The Gift (32 page)

"I wonder how many asks it will take until you give it up to me? After all, we'll be working so very close, you and I. What do you think, hmm?" Once again Anton's fingers dug into August's muscle. He clutched it hard enough that skin broke under his fingernails and tissue hardened into a ball in his palm. Beneath August's frame, Anton's cock twitched to life. "Maybe in a moment of heart-heaviness? As you and I stand somewhere and contemplate a rock star's existence? When you are alone and Doren is paving our way, will you come looking to me for guidance and comfort? And you have my word," Anton chuckled and rolled his hips against August's body, teasing himself with friction. "I promise wholeheartedly that I will not be nice."

His eyes flew open and he gagged at the taste of the cotton pressed to his mouth, the scent of the body underneath it. He barely contained the shriek as he rolled to the side, shoving Anton in the process and thrusting both feet on to the seat between them, tucking his knees up close to his chest—a barrier of limbs.

Anton fell gracefully against the door of the limo, laughing. "Come now, August," he said, voice smooth and all but dripping with condescension. "Is that any way to treat a new friend?"

August choked at the word. As if. With friends like Anton, who would possibly need enemies?

A sigh and a sharp click of tongue replied to the thought first. Then Anton leaned forward, smiling. "And that's no way to think either."

"Stay away from me," August hissed through gritted teeth. "And stay the fuck out of my head, too."

"No," Anton replied casually, sitting back in his seat, brushing lint off his jacket, "I won't." He offered August a smirk. "I find you intriguing. I have no doubt that you and I are going to get very, very close. God …"

He pondered dramatically, one finger to his chin, his brow furrowed. "I don't think I can ever remember the last time I was inside a man."

August's laugh came out as no more than a ragged cough. "You're fucking insane. I wouldn't let you touch me with a ten foot pole."

Anton grinned. "Aw, August, you flatterer you. I promise it will be mere inches, not feet."

"Oh!" Anton's eyes got wide and he patted August's knee. "Look, August. We're here. You remember it, don't you?" Iron gates slid aside for their entry and August's heart lurched in his chest at the sight of Anton's estate. "Welcome home, beautiful."

He waited for the driver to get out of the car and then rapped sharply on the window. Defeated, August watched as the driver unlocked the doors from the outside.

Anton jumped from the vehicle, shutting the door behind him. "Keep your radio on," August heard Anton say. "I'll call you when I need you. And keep this door locked. Trust no one. Especially him." Anton turned and blew August a kiss through the window.

He flinched.

"Doren," August stared through the window and pleaded. "Where are you?"

He had no idea where he was: some kind of underground space, limestone floor and the constant drip, drip of water. Torches lined the walls, their burning wicks barely lighting the space around them. And who the hell used torches anyway? What kind of hell was he in?

He also had no preconceived notion of where he was traveling. He was just following sounds, listening to every little nuance around him. And then August's voice hit him like a baseball bat; it almost dropped him to his knees. Desperation. Fear.

"Right here, Auggie," he answered, setting his shoulders. "And I'm on my way."

"Creepy fucking place, ain't it?" Geoff mumbled, flinching at the three shushes that followed instantly. "I'm just saying is all. I mean, what'd he do? Buy it from the Addams Family or something?"

Dawson turned to him, growling in his most threatening manner, "Shut. The fuck. Up."

"Relax, Dawson." Curtis touched Dawson's arm in an effort to pacify. "Try to remember that they're not looking for us. If everything is still working in our favor they have no idea we're even part of this. So let's try to stay calm, stay cool, and stay friends, okay?"

"Ha!" Geoff snorted. "What makes you think I'm friends with any of you anyway?"

Cooper looked up at him and smiled innocently. "Come on now, Geoff, you can't fool us, buddy. You'll feel better if you just admit it. Come on, say it with me: you," he pointed at Geoff, "love," he held both hands, clasped into the shape of a heart over his chest, "us." He started to dance like a snake on acid. "Love, love, love, L-O-V-E, love us!"

Geoff went to swat him, Cooper jumped out of the way, and Geoff ended up overextending his reach and clipped Dawson on the shoulder.

"I am going to fucking kill you, you little runt!"

"Yeah, okay," Geoff laughed, flexing his fists open and closed. "Think tin can, my friend, tin can. You may look big, but I'll crush you like a bug."

