Hellbent, page 8
“Clothes?”
He gave her a speaking look. “Of course, clothes.”
“I’m not destitute,” she reminded him. “I have clothes at my hotel.”
“And a team of my armed security staff can retrieve them for you as soon as possible. In the meantime, until we get around to it, you have something to wear. Anything else you need, just let me know.”
They stared at each other. Awkwardness was in the air. After all the drama and violence, she felt almost shy. The images were right in the forefront of her mind. That world-shaking kiss at his club. That long-ago kiss at the bus station in Shaw’s Crossing.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” he said again. “About Kimball.”
She waved her hand. “Don’t be. I know how crazy it sounded. How crazy it still sounds. Besides, it’s not like you threw me to the wolves. You told me you’d be glad to help. I still flounced out with my panties in a wad just because my feelings were hurt. It was childish of me, and you are not responsible for what happened after that.”
“They almost killed you,” he said.
“But they didn’t. Don’t apologize again. Relax. Please.”
He grunted. “Relaxing is not one of my shining talents.”
“Mine, either,” she admitted. “But we have to try. And this place seems like a good place to do it. The best place I can imagine.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. I’ll head on downstairs and get some food going.” He stopped with his hand on the door handle, looking oddly unsure of himself. “I’m glad to have you here safe,” he added, looking a little embarrassed. “I’ll let you get cleaned up.”
She gazed at the empty door frame after he left, considering what he said.
Safe. A word she couldn’t quite grasp. A concept she had no framework for. The world was savage, and safety was an illusion. That was a truth she knew in her bones.
Except for Anton himself. In her head, he was exempt from that harsh rule.
That fantasy of safety and protection he held out to her was a shining, seductive promise. She just wanted to fall into it and never come out.
It couldn’t possibly be real, but she almost didn’t care. She just wanted to let the lovely, beautiful lie go on for as long possible. Spin it out. Make it last.
She’d deal with the ugly truth when it crashed down on her. Not before.
9
Anton’s ears strained to hear the hiss of water in the pipes from Fiona’s shower upstairs as he got busy in the kitchen. Ten minutes…twenty…thirty. She was in there for a full forty-eight minutes before the rush of water finally went still, and he’d already grilled and rested the steak for the sandwiches, prepared the bread, sliced the tomatoes, washed the lettuce, gathered the fixings, set the table. He tried not to monitor her with his imagination the whole time. Picture her wet, gleaming. Soapsuds sliding down her strong, sexy body. He tried, but he failed and gave into the fantasy.
Lather, rinse, repeat. Had to be tough to get all that dried blood out of her hair.
Then the water stopped running and she started in with the blow drier. His fantasy shifted seamlessly to a naked Fiona in front of the bathroom mirror, that mass of red hair fanning out behind her stunning body, fluffed up into a wild halo by jets of hot air.
It wasn’t right to be on fire with lust tonight. He’d promised he would keep her safe. She’d just been freshly traumatized, on top of her other trauma.
This was no time to fantasize.
Noises from upstairs finally ceased. No more audible waypoints for what Fiona was doing in there, so he grabbed his phone and went out onto the kitchen terrace to call Eric. It was still early, but both of his brothers slept about as well as he did. He called them whenever the urge took him, and they returned the favor.
Eric picked right up. “Took you long enough to call me back, for fuck’s sake,” he bitched, in the hushed voice of a man trying not to wake up the person in bed with him. “You just getting home from the club now? Jesus.”
“I didn’t call to hear a lecture,” Anton told his brother. “Sorry to interrupt you while you’re lolling in bed with a woman, but it’s been a long, weird night.”
“I’m not lolling in bed with ‘a woman,’” Eric said. “I’m lolling in bed with ‘the woman.’ The only one for me. Big difference, man. Get your terminology straight.”
“I meant no disrespect to her,” Anton said. “But I didn’t mean to open that can of worms right now. We’ve got other stuff to talk about. And isn’t this mating intensity of yours a little premature?”
