Return of the Assassin (All the King's Men) (11 page)

It had been too long since they had joined like this, and in Trace's weakened condition, the fusion was hard on his body. But it was the quickest way to collect information.

What Brak found hurt his heart.

Sorrow…pain…suffering…loneliness. Trace had spent the last two hundred years in a living hell. He blamed himself for Mother's death. He tortured himself and lived in constant agony, and his power was a scourge to his existence. God! The depraved acts Trace had subjected himself to in order not to lose control of his power made Brak sick. He had failed his brother by not being there. How had Trace survived?

Brak pushed forward into the present and saw friends. Close friends. One named Micah and another named Sam. They were important to Trace. Very important. Especially Micah. They saved him. Somehow, they kept Trace safe now.

So, where was he? Where was this dungeon Trace was held in? Brak dug deeper and saw Chicago. Trace was an enforcer in Chicago and had been arrested. Why? What had happened? This didn't make sense. What had Trace done to deserve this punishment?

He invaded Trace's mind further in an attempt to find the answer, but his search ended abruptly as he hit a memory he hadn't expected to find. What the fuck? Fury rose like a violent storm. So fierce was the rush of outrage that Brak was flung from Trace's body, and his ghostly visage slingshot past the walls of the dungeon and away from his brother as he careened out of control in a whirlwind of rage.

He might be the gentle twin, but that didn't mean he didn't have his moments. And as soon as he found Jacob and Haslet, they would know just how bad shit got when he had a moment.

They had lied to him. His father was no longer in their care. Trace had found him in some kind of lab and stolen him back to Chicago.

Which meant Jacob and Haslet were as good as dead.

* * *

Trace gasped and sucked in rapid gulps of air as Brak's presence shot from his body.

"Brak!"

He was alive. His twin was alive. For so long he had tried to find him, and even though he had still been able to feel Brak's life force on occasion, he had begun to think it was all in his imagination and that Brak was dead. Along with his father. But in a matter of days, he found out he had been wrong. Both his father and his brother still lived.

"Brak!" He shot up from the floor in his cell and gripped the bars that kept him prisoner just as guards rushed into the cellblock to his left, bringing with them a din of commotion.

The scent of death hung like fog in the closed-in space, and metal clanged against metal as two cell doors slid open. He couldn't see them, but he could hear them, and now that he was lucid and no longer hanging by his last thread of sanity—thanks to his brother's ability to cleanse him—he realized that the two drecks who had been his neighbors since the day after he went into lockup were dead. Something—or someone—had killed them.

Brak.

But that wasn't Brak's purpose. Why would he kill?

The slow, measured
clack…clack…clack
of high-heeled boots made their way toward his cell, and when he glanced up, that bitch Cordray slinked around the corner. Her long, black hair was braided in about a hundred tiny braids that swished as she walked, and a black, sleeveless tank that shimmered and hung loosely over her large breasts showed off the multihued tattoos across her chest and down both arms. He growled and stepped away from the bars. He didn't want to be anywhere near her.

She stopped in front of his cell. Her eyes were such a bright blue, they cut through the darkness and practically glowed. "Hello, Trace. Hear or see anything interesting lately?" She tapped the nail of her index finger against one of the bars.

"No." He took to the shadows in the back of his cell and sat down on the floor in the corner but kept his eyes glued to hers.

She knelt down on her haunches. "Are you sure?"

"Positive." The word oozed from his lips like a lethal hiss.

Her eyes narrowed and her red lips curled into a tight smile. "You seem…better." She tilted her head to one side as if studying him. "The last time I saw you, you were a bit of a mess, Trace. Your skin mangled by your own fingernails…" She waved one elegant hand. "Bite marks up and down both arms…" She took a slow breath. "You were rocking like
Rain Man
. Now…" she nodded toward his pristine arms. "You look perfectly fine, not a scratch on you. I wonder, Trace, if this has anything to do with the two dead drecks down the passage. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? By the way, who's Brak?"

Trace bared his fangs and hissed. He. Did. Not. Like. This. Bitch.

