunches. He laid his hands on Clayton’s legs, which burned and blazed. Standing up slow, he looked at Alana and unmerciful rage swelled pointing at her, shouting, “This woman is mine and mine alone! I’d walk through the fires of Hell for her! You took them from me, you miserable maniac. No one touches my son. No one touches my Guardian. No one takes them from me!” His words thundered off the thick, stone walls piercing the screams and screeches of the liaison to the North American sorcerers.
Then he turned to rescue the love of his live.
With a steady hand on the pearl-handled knife he sliced the ropes holding Alana prone. He peeled off the leather jacket, removed his shirt, and tenderly guided his Guardian’s arms through soft, dark silk to cover in modesty her slashed body. After a reverent kiss to her lips, he cradled her to his chest, nuzzling her matted hair. “I’ve got you, my love,” he gently whispered.
He raced up the stairs. Although the internal struggle to release her from his arms was real, he gave her over to Gabriella. His Guardian. His son.
They were safe. They were out of this miserable place.
With resolve he turned to the basement stairs and didn’t look back. In a split-second he jumped the staircase and then came face to face with the moaning torso. He booted what remained of Clayton to the center of the pentagram, got all five candles upright and reset. They ignited, as if by mystical command.
Clayton’s mouth began to form a word, but his tone sank low. “Don’t ruin this moment, Clayton. I’m way past the forgiving thing. The fact that you didn’t get the chance to kill my son and my soul mate doesn’t matter. You were always the sorcerers’ twisted sycophant…a pathetic excuse for a human being. There’s only one thing keeping you alive—in a manner of speaking.”
He stared down at Clayton’s face and stated with controlled rage, “You’ve ripped my heart out with every torturous act committed on those I love. Now it’s time for me to do the same. This is over. Let God forgive your miserable soul, because, as sure as there is a Hell, I won’t.”
The liaison’s beady eyes stayed wide—no more heartbeats, no more breaths. With cold calculation, Michael pulled on the brown leather jacket. He knelt. Then he tore into Clayton’s chest and pulled out his heart. As he stood up, the torso burned to a crisp, but Clayton’s head remained with a look of infinite agony written across it.
He pulled out the ancient pouch and shoved the heart inside, knotting then replacing it in his pocket. He strode out of the room and raced up the stairs.
****
Michael jumped into the middle seat of the van and closed the door. Gabriella revved the engine. Rosalinda sat in the front with her, and Magdalena tended to both his son and Alana in the back.
Alana gave him a weary smile. Tears spilled down her cheeks without a sound. His eyes misted as well. “She will be fine, Signore,” Magdalena whispered. Alana’s eyes closed. Then, swallowing hard, he studied is son. Pale. Still unconscious… Helplessness invaded every fiber of his being. Magdalena gave a soft, “Signore” beginning to lift his boy. Michael changed his position and reached for his son getting him over the seat and cradled on his lap with his bloodied blond curls on the center of his chest. Do you hear my heartbeat? Do you know you are safe and in my arms, little boy? He memorized every mark that had been beaten into his little boy’s body years ago as his nostrils flared. As he swallowed his rage. A white cotton blanket was handed over the seat, which he took and tenderly tucked around his child.
He cleared his throat and with a catch in his voice ordered, “Let’s fly, Sister. Gun it, floor it… Give it all you’ve got.” Tears swam in his eyes. He didn’t care. Couldn’t stop them. Wouldn’t try to. Terror ripped at his heart for his precious child.
The van pulled out of the driveway passing a black limo pulling in.
Chapter 41
Outcomes
Valetta Russo stared at a white van leaving the driveway. It kicked up small, gray pebbles as its wide tires connected with the narrow road. The liaison straightened her suit and licked her lips as she stepped out. The driver closed the limo’s door and followed. Confidently, she entered the villa’s quiet foyer. The only sounds were the click-click-clicks of black Stilettos on a marble floor.
“I smell coffee. Check the kitchen,” she ordered the driver, somewhat suspicious. “Something happened here, something unexpected.” She eyed the second-floor landing and climbed the stairs, holding the wrought-iron rail. Carlo was the first one she saw. His eyes stared up at her in terror. She recoiled and screamed with disgust.