“No. It’s years overdue. Seven years, to be exact. That’s a long time to pine. I’m not waiting another goddamn second. Fuck the curse, man. It’s taken enough from us already. No more. You and Mace can be my best men, and we’ll get married as soon as we can organize—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Take a breath. You guys almost got killed just a few days ago. Can we get back to that before we start with flower arrangements and seating charts?”
Eric made an impatient sound. “Just be happy for me, man. I know it feels strange and you’re not in the habit, but just try. Isn’t it good that I come up on the winning side for once?”
“It’s awesome,” Anton said, hoping to God it was true. “Just hold off on the victory dance, because Fiona almost got herself killed tonight, and she thinks that Redd Kimball is behind it. She thinks he’s still alive. And she’s starting to convince me.”
That news cut right through Eric’s giddy euphoria. “Fiona’s there?” he finally said. “With you? In your house?”
“Yeah, she came to the club tonight.”
“Kimball, alive? How the fuck can Kimball be alive? They found his charred body. They had the dental records. The cops crossed him off the list.”
“Yeah, they did.” Anton swiftly recounted the tale of the subdermal capsule in Fi’s back, and the murdered lookalike cousin. “They took another shot at her, just a few hours ago,” he finished. “Same deal. Tried to slice open her back. They want that chip. Nate and Jim and I got there just in time. We killed three of them and sent the rest running.”
“Fiona’s okay?”
“Yeah. Bruised and tired, but okay. She’s in one of my guest rooms. She’s tough.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Eric said. “I’m glad she’s okay. And with you. I never thought we’d see her again. Crazy, about that microchip. Damn. Kimball, huh? What are the odds that this happens to Fiona at the same time Demi and I get in trouble?”
Eric had been quicker to make that mental adjustment than he himself had, Anton reflected grimly. “Exactly,” he said. “About your text. You said that you were researching, what? Biological weapons?”
“Don’t sound so skeptical. Demi and I heard them talk about it. One asked the other if she was in the database, and the guy said yes, that she was in Shaw’s Crossing during that period of time and yes, she was definitely exposed. What else could he be referring to but a pathogen? I’m thinking, it must be something that makes the exposed person vulnerable to the death-pen. You saw the security footage from Demi’s dad’s house.”
“Yes, I did.” The video from Benedict Vaughan’s security system had left him in a state of flesh-crawling confusion. The same men who had attacked Eric and Demi up at GodsAcre had made an earlier visit to Ben Vaughan’s house that same morning, and the security camera had recorded them pulling out a device, like a silver pen, or a small flashlight. They’d pointed it at a locked door, without even opening it…and Demi’s father had dropped dead on the other side. On the spot. Heart attack. Door still locked.
It could be a coincidence, of course. Natural causes. That was the usual refrain. In Shaw’s Crossing, coincidences and natural causes were way too thick on the ground.
Otis’s death being one of them.
“You think they used that thing to cause the death clusters,” Anton said.
“Yes,” Eric said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. It works on people who were exposed to the pathogen within that specified time window. It didn’t work on me, but it worked on Demi’s dad, and her mom, too. They taunted Demi about her mom. And me about Otis.”
The thought of those pricks hurting Otis made Anton’s hands clench into shaking fists. He shoved the seething rage down deep. “But what the fuck could they possibly want?” he said. “There’s nothing up there. And if there was, it would be ruined by now.”
“That’s what I thought, but they’ll kill for whatever it is. I’ll never forgive myself for sending Terry Cattrall up to GodsAcre. I convinced myself that the Prophet’s Curse was mythical bullshit, and Terry paid the price.”
“That’s not on you,” Anton said, knowing it was useless. “You couldn’t have known. You weren’t the one who hurt him. That’s on them.”
Eric didn’t even reply. As usual, he took full responsibility for that disaster. As if he could somehow have seen into the future and predicted what would happen to Terry.
Eric had sent Terry Cattrall, the real estate agent, up to GodsAcre to appraise the property on the day after Otis’s funeral. The plan had been to sell that place as fast as possible, for any price they could get for it, and get it off their backs forever.
