Shadow of Vengeance (35 page)

Torture without meaning.
 

Pushing off the rung, he reached for the lantern. But torture he must.
Be a man
, his mother had told him after…after his Hell Week happening. That had been what she’d called it.
The Hell Week happening.
She’d nurtured him back to health, had tended to his wounds while his oblivious, incompetent, simple-minded father assumed his son had developed the sort of affliction one might contract when living with a houseful of filthy, young, teenaged boys. No, his father hadn’t known, but his mother knew, she knew what they’d done—every heinous detail. And as he’d lain in bed, suffering both physically and mentally, she hadn’t an ounce of sympathy.
 

“Vengeance,” he whispered, and turned the light on his pledge. That had been what Mother told him as she’d nursed him back to health. As he stared at the puke, he realized the boy could use a little nursing, as well. But that would be pointless. Thanks to Junior’s fuck up, the pledge would be dead in less than two days.

Fresh tears prickled his eyes. He wanted to hurt the pledge. He needed to hurt him in order to keep the demons at bay. Today was only Wednesday, though. If he rushed through Hell Week, would there still be satisfaction? There had to be. This was supposed to be his last Hell Week. His
coup de gras
. He didn’t want there to be another. How could any other Hell Week top this one? After all, his pledge was the son of the demon who had tortured him.
 

Be a man. Don’t let what they did to you change you. Find a woman. Use her. Prove you’re still a man. And when you’re done, when you’re more successful than your pitiful father and his father before him…get your revenge.

Those words had been his mother’s mantra as she’d applied a warm cloth to his wounds that cold, icy Sunday night twenty-five years ago. As he stared at the pledge, he saw himself. Stumbling naked from the fraternity house, running, tripping and sliding through ice and snow as he’d fought to find a way home. Even slightly delusional with the onset of hypothermia, he’d managed to find his parents’ home,
his
home. Beaten, naked, multiple parts of his battered body in the first stages of frostbite, his mother had found him on the doorstep. Instead of reporting the incident, she forced him to suffer in silence. No one could know what had been done to him. The Townies might think he was a sinner who’d brought upon him the wrath of God in the form of a twenty-year-old demon. They might think he
liked
it. His mother had suspected as much, but she’d been wrong.
 

There is no pleasure in rape. Only pain.

But he’d reported the incident, and had sent an anonymous letter to the university president before transferring schools. Not all the gory details, nor did he name names. He’d feared his tormentor, and had worried the demon would seek vengeance against him.

A tear slid down his cheek. “Vengeance,” he repeated as he slowly approached the pledge. With his free hand, he ran his palm along the boy’s bony cheek. When the puke’s head lulled to the side and rested in his palm, a fresh wave of sadness and rage overwhelmed him. He had sought that same comfort from his own mother the night he’d returned home defeated, demoralized and haunted by what he’d endured. That same need for a tender hand, to know he was safe. While she had performed her motherly duties and healed his wounds, she’d done so clinically, coolly. There had been no love in her healing touch. There had been nothing but disgust.
 

The metal poker slipped from his other hand and dropped to the rock with a clank. Gripping the boy’s face with both hands now, he rested his forehead against the pledge’s. “That’s what Mother said was important. Vengeance.” His tears burned a path down his cheeks, and as he rested his face against the puke’s, he realized the boy cried, too. Their tears mingled and bathed each other’s faces.

Awareness caused him to draw a sharp intake of breath. He raised his head and stared at the pledge. Never had he touched a pledge in this way. He’d never once allowed any of them to see his weakness, to see the pain that still haunted him. For some inexplicable reason, this new cognizance didn’t bother him. He touched his wet cheek, relished that he couldn’t tell the difference between his tears and the pledge’s. And, as if he’d been baptized by the chosen one, by his savior, his heart and soul lightened with hope.
 

“Yes,” he hissed and gripped the pledge by the shoulders. “You will save me, won’t you? You will take me out of Hell Week and make me whole again.” Grinning, he wiped the boy’s wet cheek. “I will owe you for an eternity.”

The pledge’s watery, bloodshot eyes shifted nervously with confusion. “I…I don’t understand, sir.”