Moans came from the bathroom and stepping over him she followed the sound. With a curse, she took a small knife from her purse, cut the nylon cords that bound the guard’s hands and feet. The man’s jaw hung out of position on his face. Grabbing his shirt collar, she hissed, “What happened?” The guard pointed toward the floor, and when she let go he slumped over the rim of the tub.
“Basta!” she screamed and returned to Carlo. Without a second thought, she placed a pointy heel over his trachea and punctured his throat. Life slipped away, but it was the gurgling sound that made her stomach turn. The guard from the bathroom suddenly burst out of the bathroom and ran through the bedroom door. She heard his squeals while tumbling down the stairs. “I’ll find you later and put an end to your misery as well,” she vowed. She pulled her heel out of Carlos’s throat and sashayed down the stairs, just as her driver and the broken-jawed guard sped away in the limo.
It didn’t matter. She’d take care of the little double-crossing pervert herself. There would be literal Hell to pay. The basement’s stairs were steep and old, made with two boards nailed together, uneven spaces between them. Descending with care, it’d be a shame to get a heal caught and ruined because she planned a haughty entrance.
She peered into the wine cellar. Empty.
“The vampire’s brat is supposed to be in here. Carlo wouldn’t have lied.” She hissed with a sneer and went across the narrow hallway. An immediate stench of burned flesh made her cover her nose with both hands and cough.
The body of an old woman was in a far corner, gutted and in a pool of blood. Then Valetta walked to the pentagram and found what was left of Clayton. She locked her hands on her hips and grinned widely. She spit on his hideous face. “Serves you right, you fucking prick!”
A new wickedness filled her. Throwing her head back, staring at the expression on Clayton’s face. Her eyes widened, full of fire as she imagined her just reward. As if talking to what was left of him, she stated rather proudly, “I will use this and bring them your head. Make it beneficial. I had nothing to do with this at all, you miserable sadist. No vampire, no Guardian, no boy to take apart piece by piece. I’ll make sure they know you failed because I am the most-worthy liaison! Your head will be my proof, you inconsequential fool.”
An icy wind blew through the windowless room. The door slammed shut. She heard rumbling begin. Strutting to the door her evil glower turned to terror. But she pulled on the latch. Nothing happened. She banged on the door, pushed and pulled again as the room began to shake.
She cursed and screamed with her hands in the air and brimming with terror as cracks raced up the walls—as the villa collapsed on her. The entire structure was sucked deep into the bowels of the earth, along with the surrounding perimeter owned by the NWT.
In the solitude of the mountains, jagged black stone appeared to cover the property. No contractor would ever build here again. Excavation instruments would indicate this was solid rock, hundreds of miles deep.
Hell had opened and swallowed Valetta’s soul.
****
“This isn’t the same way we came,” Michael said, almost in a panic.
“We aren’t going to Portofino, Signore. We’re bringing you to our Motherhouse. Lukas and Alana will heal there,” Magdalena whispered calmly. “The researcher will meet you there. His daughter stayed behind with my mother.”
Michael had leaned against the window with Lukas tight to him so he could see Alana. Then it clicked. “Your gray eyes are a mystical trait, I’m guessing,” and caught her half-grin. “And Rosa is your mother.”
She offered a nod. Turning to Alana who tried to reposition herself, Magdalena said, “Try to stay still or you’ll experience a very severe migraine for days. She will be fine in a few hours, Signore, when the numbing agent wears off.”
But Alana locked her eyes to his. “Do what your cousin says. She knows best,” he whispered in agreement.
“We will tend to you as well, Signore.”
He didn’t care about his own issues. He could sense bruised ribs and the cuts were superficial. Blood dripped from his cheek and a gash on his forehead. His nose wasn’t broken. Battling human exhaustion, his eyes watered. But his greatest concern, his greatest fear was for his son.
“Signore, the child has been through an ordeal. We will care for him.”
He swallowed hard and finally said, “Thank you, Sister,” It didn’t stop him from worrying any less.
