The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(75)

There was a slight smell of death halfway to the lower level, the awful perfume the kind of thing that activated the most ancient part of her brain, triggering thoughts of stopping, turning around, leaving immediately. Which she refused to do.

At the bottom, she stopped and looked around.

There were three cells directly ahead, and there was a body locked in one, its arm extending out through the bars, the hand missing. The head of the man had been badly beaten in, with a pool of dried blood around it, all facial features unrecognizable between the damage and the decaying.

Vitoria took a deep breath. More blue jeans. It wasn’t either of her brothers.

Turning around, she—

“Oh…dear God,” she said in Spanish.

As she hastily made the sign of the cross, her stomach clenched and then heaved—and she had to cover her mouth or throw up.

A corpse was splayed against the far wall, hanging by chains that had been locked on its wrists. The male was naked, the head lolling to the side, a trail of long-dried blood running from one side of the neck down the chest to the leg, a wound of some sort in the abdomen.

She knew it was Ricardo by the hands and the pattern of hair.

But she had to be sure.

Walking forward, she shook so badly her teeth rattled together and her hands slapped against her hips. And when she leaned to the side so the beam flashed upward to the features of the face, she began to cry. The dried-up eyes were open with horror, the mouth distended as if Ricardo had cried for help that would never come, the flesh horribly wrinkled and falling off in strips because he had been dead for so long yet no one had come for his remains.

For all of the violent things Ricardo had wrought on others, for the many deaths he had caused, directly or indirectly, for the rigid restrictions he had put on her, there was plenty to justify this terrible, lonely, painful demise.

Yet as she stared at the decayed remains of the face she had known all her life, she thought not of all the bad things. She remembered the vases of flowers on their mother’s birthday: Though she was before the body of the man, she thought of the soul of the child.

She would mourn the latter, for that was the one she had the most in common with: all those hard, early years of poverty that had been the kiln to Ricardo’s ambitions had served the same purpose for her. They had been dirty and hungry together, mocked in the street as they begged, beaten, and chased away.

As emotion overcame her, there was a temptation to fall apart. To sink to her knees and wail. To throw her hands up in a scared defeat and return to safety back in South America.

This was what she had come here for, however. A slate wiped clean—and Eduardo was dead, too. She knew that without a doubt. If someone had done this to Ricardo, then the other had been killed as well.

Vitoria had wanted a revolution. So she needed to be able to stomach the bloodshed.

As she forced herself to go back upstairs, she tripped at the first step—but upon none of the others. Up at the top, she cleared her throat a couple of times and breathed through her nose. For some reason, she wanted the smell out of her nostrils before she went outside, as if that would dim the memories. Or perhaps she was trying to catch her breath. Or…

She couldn’t think straight. But she needed to start doing that immediately.

Striding to the door that was still only slightly ajar, she said roughly, “Nothing.”

Outside, Streeter pivoted around, his exhale of cigarette smoke floating up to the brightening sky. “No?”

She made what she hoped was a negatory sound and closed things up behind her. Before she put herself once more in her snowshoes, she checked to make sure the locking mechanism had engaged.

“So this was a waste of time,” he muttered.

“Yes. It was.”

If he had known her better, or been paying closer attention, he might have noticed her voice was hoarse. And her hands were shaking. And she was breathing hard. But he was too self-involved, and that was perfect.

Clipping herself back into the snowshoes, Vitoria set off once again, at a faster pace than before.

She had no choice but to leave the bodies, even that of her brother. It was better for her to pretend she knew nothing and be sought out by law enforcement if things ever came to that. Which would be a very long while, if at all. This outpost was totally secluded and secure, and she and Streeter’s tracks would be covered by snow soon enough—

“I’m sorry.”

Vitoria looked over her shoulder without breaking stride. “For what.”

“Bein’ wrong. Wastin’ your time.”

Now she lost her rhythm. “It’s okay. Do not worry yourself about it. We all make mistakes.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“You are welcome, Streeter.”

As she continued on, she tried to distract herself with plans to continue following up with more of those names in Eduardo’s journal. But it was hard. Ricardo’s throat had been torn open, for godsakes.

What kind of animal did that?





THIRTY-FOUR


Sometime after sunrise, Jane had her face in a pillow. Her naked body was flat on the mattress, and her legs were spread, and there was good reason for both. A huge weight was on top of her, moving, penetrating, the rhythm like waves in the ocean at high tide. Her hands were held down, big palms pressing on them, keeping her in place. Fangs, sharp and delicious, were sunk into her shoulder, the bite deep.