In the time it took me to walk through the manor, I was able to reflect on all my choices. To set aside a few, well-needed seconds to form a game plan on how things were going to play out.
How was I going to tell Emory?
What is her choice going to be?
Did I do enough...
on my part to convince her to stay with me?
Did I even deserve that...
after all my lies and betrayals?
I stop for a moment beneath the portrait that looms over the grand staircase. Removing my Scally, as my thick black locks fall to one side—I place the cap over my heart. “Ger, I could really use your wisdom in a time like this.” Sniffling as I straighten my back. “In all my existence, Love has never been an option. You, on the other hand, were so good at it.”
“I miss you,” a single, woeful tear falls down my cheek, “Old friend.” Placing my hat back on my head, I tip it before continuing my path back to Brennan.
On my way back through the cellar, I am stopped in my tracks by an unforeseen obstacle. Peter! He falls face down at my feet. His eyes blackened as bruises began to form—A kaleidoscope of grotesque-beautiful swirls, and a resemblance to the modern-day science experiment (where you put milk on a plate, drop color dye in sporadic places, then, with a Q-tip dipped in dish soap, you place it in the milk and watch as the colors twist together like magic).
Dry, crusted blood coats his pathetic face as he whimpers. Pleading. Reaching his hand out, feeling my presence, while every morsel of my soul begins to roister harshly, watching his hands as they grasp at my ankles, only to find himself grabbing air. The laughter that’s projecting itself from my core may have enough power behind it for him to hear, especially in the state he’s in, being as close to death as he is.
The walls begin to echo with a well-known sound, "I’ve seen the best and worst of humanity.” Brennan’s voice creeps down the hall, clinging to the rock like tar with every harsh tone—It’s full purpose to torture his prey. “The thing is, there is nothing different. ‘Will’ disguised as intentions—the weak following the strong.”
Even without the knowledge of this man's past, I would still tremble at his voice. “I led a small team, then. Performed undesirable things to worse people.” The timbre in his voice churns like curdled milk, blending with his footsteps as they inch ever closer.
“I reveled in the screams I brought forth under the staccato of the machine guns, the thrumming bass of the artillery. During that time, learning I had a penchant for information... well, the extraction thereof—I could makeanyimprisoned ‘soldier’ sing as if he were one of the greats:
Luciano Pavarotti,Andrea Bocelli, Celine Dion.”
Peter swivels, leaning in with his good ear, searching for the direction of Brennan’s voice—no doubt trying to gauge the time he had to get away. “Command took notice of my instinctual ability to get ‘proper’ intel.” A screech erupts, metal to cobblestone, piercing even my ears. The way this man could manipulate sound and strike fear with just the knowledge of knowing what tool it was coming from, had me petrified—and I’m dead.
His voice booms again, “I began to hone my skills. I became a seeker of the voids between lies, where the truth hides." A crack breaks the sound barrier—an ear-bleeding sound in such a confined space.
"You see here, it came from the most basic desire in all humans... toinflict." The cat-o’-nine tails sounds once more as Brennan emerges from the shadows, coiling it around his waist. He crouches in front of Peter, stroking his jaw. Smearing the blood that has mostly hardened now, all over his face before removing his hand, bringing his palm back to kiss Peter’s cheek. He flinches, releasing a small whimper as Brennan draws his fingers together, pinching Peter’s face, causing his lips to pucker.
Laughing, he cracks his neck, rolling it from one side to the other, "Your screams are my masterpiece…” he raises the opposite hand, his fingers like a basket in the air, as though an invisible piece of art resides there. “Your blood is my bourbon.” His saliva-clad tongue, shining in the dim light, as it lubricates his dehydrated lips. “My pleasure is watching your body seethe in pain.”
Squeezing his fingers even tighter, causing cuts to form in Peter’s mouth as the flesh slips between his canines… leaving lacerations in its wake. “I have been known to rival the greats, Rachmaninoff, Bach, and Shostakovich. I promise you, I will dream of your deformed, and blood-drenched body for years to come with an utterly delicious satisfaction."
A metallic rustling maneuvers its way through the air as he detaches the whip, allowing it to twist and sprawl out like the makings of a mushroom cloud—much like my good little romance readers have done to these pages, making it this far… you are such a good girl.
He snapped the whip, lightning quick, accompanied by a crack once it reached its apex. A visible shiver dances over his body in anticipation of the opening chorus of pain he is about to receive from his victim.
Excitement charges through my veins—I have never been so eager to witness someone join me on this side of the veil, more than I am in this moment. Wet and uncontrollably, my mouth starts to salivate. My soul is famished, craving such violence as this. Brennan begins to oscillate his arm, making the whip cavort, a serpent of deliverance—you may know her as Karma.
"Now you will tell meeverything!" The length of Brennan’s arm brought the tips to a blinding, flaying speed, just before the whips strike Peter across the chest. Layers peel away, liquifying the skin so perfectly that I can see the multitude of flesh coats that structure his chest. I watch, imagining it pooling at his knees, giving the portrayal of a Dali painting.
The cut reveals the deep crimson of his pectoral muscles, a masterpiece of revenge for all the pain and hurt he and his family have inflicted on others. Brennan then kneels in front of Peter, taking one of the nine tails and wrapping the end around the eye that dangles from its socket. Jerking both ends, he uses the whip like a garrote and severs it, "Now let me show you who you truly are.” He picks the eye up from the ground, turning it on Peter. Brennan releases a thunderous laugh before dropping the appendage and smashing it beneath his boot.
The lashings proceeded, one after the other—his screams only audible in the catacombs of this labyrinth where only the dead can hear him now. Wiping the sweat and blood from his brow, Brennan stretches and rolls his shoulders—a boxer warming up before a fight. As his eyes shut momentarily, Peter sees this as an opportunity andtakes off as fast as his damaged limbs could carry him. He weaves and dodges down darkened corridors, tripping over pebbles, completely unaware of me and my abilities. The candles spring to life—centerline lighting on a runway for Brennan to follow.
This parasite will never harm another loved one of ours again.
He breaks through the cellar door and out into the open air. Brennan is on his heels, but that doesn’t stop Peter as he turns the corner, heading to the front of the estate. Rain is still falling, forming puddles, providing the water that kicks up around his shoes. He is slipping and sliding all over the gravel with the appearance of a newborn deer. The fact that he thinks he can escape Brennan is hilarious… in itself.
Setting back on my heels, I watch as Brennan stalks after him. Terror exudes from Peter’s eye as he pauses to look behind him.
It must be difficult with the swelling.