Silence surrounded him as the van sped down the autostrada, which was fine with him. He’d never been loquacious nor a conversationalist, neither in life nor undeath. Except with Alana. They are probably all praying, he thought.
“We pray all the time. Rosalinda isn’t a conversationalist, either. Let Alana rest and I’ll tell you her thoughts.” Gabriella looked in the rearview mirror capturing his gaze. “She’s very worried about Lukas. She knew you’d come for them. Pain’s not a problem but the numbness is annoying. She can’t wait to feel your beating heart, and no, he didn’t get a chance to. In her words exactly: You are the only one…my love.”
He gave a nod and looked out the window watching her pass car after car. God, she drives like a bat out of Hell.
“Oooh…love that song. Meatloaf—right? Rosalinda’s an oldies diva. And I’m going to stop now because she’s praying extra hard for your son. Close your eyes, Malone. Get some rest.” Lukas moaned and the quiet nun turned and climbed into the seat next to him. “She’d like to hold him for you,” Gabriella said.
He couldn’t say “no” carefully placing Lukas in her arms, oddly aware he should not touch the skin of her hands. Rosalinda nodded. A shiver ran down his spine.
“Please sit in the front. We will both be more comfortable.” A powerful soul, he realized because she spoke as Helena…without words. Gingerly he maneuvered around her and when in the front, Gabriella shot him a look. “She wants you to put this to your cheek so the bleeding will stop.” Gabriella reached a hand back and produced a white handkerchief fragrant with lavender.
Dabbing the cut, it stung. Human pain is a long-forgotten experience. So is feeling stubble on my cheek and chin. Another human experience I haven’t had to deal with in centuries. Awhile later the sign for Sienna came into view, and Gabriella took the turn-off.
Minutes passed before the van screeched to a halt in front of tall gates that stood open. He saw Alana’s car in the circular drive. Two gurneys stood side by side. Two sisters in white took Lukas from Rosalinda and Alana from Magdalena. Gabriella matched his long strides with brisk ones of her own. “Our infirmary is better equipped than some Italian hospitals.”
They took turn after turn, down quiet corridors until reaching the hospital wing of the convent. He saw Miles pacing the floor as Gabriella said, “Take a seat. I’ll come back for you,” before she left.
Miles walked over to him. “How are they? How are you?”
“Alana’s pretty strong,” and his eyes turned brutal adding, “that bastard beat my boy.” He palmed an eye and sniffed back the moisture in his nose.
“I hope you ripped his heart out,” Miles said, speaking figuratively, of course, to which he replied with his hand over his left pocket, “I’ve got it right here. How’s Celia?”
“She woke up saying you killed Clayton. And the mark on her abdomen faded. She said the villa would descend into Hell.”
“Where it belongs,” he bit out. Gentler he added, “That’s Thorn’s gift, allowing her to see as he did. God, he loved her—in the purest sense of the word.”
He rubbed his warm chest. How his heart brimmed with love and worry. Sweaty and hot, he shrugged out of the leather jacket, laid it on an empty chair. A nursing sister came over to say, “Scussa, Signore, please…to put on.” She handed him a black shirt, which he did with a respectful “Mille grazzi, Sorella.” It hung on him very loose. He rolled up the sleeves saying to Miles, “I guess this isn’t the kind of place you walk around bare-chested, right, researcher?”
Miles tilted his head asking, “And how are you.”
He blew out a long breath. “I’m tired and achy, and my ribs hurt like hell. And I’m worried for my boy.”
A nursing sister motioned him over to an empty examination room. He raised an eyebrow and looked at Miles. “That’s not a demon specialist, so watch your language,” the researcher whispered.
“W-what’s she going to do to me?”
“Probably take your blood pressure and clean your face. Let her butterfly the cuts and tape your ribs. You may not be able to heal as quickly as before, but you’re not quite a-a normal man, Michael. You’ve never been a normal anything.”
Very reluctant to oblige, he got as far as “Miles, I don’t want to—”
“Of course, I’ll come along if it makes you feel better. Come on.”
They both stood at the same time, but he let Miles lead.