"Now, that's not very nice." She clucked her tongue as she raised her hand and curled her fingers in such a way as to appear she was holding the bar, but the silver glint of a razor caught his eye. She lowered her voice to a whisper so quiet no surveillance camera would pick it up. "Especially since I come bearing gifts."

The razor called to him. Brak had tamped down his power for now, but it was only a matter of time before he would need a way to keep his power at bay again. The razor would help. But why had she brought it to him?

Wary of her intentions, Trace crab-walked to the bars and reached for the tiny piece of sharp metal.

His gaze met Cordray's when their fingers touched, and he growled at her.

"Don't worry, asshole, the feeling's mutual," she whispered and released the slice of metal so he could take it.

He snarled and folded his hand around the blade. "Why the gift?"

"Because I refuse to see you go mutant this close to the king's family."

The dungeon was connected to the royal home by way of a series of underground tunnels, so her fears were founded.

"Why don't you just bring Micah to me and save yourself the trouble," he whispered back as he tucked the razor into his pocket. Micah could take care of Trace's needs. He would know just what to do to keep Trace's power at bay. "Better yet, release me to his care. He can lock me down inside AKM and take care of me there."

Cordray scowled. "Sorry. No can do. You'll just have to wait to kiss your boyfriend until after you're released."

Trace arched his eyebrow. "Jealous much?"

"You wish."

They were practically nose-to-nose at the bars of his cell as the guards down the way shouted out orders and made enough noise to drown out Niagara Falls.

"You're not my type." Trace sneered and stared her down as if she were prey.

"You got that right." She met his gaze without flinching, throwing a few eye daggers back at him while she was at it.

"You'll never be anyone's type. You're just a cold, frigid bitch."

Cordray smiled and showed her fangs. "Awe, flattery will get you nowhere."

They sat and glared at each other a moment longer, and then Cordray pushed away and stood up. "I'd love to stay and insult you longer, but I have a mystery to solve about how someone stole into our dungeon and killed two drecks and left not a…
trace
…of himself. You sure you don't want to tell me who Brak is?"

Trace rose to his full height and leveled her with an icy stare. "I have no clue what you're talking about."

"Uh-huh." She tapped her temple with her index finger and gave him a cozy grin. "I'll bet."

That bitch. She had dug into his mind and gathered everything she needed about his brother, and he hadn't even felt her, too busy fronting than to notice the sensation of crawling worms inside his head. A sensation he now felt cease as she pulled herself from his thoughts. How the hell did she do that, anyway? Not even Micah could drill through his mental defenses, and that guy saw all.

He lunged for the bars and shot his arm out with such speed Cordray couldn't get away. His fist latched on to a handful of braids and yanked her back. "You leave Brak out of this, or I swear to God, I will kill you first chance I get."

She hissed and snarled at him. "Do I look scared?"

"You should be." He yanked her closer. So close he could feel her blood coursing through her carotid…smell its lustrous scent. He needed to feed, and she smelled heavenly.

"Those drecks could have led us back to Bishop." She bit the words at him like an accusation. "Now they're dead before I could get more out of them. Your goddamn brother is to blame. He's interfered with a top priority royal investigation and will fry once Bain gets hold of him."

"You leave him alone. If he did this, he had good reason." Desperation tugged at Trace's heart. He couldn't let Brak suffer for what he had done. There had to be a good reason why Brak had turned to killing. He never would have done it otherwise.

"Oh yeah? Well, I can't wait to talk to him to find out what that reason is."

His right hand twitched. All it would take to protect his brother would be to close his hand into a fist, and he could crush her heart. Or her brain. Or her spine. He could kill her so easily in so many ways…right now…with nothing more than a thought.

Sudden fear shone in her eyes. She could sense how close to death she was. Well, goody for her. Now maybe she would understand just who she was fucking with and think twice before going all Lewis and Clark through his thoughts.

Even though the thought of killing her to shut her up was tempting, he couldn't. He just couldn't. The will was there, but the follow-through wasn't. For some reason he wasn't able to put a finger on, he knew killing her would be a colossal mistake, and not just because she had some tight-and-cozy relationship with the king, who held her in the highest regard and would surely execute Trace if he murdered her. No. There was something else. A feeling…a mental nudge of warning that said he would regret killing her on a scale so large he couldn't even fathom it.