But Terry had not come back down, and his wife had called Eric in a panic. Eric drove up to discover that Terry’s Jeep had gone off a cliff and was smashed at the bottom of Kettle Creek Canyon. There had been no indication that Terry’s car had slipped in the mud, or tried to brake on the muddy, unpaved road. His tire tracks led straight off the cliff.
Eric had called the cops, and hiked down to see if Terry was alive. Eric had been the one to tell Terry’s wife that her husband was dead.
He’d been doing all the heavy lifting by himself up to now, and he was sick of it.
Anton let out a slow breath in the heavy silence. “I’m sorry,” he said, not for the first time. “We shouldn’t have left you there alone.”
“Nope, you shouldn’t have,” Eric agreed swiftly. “So come back. Terry’s funeral is Friday. Demi’s dad’s funeral is the day after. We could use the company.”
“Tell Demi I’m sorry she lost her dad,” Anton said. “Even though she’s way better off without that dirtbag sleaze in her life.”
“Tell her yourself when you come. I won’t miss that lying piece of shit one bit. I still can’t believe he set his own daughter up to be kidnapped. It was pure dumb luck that I was with her when they came for her.”
Anton grunted. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that town is even more fucked up than I thought.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. I could use some backup. Soon. Now would be good.”
“I’ll send Nate back up as soon as he’s gotten a few hours of sleep,” Anton said.
“How about you? You coming?”
Like Eric’s tone gave him a choice. “Of course I’m coming. Fi has to talk to the detective about last night’s attack, and then we’ll get on the road. I haven’t talked to her about it yet, but she wants a fight, so I’m sure she’ll want in. Did you talk to Mace?”
“We’ve been messaging. He’s on his way back, but it’ll take him a couple days. He’s driving to the airport in Nairobi right now and catching the first plane out.”
“I’ll text you as soon as we set out.”
“Demi says to tell you she has room here. There’s a bedroom and bath upstairs.”
“I’ll find another place for us to crash,” Anton said. “Wouldn’t want to cramp the lovebirds’ style. Try to be dressed when Nate gets there tomorrow, okay?”
“Fuck you, man.” There was laughter in Eric’s voice, something Anton had seldom heard, if ever. None of the Trask brothers had ever been particularly playful. Jeremiah had pounded that out of them. Training to be the vanguard of the righteous was no laugh riot, and the Prophet had made damn sure that they never lost sight of that fact.
Eric sounded transformed.
“Ah, there you are. Nice view you’ve got out here.”
Anton turned, startled. Fiona leaned in the doorway, dressed in the clothes his housekeeper had found for her. A clingy dove gray jersey sleep shirt and loose matching pants, and a long, soft charcoal colored sweater wrap that hung past her knees. Her hair was a glossy cape of dark red rippling waves. “I didn’t hear you coming,” he said.
Her lips curved. “Jeremiah taught me not to make any unnecessary noise, just like he taught you.”
“True enough,” he said. “Feeling any better?”
“Yes, much. It’s great to have clean hair.” She crossed her arms over her chest, glancing back over her shoulder. “Smells amazing in there.”
That reminded him abruptly of the food that he’d prepared. “Oh, yeah. I’ll put our sandwiches together. Do you want me to heat up the steak?”
She stepped back to let him through the door and trailed him back into the kitchen. “Not on my account,” she said. “It looks great just as it is.”
She watched him swiftly assemble two sandwiches, piled with slices of steak. He presented one of them to her. “Steak on sourdough,” he said. “Fixings and veggies are on the table. Hope medium rare works for you.”
“Perfect. But you didn’t have to go to all this effort. Toast or a yogurt would have been fine.”
“Like hell it would. After what you went through? Wine or beer?”
“No, I’ll just grab myself a glass of water.”
Anton hadn’t realized how ravenous he was until the first bite. Conversation flagged while they devoured their sandwiches.
After Fiona finished hers, she sipped her water and looked around, taking note of what was on his walls. Then she set the glass down and got up to stare at the huge collection of antique historic weapons displayed there.