Chapter 42
Sacrifice
Leaving the examination room and somewhat humbled, Michael buttoned his shirt as Miles said, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
His eyes took a slow slide to the researcher. “I didn’t need a tetanus shot. You made her give me that.” He stared at the leather jacket lying where he’d left it. A thought came to him and as nun passed, he quietly asked, “Sorella, posso vedere … il, uh, Superiore?”
She looked puzzled at first. “Ah—” as she motioned him to follow with a soft, “Vieni con me, Signore.”
****
The architecture was serene. The wooden floors a dark chestnut. It was a short walk to the Mother Superior’s Office, which smelled of fresh-cut lemons. Every paper and book had its place.
Gabriella came in. “You’ll need a translator. Mother Aurea speaks very little English..”
Mother Aurea stood. “Benvenuto, Signore?”
He touched his left pocket and lowered his gaze. She simply nodded. An Old One on earth, gentle yet wise. Sister Gabriella took hold of her arm. “Mother wants you to go with her, Michael.” He followed them down different corridors until they came to a chapel. “Wait here with me,” she told him as the elderly nun went into the sacristy. When she came back, what she held sent shivers down his spine. “Mother believes this belongs to you,” she whispered.
As she held it out to him, he hesitated as a memory unraveled—the last Christmas he spent with his sisters. “How is this possible?” he asked in disbelief.
Mother Aurea placed the forgotten treasure in his hands. “Andiamo,” she said, and led the way.
He held the silver jewelry box with care. It looked as it had in 1677. Not a spot of tarnish marred the forgotten heirloom. Its tiny key lay still intact in a hidden compartment underneath. They walked through the convent’s cemetery. Marble crucifixes, old and worn, marking the graves. They stopped at the one tucked in the far corner. It was beneath the high, brick wall lined with lilacs. Reading the names, his jaw tightened as his eyes misted—and his heart skipped a beat.
Sister Gabriella translated as Mother spoke: “Three sisters arrived from England—in 1678…all gifted seers. They presented the Mother Superior with this ornate box. It remained in our office, untouched and preserved until the day I became the leader of this community. I sensed it had survived the centuries for a special purpose. When I became Mother to our order, I had it placed in the chapel’s vault. It is yours, Signore. Do with it as you must. We will leave you alone.”
Only the rustle of their habits broke the sacred silence surrounding him.
Stunned, he knelt to touch their names carved in stone. His hand slid over the monogram on this lost treasure, which had been etched by his grandfather. An ornate “M” in the middle, with four letters inscribed at compass points: A, R, P, and M—one for each of Rebecca’s children, his proud heritage. The vision came back with such clarity that he held his breath.
Running back to my room as you settled into the carriage on that foggy August day. How I begged you to stay. Anne hugged me tight, Priscilla took the silver box from my hands, Rosalind kissed me on the forehead…and you were gone forever.
Gripping the key, he twisted it in the lock, opened the lid. Anne’s gold locket… inscribed with an exquisite “A”, it had once contained an ink drawing of him as a little boy. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.
Perhaps no one had ever thought to look inside—perhaps her locket had been waiting for him. His gaze lifted to the cloudless sky. Radiant mid-day sun shone bright. Fragrant purple lilacs shaded their grave offering privacy and tender coolness. He slipped the locket into his breast pocket and then reached into his jacket. After placing the ancient pouch in the silver heirloom, Michael locked it and replaced its hidden key.
At the foot of the cross, he pulled fistfuls of earth out of the ground. This burial was closure. What Clayton had done to Alana, to his son, and to countless other innocents. Furiously, he clawed out the dirt until he could reach no deeper.
He placed the silver box in consecrated earth. After filling its grave, he packed it down with a boot-heel. Task complete. He kissed his sisters’ headstone. Allowed their memories to hold him one last time. It had taken centuries, but he had finally found them.
****
Getting back to the infirmary had not been as difficult as imagined. He stayed close to the building and at its main entrance retraced his way to Alana’s room. Her face lit up when she saw him. “I’ve missed you,” she said, her voice hoarse yet thick with emotion.
