2 Brooklyn James (20 page)

Emily and Gina coax him back locking him into his recuperative position. “That’ll have to wait for another time,” Gina reprimands. “I think we’ve all had enough excitement for one night.”

In Gina’s kneeling position in front of Max, her crucifix dangles at the top of her neckline. The shiny silver pendant catching his eye propelling his mind to a moment in time—a Christmas tree in a grand living room, a jewelry box with a white satin pillow inside cushioning and presenting the faithful symbol. A joyous laughter, his own, rings in his ears along with a
tap tap tap
—the paws of man’s best friend. “Bou Bou,” he whispers.

“What did you just say?” Gina’s heart feels as though it’s caught in the back of her throat.

“Where did you get that?” Max asks reaching for the pendant. He jerks his hand back with the heat it exhumes. Gina winces with the fiery touch of the crucifix landing against her skin. She stands up backing away from him as the necklace singes, burning a consuming violent red.

“Gina?” Tony calls to her, her expression ominous.

“He’s coming,” she expels, gripping her head between her palms, her temples booming, rhythmic like a drum.

“Who’s coming?” Tony further probes.

“Hell Hound,” Dr. Godfrey concludes eerily, the chalk breaking in his gripped hand.

“I thought you said this place was secure,” Tony charges him, grabbing him up by the collar of his lab coat.

The basement fills with a relentless, overpowering heat. The steel wall between them and the garage quakes, parting down the middle. Tony returns to Gina, alongside Aubrey and Marks, readying themselves for the unknown. Max pushes himself to his feet against Emily’s wishes, valiantly joining them. Their eyes ignite in succession, one after the other pressing back against Hell Hound’s hungry, violent glare as he enters the basement through the breached garage door. His cruel odor fills the lair. Dr. Godfrey’s jaw drops as he scrunches up his nose accommodating his bifocals a better look at the serpent-like specimen.

“Knock, knock,” Hell Hound prompts, his distorted voice echoing through the quarry-like construction of the safe room. His long, greasy hair blows back from his face with the magnitude of the resistance he faces. “Who’s there?” he answers his own question, throwing his arm up over his eyes, the glare of emerald green and steel blue causing his red eyes to squint. A dull brown hue verging on black spirals at the juncture of the intertwined colorful rays. “Orange,” he continues.

“Orange who?” Dr. Godfrey subconsciously expels, fully mesmerized by the offensive monster.

“Ha ha ha ha ha!” Hell Hound’s deep, booming laughter shakes the walls of the basement. “I like this guy,” he puffs, walking to Dr. Godfrey. “Orange you glad to finally meet me?” he delivers the punchline, extending his molten, raw hand.

“No!” Gina lunges in his direction, refraining from making contact with his body sure to penetrate the layers of her skin with its heat. Instead, she locks eyes with him, standing only a few feet away. Paralyzing his frame, his memories and deeds transfer to Gina, her body convulsing with each heinous image—even seeing, reliving her own rape. Hell Hound’s fury with her control over his body musters, combusting internally. His energy along with the venom of his soul transfers to Gina through her eyes, her body scorching, glowing bright red. Tony pushes his shield through her, ricocheting the heat back to Hell Hound.

“Ahh!” he lets loose a thunderous growl, trembling the ground beneath them. Marks holds Aubrey up, her petite frame losing its balance. Hell Hound releases a spontaneous fireball. Unable to control its trajectory, it spirals out of control in Max’s direction. He ducks in the nick of time, the flaming sphere slamming against and forming a crater in the stone wall behind him.
“Ice queen…”
Hell Hound demands.

Emily engages her wiles of telekinesis, holding every Vigilare in the room hostage with the exception of the hellish one. Idling in their bodies, Gina, Tony, Max and Aubrey roar internally, their voices muted. Her powers ineffective on humans, Dr. Godfrey and Marks look to one another for direction. Hell Hound, now free of Gina’s hold, hoists her angrily over his shoulder.

“DeLuca!” Marks yells, bravely running at the monster. Hell Hound delivers a swift blow to his chest knocking him clear across the room, breaking a multitude of his ribs as his back flings against the stone wall before dropping him harshly to the floor.

