Angel's Guardian: A Contemporary Vampire Romance (3 page)

CHAPTER
4

He waited, paced, hoped, and then waited some more. Still, the woman did not die, he observed in dismay. Instead, she breathed, slept, shuddered, cried out in her sleep, and woke up hours later to drag herself up painfully to a sitting position. From his perch up on the railing of the second-floor landing, he watched her with a dark, resentful expression on his face.

She moved the babe slowly, in obvious discomfort, and laid him down on the pallet, careful not to wake him. With effort, she turned herself over until she was on her knees and hands on the bare wood floor, and she crawled her way to the opposite wall.

He could see the back of her legs, the filthy long skirt all caked with dried blood, the stench reaching his nostrils, making them twitch in disgust. Fresh blood was enticing. Old, dried, rotted blood was nauseating to him. There was dried, caked blood on the pallet too. He would have to get rid of it as soon as possible.

He watched as she braced her hands on the wall and pulled herself up into an unsteady but upright position, leaning her forehead on the wall a few moments to get her breath. She turned to rest her back on the wall and used her hands to smooth down her filthy skirt as if that would help. She touched her womb gingerly, eyes closed, and grimaced when there was pain.

The female opened her eyes, sweeping the room in search of something. Her gaze caught the staircase and followed it up to where he perched silently watching her like a cat watching a mouse: a very large, hairy, dangerous cat.  Her breath caught in her throat momentarily, but she willed herself to remain calm.

“I need the bathroom,” she said. It was almost a whisper, but he heard her clearly. He pointed down below him. There was a bathroom tucked behind the stairs. Her eyes searched and found the door hiding in the shadows. Taking tiny, tentative steps like a toddler learning to walk, she made her way to it.

He heard the water running. He imagined she would try to wash off the filth and blood that covered her. He doubted she was strong enough to accomplish the task. There was soap and shampoo in the bathroom, as he often used it on his way back from his nightly vigils. He hated bringing any of the outside smells into his home. 

She would need fresh clothes. The stench of the bloody rags she was wearing would drive him insane and would have to be burned immediately. He reluctantly went to his rooms and searched among his things for something she could wear, something he would not mind throwing away with her body when she died.

She was tiny compared to him, but she'd have to make do. He grabbed an old dark shirt, one he seldom used anymore. It was long enough to reach past her knees. It would do. He also grabbed a few clean towels before going down.

He could hear the water still running. She'd been in there a long time. He wondered if maybe she'd died taking the bath. As weak as she'd looked, the effort could have killed her. A spark of hope flared in his mind, almost joy. He decided to wait another ten minutes before checking up on her, give her time to be really dead before he went in. 

The children still slept peacefully. The little girl must be traumatized, he thought. To be thrown into a dumpster and be forced to listen as your mother gets raped and savaged must be horrifying. He could not help but feel pity, much as he tried to steer away from such thoughts.

The water stopped, he realized in dismay. Darn it, the dratted female will not die. He went to the bathroom door and knocked on it angrily. When she cracked it open and looked out cautiously, he stuck the shirt and towels in through the crack.

“Give me your clothes, all of them, every bloody, stinking rag you were wearing.”

It was the first time she’d heard his voice. It surprised her that it was not a rough, uneducated tongue to go with the rough, beastly look of the man. It was a deep, accented voice you might hear at the opera house or at a university lecture.

It took a few minutes before she opened the door and came out wearing the black shirt that reached below her knees and nothing else but her wet, tangled, long dark hair. Her things were wrapped up tightly, and she handed the bundle to him with embarrassment clearly stamped on her face. He took the proffered bundle and dashed his way to the basement where he quickly threw the things into the furnace.

Coming back up, he watched her use a towel to dry her hair. On the floor where he'd emptied the baby's bag, was a large comb. She approached it and made an effort to reach for it, but her pain got in the way. She stopped and winced, going momentarily pale. In spite of his personal feelings, he was not cruel to wounded, helpless creatures. He reached for the comb and handed it to her.

She made her way to the staircase and slowly, with much effort, sat on the third step and began untangling her hair. He busied himself by gathering the things he'd spilled from her bag and placed them back. There was a ragged wallet, a bottle of baby aspirin, a couple of toothbrushes, a few small boxes of juice, and a bag of string cheese. Obviously, the juices and cheese were for the girl. Half a dozen disposable diapers and some baby clothes completed her hoard.

“Can we stay a couple of days?” she asked, stopping to catch her breath. “Just until I can walk and carry my baby. I promise, we'll be no trouble. I will pay you. There should be two hundred dollars in the wallet. They weren't after money.”

He was surprised by her words. He'd expected she'd want to escape him as soon as possible. She should be running home to the safety of husband and family, to the police to tell what she'd seen.

“Don't you want to go home?” He ran his hands over his face in exasperation, rubbing his eyes, totally at a loss to understand. Not only was she not dead, but now she wanted to stay. All three of them. He shuddered at the thought.

“I have no home and, if I did, my enemies would be waiting to finish what they started.” She paused, the simple effort to pull the comb through her hair obviously taxing her strength, and she settled her dark gaze on him. 