"Enough!" Curtis yelled, his voice echoing through the quiet yard.

All three of them stopped dead, eyes wide and expressions guilty. Curtis lowered his voice but the anger was still there. "The three of you assholes are going to get us killed if you keep it up. We aren't in the fucking hotel goofing off right now. This is serious shit. Let's try and remember what we're here to do: find August. And probably save his fucking life at the same time. So if you'd rather stay here and screw around like goddamn children, just let me know. Because I fully intend to do my damndest to make sure—"

"Shit!" Cooper suddenly cut him off, staring in awe. "I got him, Curtis. I friggin' got him."

All games were forgotten as the men turned as one and frowned at Cooper.

"Where?" Curtis asked then shook his head and turned to Dawson. "Where?"

"He's in a car," Cooper continued, ignoring Curtis' lack of faith. "He's looking at the front of the house. So he's gotta be out front in the driveway. Dawson, can you find it, man?"

"As easy as following a lit path," Dawson said firmly. "Come on, let's get this finished."

The moment Anton was cleared from sight, August began to rummage around the limo, digging desperately for anything he could use as a weapon and coming up all but short. With a sigh and a shrug August gripped a corkscrew in his right hand, staring hopelessly through the side window. Because short of a machine gun, or an axe, even if he'd found a weapon it wouldn't have done him a lick of good if he couldn't get out of the car. With the divisor sealed and the windows up, with every lock set and the interior controls out of his command, August was no more dangerous than an infant in a playpen. And considering the driver paid him no interest, regardless of how many times August banged on the windows and no matter what he screamed, August wasn't offered any assistance. No miracle stranger was suddenly trading loyalties to help him.

The yard was black, the exterior lights dying the second Anton had gone into the house and though August's eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, it was still unsettling to watch the silhouettes of the trees swaying above, laying their shielding limbs over the house and yard like a sentinel brigade of nature.

He slammed himself to the floor of the limo when he heard the muffled voices outside the car, backing himself into a ball, readying limb and organ to pounce like a lion as soon as Anton or one of his demons made entry. He held the corkscrew in front of him, his hand shaking.

"Okay, August," he told himself, "slow and easy. We're only gonna get one shot at this."

"Leave this part to me," Curtis whispered. He pulled the gun from its harness and clicked off the safety. "But stay close."

With a quick step Curtis slipped from the bushes and strode up to the driver leaning on the door of the limo. "Evening. Lovely night, isn't it?"

"Excuse me?" The stunned look on the driver's face almost had Curtis laughing. "Can I help you?"

"Actually," Curtis chuckled, "you really can." He reached out with the gun, holding it inches from the driver's forehead. "I'm gonna need you to give me your passenger."

The driver just laughed, leaning forward to butt the muzzle of the gun directly against him. "I don't think so, friend. You should probably just go ahead and shoot me."

Curtis glared, caught between complete annoyance and outright shock. "Oh, come on! Why do you gotta be like that?"

Again a huffed sound of amusement rattled from the driver's mouth. "I would rather die by your bullet than suffer the repercussions later."

"Well, ain't that just too bad then?" Curtis pulled back the gun and, before the driver could react, flipped it in his hand and throttled the man with the handle. The man sank to the ground, his face still registering his surprise. "Looks like today's not your lucky day then."

Curtis knelt beside the limp man and began to dig for the keys until Geoff appeared at his shoulder. "Out of the way," Geoff told him. "No time."

Geoff stood by the car and gripped his fists into tight balls. With a cry he let loose, slamming the car door, embedding both fists into the sheet metal, before yanking back. The door crushed as if it was simple foil, bending and springing back with him as he pulled, flooding the car with interior lighting as it opened.

August tumbled out with a look of fury and the cry of a warrior. He stopped, amazed, and stared at the four of them.

"What in the hell?" Curtis reached for the corkscrew and snickered. "What the fuck did you plan on doing with that? Screwing someone to death?"

"It was all I had!" August said, his voice ending in a high pitch that made Curtis wince. "Where's Doren?"

"They got him," Cooper said, coming around to eye August's face. "And you look like you've seen the nasty end of a train, August. What happened?"

"Later." August waved the concern off. "Tell me what you know."

Cooper nodded. "He's here at the house. In some kind of underground-basement-like thing. At least, that's what I'm getting from him."

August blew out a long breath. "Okay. So?"