“Good God, Anton.” She leaned closer to peer at piece at the center of the nearest array, an ancient bronze shield decorated with swirling circular patterns and studded with cabochon garnets and amethysts. “You’ve got your own personal medieval armory.”
“Some are older than that,” he told her. “That shield is dated at 200 BCE. Celtic.”
“Wow,” she whispered, moving on to a heavy broadsword, its ancient blade pitted with rust, the letters engraved on the blade just barely visible. “And this one?”
“Tenth century,” he said. “Scotland.”
She took a step back to get the whole effect. The weapons were arranged on the wall in a sunburst pattern, the shield in the center. Swords from various periods, of various styles, in various states of decay, along with axes, billhooks, crossbows. Halberds and flails and maces.
“These aren’t reproductions.” Her quiet statement wasn’t a question.
“No, they’re the real deal,” he confirmed. “Each one with its own history.”
“They look like they belong in a museum.”
“Pretty much,” he said. “I outbid museums for a lot of these pieces.”
“And I’m guessing your modern weapons collection is just as extensive?”
“More so,” he admitted. “But I don’t display those. Not in my living area, anyhow. They have a dedicated room. They’re not for show. They’re for real. Like last night.”
She harrumphed. “And here I thought you were Mr. Mellow.”
He snorted. “Hardly. Jeremiah’s legacy. Mellow isn’t really a menu option for the Prophet’s spawn.”
Anton felt strangely self-conscious as she studied his collections. Almost no one ever saw the décor in his private living space other than occasionally his brothers, and a few select employees from his clubs, like Nate, Mitch and Wong. He was unused to revealing his secret obsession, or feeling like he needed to justify it to anyone. He’d never considered how weird and over-the-top it might seem to an outsider.
“It’s just a hobby,” he said, to fill the uncomfortable silence. “An expensive one.”
“Hobby?” She harrumphed. “I don’t think so. Hobby is too lightweight a word for something this dark. Quilting is a hobby. Baking is a hobby. This is something else entirely.”
“I trained intensively at warcraft until I was almost eighteen,” he said. “I could have gone pro, like Mace. Eric, too, for a while. It was the obvious choice for all of us. But I had to push back. The entertainment industry felt like the opposite of all that. I can hear Jeremiah’s tirade about cultural rot and moral degradation in my head. But the warcraft is still inside me. It didn’t go anywhere. It has to come out somewhere.” He gestured at the wall. “I guess it comes out here.” He looked up the weapons. Better not to shine such a bright light into this part of himself if this was how it felt. “Welcome to my dungeon,” he said under his breath. “Guess that’s why I don’t do much entertaining.”
Fiona’s eyes were thoughtful. “Do they make you feel safer?”
He considered it, and shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “But I still keep trying.”
“Tell me about it. I carry a weapon on me all the time whenever I don’t have to go through airport security,” she told him. “Even if I’m just putting gas in the car. You?”
“Always. Standard Prophet’s spawn behavior. I feel naked without a weapon.”
“Same,” Fiona told him. “I was unarmed tonight just because my bad girl dress was so tiny. There was nowhere to put anything. What have you got on you right now?”
“When I’m dressed for the club, I can’t wear the shoulder holster for my Glock,” he said. “It doesn’t fit under the designer dress jackets. But I always have a mini-revolver on my ankle, and a boot sheath for a knife and another one in my belt buckle. And the sole of my right boot has an insert that’s wirelessly connected to this ring.” He held up his hand to show her the ring, a heavy tangle of gold and silver bands and studs. “Depress this ring here, and see? Look at my foot.” There was a click, and a short, wicked looking blade snapped out of the toe of his boot.
Fiona let out a startled laugh. “Sneaky. I want one of those.”
“I’ll show you the designer’s online catalog on the dark web. Deadly Beauty, it’s called. This woman lives up on the Washington coast. Her stuff is amazing. High-end jewelry design, merged with high-end weapons design. Every piece is an original.”