He let go of her hair and shoved her away.

She spun, hit the opposite wall, and then stared back at him as if she couldn't believe he had let go.

After several long, terse seconds, Cordray finally huffed and took a wary step forward. "Okay fine, asshole. Play this your way." She jabbed her finger at him. "I'll keep my mouth shut. For now. But when you're out of here, you and I will have a little date with your brother. If I'm not impressed, his ass is mine. So you'd better hope to God he impresses me." She spun on her heel and stormed down the passageway in those sexy stiletto boots of hers as if she was late for a pressing engagement, leaving Trace alone with thoughts of his brother, a razor…and a raging hard-on.

Fuck me.

How that female always managed to scare his power into oblivion and leave him in a state of amplified arousal was a mindfuck greater than the mindfuck Micah had worked on him at Mistress Diamond's scene party weeks ago. Now if he could just bottle that shit and dose on it
whenever he needed a fix, he wouldn't need the goddamn razor in his pocket. And he wouldn't need to see her again.

Bitch.

Sweat poured out Malek's body as he unloaded another volley of roundhouses, cross-jabs, and uppercuts on the four punching bags hanging in a quadrangle in the corner of the training center inside AKM. He'd been at it for over an hour, with no sign of letting up. His lungs burned, his muscles ached, but he couldn't stop. Not when The Voice still heckled him.

I told you she was dead.

Shut up.

But you had to go and think that image in your dining room was real.

Shut the fuck up.

If you would just accept that Carmen's gone, everything will be fine.

Fuck you. It will not be fine.

I'm not going anywhere until you get your head out of your ass or die, asshole, so deal with me. She. Is. Dead. And Gina is the solution.

"I said, shut up!" Malek flung himself at one of the punching bags, unloading enough aggression through his fists and legs that the leather, already duct-taped several times to hold the damn thing together, ripped apart.

Malek lowered his arms and backed away, watching sand spill from the tear like blood from a wound. Good. One enemy down, three to go.

Now I know you're losing your mind. You think a punching bag is the enemy.

Let's pretend it was you. Does that make you feel better?

The question is, does it make you feel better?

"Fuckin' A, it does." The grin that spread over Malek's face could only be described as psychopathic.

After his ghostly encounter with Carmen's hallucination this morning—and his subsequent meltdown—he had come into AKM before the sun rose, got about a minute of sleep in his dorm, then hit the training center. That had been hours ago. He had run twenty miles on a treadmill, rode another twenty on a bike, then hit the weights for an hour or so, went back to the treadmill, and then moved on to the punching bags.

His stomach was a nauseated, empty pit, but food was the last thing he wanted. The ache in his chest and the erection in his nylon sweats begged for only one thing, but Malek refused to relent. He would beat Gina out of his thoughts—and his body— if it killed him.

He took aim at the next heavy bag, ready to send another one to its demise, and attacked. Fists, legs, elbows, forearms. Malek used his whole body, unloading a physical onslaught that would have killed the Incredible Hulk from the sheer intensity alone.

You're an idiot. You'll never learn.

I thought I told you to fuck off.

And I thought I told you that you'll never get rid of me as long as you're behaving like a fool.

Well, then I hope you're ready to be disappointed.

It won't be me who's disappointed, pal.

I'm not your pal.

"You look like hell."

Malek spun midpunch, striking air. Micah stood in the doorway. What was that look on his face? Dismay? Confusion? Horror?

"Fuck off." Malek turned away. His shoulder-length hair clung like soaked, black ribbons to his face and neck.

"Nope, not gonna happen." Micah took a step in. "And I'd suggest you quit ignoring the other words in the English language. Hearing you tell me to fuck off every time I see you is getting old."

Malek glared over his shoulder at him. "Go fuck yourself. How 'bout that? Better?"

Micah shook his head and took a heavy breath. "When's the last time you ate, Malek? Huh? Or when you even slept?"