Dr. Godfrey flings his hands up to his shoulders, palms out, a sign of retreat. Hell Hound emits a sinister laugh, flitting his eyes in Dr. Godfrey’s direction, cracking the lenses of his bifocals for good measure before disappearing into the night.

“I saw you with him.” Lon pushes the contents of the syringe through the IV.

Gina watches it travel through the line approaching the juncture of the needle insertion site, disappearing into her system.
Beep, beep, beep
goes the monitor measuring her heart rate, its pace increasing fervently.

“The great detective,” Lon continues, indulging in an elaborate exhale. “Gronkow
ski,”
he fully enunciates, the lineage factor laced with distaste. “I got a joke for ya.” He sits on the stool next to the table upon which she lies, a provoking grin surfacing. “A man walks into a bar and asks the bartender, ‘Have you heard the latest Pollock joke?’ The bartender replies, angrily, ‘No. And I’ll have you know I’m Polish.’ ‘That’s okay,’ says the man, ‘I’ll talk slow.’” Lon chuckles, low and sinisterly.

She does not react, only inspects him further now that he lingers closer to her. A hand-shaped scar laces the front of his neck to include four elongated finger marks on one side, a single thumbprint on the other. The skin red and puffy, most likely a significant burn. “What happened?” she asks with concern.

“You get too close to the fire, you’re bound to get burned,” he summarizes.

Heavy footsteps echo down the corridor. Gina’s eyes dart toward the sound. “Hey Boss,” the familiar voice calls. “We got a visitor.” Manny Briggs appears devoid of his Hell Hound persona, a regular Joe with his shoulder-length greasy hair and spider web neck tattoo.

Gina fights against her restraints calling on her Vigilare powers. Grinding her wrists into the cold steel she attempts to make herself bleed to amplify her transformation. Manny Briggs laughs menacingly.

“Silence!” Lon demands, his voice verging on the same distortion as Manny’s when he is Hell Hound.

“I think you need to meet this one,” Manny argues as respectfully as he can muster.

Lon shifts his neck from side to side, agitated. “Can’t you see I’m busy.”

“But...”

“Go! Now,” he barks, silencing Manny who swiftly pivots, exiting from the vicinity. He refocuses to Gina. Her chest heaving, her eyes puzzled at her body’s disobedience. “‘What one man giveth, another taketh away,’” Lon quotes rising from his stool, pacing around her bed. The crimson viscous substance in her IV lines is now replaced with clear saline, a flush.

“Lon, what’s going on? Why is
he
here? Why are you doing this!” Gina demands.

His jaw clenching, he responds through gritting teeth, “You were supposed to wait for me.”

“Wait for you? I thought you were dead.” Her green eyes fill with tears.

“How convenient for you. And the great detective.” He jerks the needles from her arms covering them with gauze, his body now lurching over hers.

“They told me you were dead,” her train of thought reeling with the deceitful doctors, Ryan and Godfrey. She strains to raise up, attempting to meet his torso with her own.

Her closeness affecting him, his chest falling torridly up and down, miming hers. “And you believed them. I never would have given up on you.” His mouth inches from hers, he closes his eyes, refusing to give in to the urge to taste her. Wiping his hand over his lips, he backs away. “The four-eyed freak and his bossy sidekick...they’ll get theirs, too,
Sugar,”
he bites out the once tender moniker for her.

“What have they done to you?” She looks at him, her expression a mixture of pity and confusion.

“They
have done nothing,” he seethes. Grabbing the pump beside her, he flings it across the room, shattering it to pieces against the wall. He crouches over her aggressively. “You did this!” His anger volatile, she watches the irises of his blue eyes begin to glow, a vibrant angry red.

“Cerberus,” Gina expels, realizing the true identity of the symbolic three-headed monster.

Lon regains control of himself zapping the glow from his eyes, pushing off the table away from her. “Quite the detective, aren’t you? Vanguard PD,” he states knowingly. “Where you met the great Gronkowski.”