"So," Curtis tucked the gun back, "now we go. But first, we get that idiot in the trunk. The last thing we need to do is have him breaking to everybody that we're here."

Cooper chuckled. "Like the side of the car isn't going to give that one away?"

"Or the fact that August is no longer
in
the car?" Geoff added.

Curtis sighed at the two of them. "Well, smart guys," he said, finding the button for the trunk and popping it open, "I kind of hoped that maybe he'd think August did it." He reached in to the trunk and ripped out the handle for the emergency release. "You know, throw a little twist into the game?"

Dawson picked up the driver and tossed him unceremoniously into the surprisingly tiny space of the trunk, then slammed it shut. "Okay, that's kind of clever. But let's make it a little more believable. Geoff, you think you can take that whole door off?"

"Pfft," Geoff scoffed. "Easy stuff."

"Cool. Let's get it in the bushes where it won't be so easy to notice. After all, it'll be a bit more convincing if Anton can't see that it was opened from the outside, right?"

Curtis patted his shoulder blade. "What a team, eh, buddy? What a team."

Hate. Hate and fury. Hate and fury and disgust. He would know what those meant. For the first time in Anton's existence he would know how it felt to be broken. He would be the one in pain.

He
would be the one who suffered.

She walked the streets with the speed of a person on fire. And yes, she smiled at the thought of it. Yes, fire. Her entire being seemed to be on fire, her very soul roared with it. She could see it in her mind's eye, licking out of her eyes and her fingertips—flames as long and red as the hair on her head. Its imagined passion scorched her tongue and made her belly burn. Burn with hate. Hate and fury.

Tonight he would know.

They were there. He could hear them all. His friends, his lover—they were there for him. A relief, indeed. For while he had thought the music was pulling him to August, that didn't appear to be his destiny at the moment, though.

He walked down the middle of the hallway, no longer trying to hide, no longer stalking through the shadows. For whatever reason he was being called, he was not about to show up slinking in like a kicked dog.

He was humming quietly when he reached the end of the corridor. Without pausing, without hesitating, he turned to the right and followed the sound.

"What the … how? How, fucking
how
, do you let this
happen
?" Anton gaped at the two men who stared at the broken vehicle with him. He'd known something was wrong when the driver hadn't picked up the radio. But why oh why oh why then, had the man not called to report the problem?

Idiots. He was surrounded by idiots. "I should kill the lot of them …"

"Sir!" the startled man replied, advising Anton that he had, in fact, been mumbling aloud again. The thought made Anton itchy with annoyance. "We weren't even out here. If you had told us—"

"Do I have to tell you everything?" Anton roared. "Do I have to tell you to wake in the morning? To rise from your bed and dress? Some things you just fucking
know
!" He ran his hands through his hair, grabbing a tuft of it in frustration. "I just … I just … I just don't even fucking know!"

He let his hands fall and stared at the car, the missing door like a broken tooth in a mocking grin, light shining from the car and spilling into the yard. He rushed the limo, kicked it twice, and then spat on it.

"Forget it." He whipped around and stalked towards the house. "Never fucking mind. The prick will find us when we find Doren." He stopped at the stairs and turned back to the men who gaped after him. "Today, gentlemen."

Wrestling their gazes away from the car the two men jumped back to life, tripping clumsily to catch up.

Candlelight flickered and danced off the four walls, lending an eerie aura of presence to the empty galley. The room was immense, the only movement the dancing wicks of hundreds of candles, the only furnishing a long altar draped in red velvet. Doren spun, in the middle of the room, his eyes on the high ceiling, watching it prance and flutter with tall shadows. Every move he made echoed, even his own breath, as though the room had been built to amplify sound. He hummed into the air, closing his eyes to feel the reverberation, ten—no—a hundred times more intense than the van had been. But the sound of his own voice filled him with strength, leeching into his stomach and his groin, rushing through his blood and pumping to his heart. He let the room fall quiet but even in the void the sound continued: the soft sizzle of falling wax, the crackle of each burning wick, the distant echo of dripping water. He advanced on the altar, footsteps seeming to pound, and picked up the one item that rested on it. The knife was sticky with blood; it coated the blade and congealed on the handle. Doren turned it in his hand, holding it in front of his face at eye level, then tapped it lightly against the stone wall. The clear ping of metal sang to him and he sought out the meaning of its vocals. A death, recently; the blood of Morana.