Through the tangle of hair that perpetually obscured his face, he looked at the woman for the first time. She'd been in his home for hours, and he'd glossed over her many times but never truly looked at her. Now, he did. Unmarred, pale, honey-toned skin, delicate bones, dark, almond-shaped eyes, long dark hair, no make-up at all, bruised and broken, she was still lovely.

She was young enough to have two little ones. Her English was not accented. She probably grew up in the city, but her parents were originally from somewhere else. She was on the run from an enemy she feared greatly and with obvious reason. That explained what she was doing out at night, alone in the cold, unprotected. She was right. They had not been after her money.

“What do you remember of last night?” His voice was pitched low and deep. He was trying not to intimidate her.

She looked down at the comb in her hands, and her face crumpled as she fought to hold back tears. “They found me at the shelter. I had warning and ran, but they caught up with me at the train station. I could have outrun them and hid somewhere, but I had the children. I put Nina in the dumpster and told her to be very, very quiet so the bad men would not get her. I put the bottle in the baby's mouth. He always goes to sleep when he gets a bottle.”

“You put the children in the dumpster yourself?”

“Yes. I had little choice. I was desperate to save my babies. I knew the men would not think to open the dumpster. I closed the lid and turned back to the street to lead the pack away, but they were already there. I didn't scream or resist in any way. I didn't want Nina to get scared and make a noise.” Two big, fat tears rolled down her cheek, and she wiped them with her shaking hand.

“Do you remember everything that happened?” He looked straight into her eyes, dark and fearful as they were. She cringed as she fought her fear, but she answered him honestly, leaving no doubt.

“Yes.  The sight, the sounds, the fear, the blood, the horror, I remember it all.”

“Still you want to remain here? Are you not terrified to have traded one monster for another? You seem unreasonably accepting of what happened, of what I am. I would have expected more terror, shock, disbelief.”

“You have no idea the monsters I've seen in my short life. What those men did to me was just a replay of what many others have done before. I have become immune to rape, torture, humiliation, even murder. What I saw you do last night was justice. You did not hurt the children. You will not hurt the children. I believe that more strongly than I believe anything else. As for me, you can have the last drop of my blood, the last breath of my air, as long as you keep my babies from harm.”

“Female, you’re not offering much,” he answered angrily, pacing the floor in agitation. “I don't think there is enough blood left in your body to keep you alive another day. I honestly think you’re for the grave very soon. I’m surprised you had the strength to bathe. I brought you here in an ill-conceived moment of pity, a decision I regretted at once.”

“I know. When I die, and I believe that will be soon, will you make sure my babies live? I have a friend living in Seattle. Will you see to it that she gets them?” She stopped to catch her breath.

“You don't have to take them. You can call her. I have her number. Once I'm dead, she'll have no choice but to come and get them. I beg of you, grant this kindness to a dying woman and her defenseless, innocent babies. Such an act of mercy would go a long way in the eyes of God. It would make up for much.”

The woman's eyes bore into him, and they were dark and pained but also earnest and full of hope. What was he going to say? No? She would then cry and beg, and he would not know how to deal with that.

He could agree to anything she asked, and once she was dead, do what he wanted anyway. The kids would be better off with the social services than with a friend who “had no choice” but to come get them. The authorities would find the children nice foster homes and all that, he was positive.

People who felt a deep need to see something accomplished, clung to life. By setting her mind at ease in the matter of her children, he was being noble and helping her die in peace. He smiled at her with much condescension and simulated honesty. He was, after all, an accomplished liar.

“Of course, I can do that. It will be no problem at all. It is the least I can do for the little darlings.” He answered easily, feeling no guilt, giving her unspoken leave to die anytime at all, the sooner the better. As for God, vampires did not believe in gods. If one did in fact exist, one little act of kindness was definitely not enough to erase all the deaths he carried on his shoulders.

CHAPTER
5

The whiskey bottle struck the granite pavers with explosive force and shattered in a million pieces, shards flying, flashing  in the sun like fireworks.  Around the pool, the dozen or so beautiful, young girls in their skimpy bikinis shielded their faces and trembled in fear, but not one made a sound that could draw the man’s ire. They all strove to remain invisible, out of the range of his anger.

The large, free-form swimming pool was landscaped to resemble a tropical lagoon, surrounded by palm trees, exotic foliage, and dotted with rocky waterfalls. It was nestled at the edge of the ocean itself, further testimony to the riches and power that the man who owned the seaside complex wielded. Anchored half a mile away, visible from their vantage point, was a large luxury yacht that also belonged to him.

“Where? Where the fuck are they?” Carlos Pretto hollered at the top of his lungs. He picked up a second bottle of obscenely expensive Scottish whiskey and  hurled it too. His trusted henchmen stood by, silent, stoic in the face of his fury. They had been with him long enough to know that his anger would burn out. They had little fear of him. He would never turn that anger on them.