“You’re the center,” Gina deduces. “Briggs is a flank. We’re missing one,” she prods. “Who is it!” Her anger on the rise to think he would team up with, let alone employ her rapist. She struggles vehemently against the restraints, yet again attempting to call on her Vigilare powers. Working herself into an unproductive frenzy, her muscles fatigue, collapsing against the table.

“It’s gone, Brianna...Vigilare,” he coaches calmly, looking at the full vials of her siphoned blood. “Reserved for someone I find deserving.” He taps his fingers thoughtfully against his chin. “How about that feisty dark-haired girl you run around with? The power-hungry one. Emily...I believe is her name.” He chuckles. “She really gets under your skin, doesn’t she?”

Her eyes turning from hurt to vengeful, she maintains her breathing calm and cool. “Go ahead. Give it to her. You two would be a spiteful little match made in Heaven.”

He smirks, happy to have pulled a rise out of her. “You always were a prideful one, Brianna. Never thought twice about biting off your nose to spite your face.” He circles her table. “Come to think of it, that’s why we’re in this predicament to begin with. You just couldn’t let that case lie, could you? Had to be the big hero lawyer. Sacrificed your family. For what? Pride? Notoriety? Principle?” He chuckles. “You and the great detective. That was like watching egos on steroids. One pushing the other. An exemplary display of wills,” he indulges sarcastically. “No wonder you couldn’t wait to jump in bed with him. Hell, he’s so damn appealing, if I didn’t have an appetite for a woman…” he pauses, stroking her auburn hair. She jerks her head away further offending him. His eyes fall to the shiny silver crucifix hanging from her neck. Her skin filling with goosebumps under his hand as he moves the pendant from side to side about its chain.

“Lon,” she whispers his name, his touch warm and familiar, one she never imagined herself feeling ever again. Her eyes appeal to him, believing the sweet man she once loved still lingers somewhere in his disturbed soul.

“I still remember the look on your face when you opened that box Christmas morning,” his voice softening, his touch tender. “I came for you.” His eyes settling on hers, he leans down fully breathing her in, her scent momentarily vexing him.

“Let me out of these things,” she pleads, her monitor racing.
Ga-gung...ga-gung...ga-gung,
heartbeats for him, for what they had. “Just let me touch you. It’s still there, Lon. You’ll see. Let me hold you.”

“My sweet, Brianna.” Heat radiates from her face onto his, causing him to ache. “I came for you,” he laments. “And you were with him,” his voice distorts once again, a beam of violent red whirls about the room. He jerks the crucifix from her neck, standing upright placing a formidable distance between them. He clears his throat walking from the table, the pendant dangling from his fisted hand. “Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m not hungry,” her voice trembles, her expression begging an explanation for such a mundane question.

“Suit yourself.” He adjusts a surveillance camera in the corner of the room making sure it resides on her. “And to answer your question, my other
flank,”
he enunciates her term, “is our son.”

She gasps at the urgency with which her lungs require oxygen. “Braydon? He’s alive?” She jerks at her restraints.
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep,
the monitor races with the sudden shot of endorphins to her system.

“I believe you’ve already been reacquainted. Although, much like you, he has an alias these days,” Lon explains nonchalantly. “Maxim Kiesel. Sure is a handsome thing, isn’t he?” Lon chuckles. “I dare say he takes after his father.”

“Max? But, he’s a young man. Braydon would only be ten years old. How is this possible!” Her irons clink and clang as she desperately attempts to escape them.

“It wouldn’t be suitable for a child to be a Vigilare. Not that I would expect you to understand the premise of a moral compass, seeing how you seem to have lost yours…married to one man, sleeping with another.” He meticulously sweeps the scattered pump pieces into a pile, discarding them into a wastebasket.

“Lon,” her voice pleading. “Take me to him. You have to undo this. What have you done to him? He’s your son!” she screams, her body in a full-fledged quake. “My baby,” she cries.

He leans coolly against the wall adjacent to her. “How’s it feel, Brianna? To want something that doesn’t belong to you anymore?”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” she sobs, her body fatiguing, giving in to the table beneath her.

“Now is that any way to talk to your husband?” He turns walking from the room. “I’ll be back to check on you.” Her cries echo down the long corridor.