"That's my business."

"It'll be my business if you get yourself killed or jeopardize the team."

Malek waved him off then shot him the bird. "Not. Interested. And what team? There's just three of us, or haven't you noticed?"

"Four."

He popped his fist against the bag and scowled at Micah. "Four?"

"Lakota is joining us as of tonight."

Lakota. The bastard who had fucked Gina and tried to kill her. "Keep him away from me."

"Yeah, I thought you'd like that?"

"Oh? And why's that?"

Micah sneered in disgust and shook his head as if he held all the answers and thought Malek too dumb to figure them out. "You tell me, buddy. You're the one with the Gina fixation you keep denying, and Lakota did take her for a good fuck or two. That's not something that would bother her mate. Noooo, not at all. And I think deep down you know that." He tapped his temple knowingly.

See, even Micah knows the truth, asshole
.
The Voice just didn't know when to shut up.

Malek spun on Micah like a vicious lion and hissed, his fangs distended and his vision sharp as crystal. When he spoke, he sounded possessed. "Do not speak of her like that. She is mine and you will honor her!"

Only after he spoke—spurred by the immediacy of the moment—did he become aware of what he said. If he had been angry before, that was nothing compared to how he felt now.

And the Voice's cocky, in-your-face laughter inside his head only pissed him off as much as Micah's self-assured grin and knowing nod.

"Asshole! You tricked me!" He went for Micah. He would not be manipulated.

* * *

Micah dropped into a defensive stance as Malek flew at him. He had wanted to provoke Malek, but it looked like he had set off a cluster bomb inside the guy's head instead. Malek's reaction wasn't a surprise by any stretch, but his ferocious demeanor clearly was. The guy was pure rage, all reaction, no thought.

Micah ducked to narrowly avoid a fist to the throat and spun in time to catch the backhand coming for his head.

"Accept it," Micah said between clenched teeth. "She's your mate." He punctuated the statement with the butt of his hand as he thumped Malek's sternum with the force of a charging rhino. Malek tumbled backward into the wall.

But Malek wasn't done and shot toward him again, and this time he connected. His fist cracked against Micah's jaw. "NO!"

"Asshole!" Micah blocked the next swing and countered with one of his own, splitting Malek's cheek open. Blood flowed down the side of his sweat-soaked face and neck.

The two traded punches, kicked and shoved, rolled around on the floor, and jumped back up to go at it again until finally Micah had enough. This shit was going to stop right fucking now. With a maneuver that would have made Jackie Chan proud, he shoved Malek's arms behind his back, braced them with his fists, and bit halfway into the front of Malek's throat. His fangs dripped venom from their supercharged physical exchange.

Both growled low and deep, a deadly vibration of sound that stretched as the two postured for dominance. But Malek could growl all he wanted. Micah's bite was a potent message about who was in charge. A message that said loud and clear to Malek that if he didn't stop—and stop
now
—Micah would rip his throat out.

Malek froze, his head thrown back, and for several tense seconds, neither budged except to gulp in oxygen and growl at one another, both heavily exerted. Blood and venom mixed and trickled down Malek's neck until, finally, Micah bit down hard enough for his fangs to sink all the way in, and then quickly withdrew them and jerked himself away as he gave Malek a harsh shove.

Malek's hand shot to his throat, over the twin punctures that wouldn't heal like a normal bite, because Micah hadn't injected his venom deep enough to heal the wound. Micah wanted everyone to see the rank he had just pulled on Malek, to teach him and everyone else that his leadership was not to be tested.

"Get your head out of your ass, Malek." Micah pushed his sweat-dampened hair off his face, breathing heavily. "I've had enough of your shit."

Malek scowled back at him. His blood seeped through his fingers.

Micah felt as helpless as a worm in the middle of a busy street. This was Malek, who used to be his best friend. The two had been inseparable from the moment they met eons ago, and now Micah's heart was breaking. He didn't want to lose Malek, but he couldn't reach him, anymore. Malek was slipping further and further away, and all Micah could do was watch…and hurt. They might not be as close as they once were, but Malek was his brother. His goddamn brother! Micah had never stopped believing that, even though they came from separate bloodlines.