Now, the girls, that was a different story. Breaking a few bottles of expensive liquor was one thing. Marring a young, beautiful, high-end whore would mean a loss of millions of dollars in easy revenue over her useful years. Rich men did not pay thousands of dollars to fuck scarred, flawed women.

The two brothers stood ready to intervene should their boss’s fury get out of control and threaten the females. Discreetly, they signaled the girls to disappear. The women quietly and quickly left the pool area.

“Tell me, Felix, how does a  woman on the run, one with no history, no support, a dead protector, and two brats clinging to her,  make my team of highly trained soldiers disappear? For make no mistake, disappear they have. It has been two days, two days without a word from a team that reported three times daily. They had her on sights. She was on the run.”

“I agree, Mr. Pretto,” answered Felix, a tall, handsome Nordic man, his square jaw, spiky blond hair, and deep blue eyes reminiscent of a young Dolph Lundgren. His brother, Claus, stood silently by. “The team has been neutralized. Only death would have kept them from making a report. A search of the media and our sources in New York City should at least tell us what happened to them. If they’re dead, their remains have to show up somewhere.”

“I can understand that she has evaded my grasp for all these years. Marco was one of mine, trained to our methods, savvy in our ways. He was wily, resourceful, powerful in his own right with his old-school connections and the money he inherited from his dead parents. But she’s alone now, unable to access those resources, on the run out in the open. How did she do it?”

“I honestly can’t see how, Mr. Pretto.  I will find the answer. I promise you, Sir. I think this time, we should be more subtle. One investigator who works  the area, keeping under the radar, will be more effective. We know where she is. There is no need to send the bull into the glass shop.”

“Yes, Felix. I know now that you were right. I should have listened when you advised me against sending in a team. I wanted so much to make her suffer, to strike ugly and hard. I should have remembered that it was the two of you who finally found Marco Ferrars after my people had failed to find him for years. I will let you do it your way this time. But no more failure, Felix. I want this finished, you understand? Finished. Find her now.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Carlos Pretto remained alone in thought after his men left. His personal servant, Joseph, began sweeping up the broken glass after fixing him a drink. Pretto sat on a lounge chair gazing at the sea. In his own estimation, He was not a sadistic, cruel master. He did only what needed doing. He was quite reasonable, actually.

He was a businessman, one who protected assets and amassed wealth. The people who worked for him were rewarded handsomely. They lived in luxury, ate the best food, wore designer clothes, rubbed shoulders with the rich and powerful, traveled in style.

The young women were given expensive clothes and jewels, the best of medical care, and were protected from physical abuse. Even the richest and most powerful patron was not allowed to harm one of his girls. These were not $200 whores. Each female represented a sizable investment with expected returns of millions of dollars over many years.

Each was chosen for her beauty and youth. Once broken and trained, she joined a family of elite “escorts” that would please the most exacting man. A few hours in the company of one such girl cost thousands of dollars. Each girl was special. Angelica had been very special.

He remembered with vivid detail the first time he saw her. It was in Cancún,  on a sun-drenched day at the beach. He’d been enjoying himself sitting at the outdoors bar of the hotel while waiting for a friend to join him.

In the distance,  a group of young people walked at the water’s edge, laughing and talking, looking for a spot to claim on the sand. As they found their spot a few yards from the hotel, he watched one of the girls take off her straw hat, drop it carelessly, and shake her long, glossy mane of hair. Her white bathing suit, brilliant against her honey-colored skin, was modest.

She was lovely, fresh, young, flawless. Her face was framed in softly curving delicate lines. Her body was lithe and strong, just blooming into its strength. He heard her laughter as she lifted her face to the sun and ran into the water, her friends chasing after her. He took a picture with his iPhone and sent it to his recruiter. Five days later, she was on a special hold in one of his yachts.

It was the worst mistake he ever made, taking Angelica. The girls they “recruited” never took long to see the light. All were young and easily dazzled by the luxury. All were intimidated by power. Society had taught them to be subservient to men, especially those girls that came from outside the United States. Society had also taught them that their value lay in their beauty and sexuality.

But Angelica was made from a different mold. Erotic seduction, the lure of designer clothes and wild parties, the promise of exciting adventures, all failed where she was concerned.  Only rape, isolation, the threat of punishment and death proved effective. The result was an Angelica who played her role well, but in truth, she despised, feared him, and secretly plotted to escape him. In turn,  he fell madly in love with his high-priced whore.

It didn’t matter now. That was years ago, before she seduced his trusted and most favored lieutenant and lured Marco to betray him. One thing Carlos Pretto  learned through experience and observation: the one emotion that never lasted was romantic love. On the other hand, hatred, especially when sparked by personal betrayal,  blazed  with ungodly fury for ever.

Carlos Pretto had stopped loving  his whore a long time ago. His love had been replaced by a bitter, all-consuming hatred that would not let go. It was an uncomfortable hatred, an emotion that burned, itched, chafed like a too-tight    suit made of nettles. It kept him awake at night. It pounded at him like the unending rush of the waves upon the shore. It kept him from trusting again, from loving again. To rid himself of the prickly suit, he must destroy the source of his hatred.