A fuckingpebblein myboot—no one likes apebblein theirboot!”
He roars as he snaps his arm like a spring—the muscles ripple and flex, pushing the vessels to distinct visibility for a moment. All seven of the whip's strands catch the captive on his face and side. A strike strong enough to split skin, shred muscle tissue, and leave the right eye a mess, oozing what could only be ocular fluids. I relish watching it slowly collapse and fall out of the socket.
Brennan coils the scourge and fastens it through a belt loop in such a manner that, if necessary to release it, all he had to do was pull. Storming over to his bound prisoner, Brennan draws in his knee, stopping once it hits his chest, then, with full force, he plants his foot firmly against the man's hip. The prisoner screams—his cries marinated in the agony his body is undergoing.
Brennan’s hand flies like a saucer to meet its target, while the screams transcend from a piercing pitch to a scratchy gargling tone. Bending over, he whispers, “Don't you ever think your life is worth something to me.” He spits on the man’s face, “My life prior was spent teaching lessons of death. From the delicate crime of passion to the visually deprived, premeditative slaughter.”
Brennan then stands tall—taller than I've ever seen, like he was growing by the second. “I’ll ask. One. Last. Time. Did you put out the mark on my head?” Entangling his fingers in his victim's hair, he yanks his head back, “OR do I need to continue my entertainment?”
The man began to sob, and his broken words fell out in sputters. “I-It was m-m-my uncle.” The man slumps over, still breathing but unresponsive.
He fainted, seriously?
“That’s a good boy, get your rest, I have much more in store for you,” Brennan whispers as he releases the captives’ hands—then ties them behind his back, as he attaches them to his belt. When done,he stands up, and parades over to the curio cabinet—my focus is back on the Downey low life.
A distinct sound of a crystal decanter clinks, followed by the sharp staccato of ice dropping into a glass. Heavenly ticks and cracks sound off as warm liquid caresses the ice—filling the glass. The light baritone pulse of the bourbon rushing through the aperture of the glass bottle, reminding me of… Auld Lang Syne… as a drink is poured.
Aw, I miss the smell of an old-fashioned with Honey, not to mention the taste.
My eyes wander to the grandfather clock, then back to the body at the foot of the fireplace.
I should have time to meet Emory and get back before he comes to.
Leaving Brennan to his thoughts, I make my way out of the West Wing, but by the time I make it to the bottom of the staircase, a gust of wind dashes past me. As I recover from my momentary discombobulation, I am startled as the front doors slam. I turn back to the hallway, to see Brennan—his anger dyes his skin beet red as he stalks out the doors.
Following, I see Niven standing just outside the bookstore. I make my way over to her. Throwing my hands up, in preparation, for what I have predicted would come next. “What in the name of the gods happened in there?” she questions. Moments pass as I fill Niven in on the atrocities that took place in the west wing, and before I know it, Emory is running at me—fear plastered to her rain-kissed face. I looked to Niven for help on what to do next, but she had already gone back inside and was standing behind the counter as we walked through.
My hand firmly around Emory’s wrist, quickly, we writhe between the towering bookshelves. Emory says something to me breathlessly, but I don’t quite hear, so I respond with a simple two-word response, “Not here.” Seeing how that seems to work, I lead her to the nook. Turning to face her—I can see she has a lot to tell me.
Her fear cannot be present when she speaks, for I know the conversation would be easier if she were calm. Using my fingers, I brush her rain-soaked hair from her face. Looking into her eyes, I lock my lips with hers. This was the first time I would kiss her pain away, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.
Chapter 18
Emory
"Healing begins when we allowourselves to be seen, scars and all."
His lips… hot against my cold face, a split-second of passion. Pulling away, he clears his throat, “We should get you out of these cold clothes. You’ll catch your death if you stay in them.”
“Really,” I chuckle “That’s all you got?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Is it working?”
“Oliver,” I close my eyes, sighing before I proceed, “As much as I want and need this, there are things I need to talk about first.”
Wrapping his arms around my waist, he leans back. “And I will listen.” A half-smile peeks from the corner of my mouth.
“Wonderful. First question: Why is Peter here? Did he show up with my mom?” I know I said one question, but the words just got away from me—apparently, this affected me more than I thought it had. I begin spouting off more questions, “Are they looking for Evelyn also? If so, where is my mom?”
“Peter?” His face twists. “Your mom’s boy toy?”
“Yes, I thought I saw him in the garden. Something… or someone… was chasing after him. I barely recognized him. He didn’t look well. He was covered in injuries, and the other… thing… didn’t seem to have it in its thought process to lighten up.” Oliver’s features harden. His hand rises before me—an indication that he needs me to pause. “I’m done with this conversation.”
Pulling away from his embrace, “What-” I bark back. “What do you mean by that?”
“Done, Emory. Finished. No longer entertaining the topic of discussion.” My anger simmers over like a pot left on the stove too long.
I slam my fist into his chest. “What are you not telling me? I came out here to find my sister. I’ve gotten nowhere in the search for Evelyn.” I want to cry, but my anger has my face so hot the tears turn to steam before they get the chance to fall. “There has been no word from my father. If you don’t start telling me what is going on, I am leaving.”