"Claim her and come back to me, brother," he said quietly. And with that, Micah wiped his mouth, turned, and headed toward the door.

"Just leave me alone, Micah. Leave me alone."

Micah stopped at the uncharacteristically soft timbre of Malek's voice, but he didn't turn around. "I can't."

"Why not?" This time, Malek's words held an edge of bite.

Micah looked at the floor. "Because I love you too much to stand by and do nothing while I watch you destroy yourself. Every day, the grave you're digging gets a little deeper, and every day I fear will be the one where I have to lower your lifeless body into that grave and bury you. And I…" Micah stopped and swallowed his emotion. "I refuse to do that, Malek. I refuse to let you die." He turned and fixed Malek with eyes that burned with unshed tears. "I refuse to let you die, do you hear me? I am willing you to live, and I will deplete every ounce of my will until either I win, or…" He frowned and had to fight to keep his tears from falling. "Or until
you
do."

* * *

Malek stood rooted in place as Micah turned and left the room.

Or until you do.

He glanced into the mirror. A half-starved, sweat-drenched, bleeding-at-the-neck apparition stared back. A specter that looked eerily similar to him, but appeared alien.

What had just happened here between him and Micah? Well, for starters, Micah had clearly been pissed off. Enough to pull rank and imprint him with a physical mark to show everyone where he stood in the pecking order. Biting him like that was the equivalent of telling him to drop and give him fifty…in the pouring rain…with his face in the mud…and a fifty-pound pack on his back. Micah was the sergeant, and Malek was the grunt soldier. And now everyone would know it.

He dabbed his fingers at the punctures on his neck. They should have begun healing by now, even without Micah's venom. But instead, the wounds continued to weep crimson tears down to his chest, staining his white tank top.

His body's systems were deteriorating, which wasn't a good sign, and after his scuffle with Micah, at least he was aware enough to figure that out.

But he didn't know what to do to pull himself to the surface to stop from drowning. His shit needed fixed, but even though the answer seemed so easy to Micah, it wasn't as easy for Malek. Every part of him wanted Gina, but every part of him also wanted to repel her and stay attached to Carmen, and that was the side he wanted to remain faithful to. With Gina gone, it was easier to claim he didn't need her.

Yeah, but you could go find Gina. It wouldn't be that hard to do, you know.

You're back?
Malek glared at his reflection.

I never left
.
His reflection glared back, and that just pissed Malek off. How dare he look at him that way.

Lucky me.
Malek scowled and trudged across the room and grabbed a bottle of water from his bag. His wary gaze flicked back to his reflection. He needed to keep an eye on that guy in the mirror. What if he tried to jump him when he wasn't looking?

The Voice laughed inside his head.

What's so funny?
Malek glared at the mirror.

You. Do you really think I'm capable of jumping you?

Definitely. You look stupid enough to try it. He took a drink.

Funny, but the guy in the mirror took a drink, too.

Laughter rang through his mind.

Are you mocking me, asshole?
Malek glowered and took a menacing step toward the mirror. The guy took a step toward him, too.
You want some of this?
Malek seethed at the image that glared back at him.

More laughter
.
You're a dumbass
,
the Voice said.

Oh yeah?

Yeah.

How do you figure?

Because I'
m
you
,
asshole.

"No you're not," Malek said aloud, taking a wary step back.

Oh yeah, buddy. I sure am.

Malek backed away from the mirror, and his hand tightened around the bottle of water. What was going on here? Shit. Was he so far gone that he no longer understood fantasy from illusion? An ache shot from his chest to his balls, and he doubled over as the male in the mirror did likewise.

Damn! It was true.

"No." He gasped as his scrotum tightened painfully. He had been walking around with a hard-on for days, and now it felt like a major case of blue balls was getting good and comfortable down there.

More laughter ranged through his mind and he clamped his fists over his ears, the bottle of water punching against the side of his head.

That's right, pal, you and I are stuck together, and you'd better hope I stick around a good long time.

Malek cringed and fell to his knees.
Why's that?