Reeling at the thought that all was not lost, that Junior’s fuck up might have been a blessing in disguise, he stepped away from the pledge. No doubt, his anger for her remained and she would be punished…eventually. For now, though, he’d tap into some of his mother’s mantra.
 

Be a man…get your revenge.

“All in good time, Puke.” His step a little lighter, his world a little brighter, he moved to the corner of the cellar. He picked up the can of yellow paint he’d purchased months ago, along with a paint tray and roller. “Has anyone ever called you a coward?” he asked as he poured the canary yellow paint into the tray.

“Yes,” the puke answered quickly.

After wiping the paint can clean of any drips, he looked at the pledge. The boy stood tall now and no longer dangled from his restraints. There was a fierce glint in his eyes that he admired. No. This pledge was no coward, not like the others who sniveled, whined and begged for release.

“Who?” he asked, curious.

The pledge raised his chin. “My father.”

He smiled. “That doesn’t surprise me. But you do realize that your father is the coward. He preys on those he deems weaker than him rather than battling those who are his equal or stronger. He’s pitiful.”

The internal struggle the puke suddenly dealt with was evident in his eyes. He’d bet the boy, who had defended his father just the other day, didn’t know whether to agree with his assessment or support the demon who’d spawned him.

“You know my dad?”
 

He dipped the roller in the paint tray until every inch had turned yellow. “Yes,” he admitted. “Quite well. You can thank him for your current situation.” Standing, roller in hand, he approached the boy. “And while I do not find you cowardly in any way, I must keep up with tradition.”

Using the puke’s body as his canvas, he painted. Rolling over his concave stomach, his bony ribs, skinny legs and arms, his mangled foot, then across his face. When he forced the pledge to turn, which must have put a tremendous strain on the boy’s shoulders based on the pain crossing his face, he painted the puke’s back. Covered all of the open sores and abrasions as he ran the roller over his knotty spine. After he righted the boy again, he looked at his artwork. “
Voila
.”

He returned the roller, tray and paint can to the corner. “Normally, this is where we would have stopped for the night, but something has come up that has forced me to shorten Hell Week.” He paused. “I believe, technically, we won’t be able to call this Hell Week considering a week consists of seven days.” He shrugged. “We’ll just call this…Hell.”

“Sir?” Junior’s voice drifted from the upstairs foyer. “Can I come down?”

“
May
I come down?” He shook his head. “My daughter is showing signs of her idiocy left and right today,” he muttered to the pledge, who stared at him with a strange mixture of confusion and hatred.

“Yes, Junior. You
may
come down.” When she reached the bottom rung, she looked first at the pledge, then to him. “So glad you could join us,” he said. “Thanks to you, I’ve been forced to add more calisthenics to this evening’s agenda.”

She frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Doesn’t know what I mean?” Guffawing, he approached the pledge and pressed a finger to his painted chest. “Still a bit tacky, but I see no sense in waiting.”

“Sir.” She took a step forward. “I
really
don’t understand.”

In a heartbeat, he knocked her back, pinning her against the ladder’s rungs. Holding her by the throat, her thick coat no protection against his ire, he slammed her head against the rung. “Don’t.” Breathing hard, he tightened his grip. Satisfaction oozed into him when her eyes bulged and her face reddened. “Don’t lie to me, Junior. I know what you did. I know all about the security guard.”

Mouth gaping open, she clawed at his hands. He could easily kill her. He could easily dispose of her like he had with the others. There was plenty of room at the bottom of the old well, and he owned plenty of muriatic acid and lye. But she did serve a purpose and he might still have use for her. His reach was far, but she could infiltrate areas with inconspicuous ease. Should things become…complicated, he would need to quickly dispose of the pledge and leave Bola. Permanently. When this was over, he’d kill her. She didn’t deserve to carry on his legacy. Her ineptness, her lack of respect for Hell Week, for him, was the proof.

Releasing her, he stepped away and moved toward the pledge. Her wheezy inhale, her coughing and pathetic sputtering echoed off the rock walls. The sounds were quite nice, triumphant, really. Hopefully his daughter would remember this moment should he give her another assignment. He refused to tolerate another one of her fuck ups.

Rubbing her throat, she leaned against the ladder. “I’m sorry, sir,” she rasped, then cleared her throat. “I…I should have told you, but I wanted to prove my worth to you. Show you I can clean up any mess.”

“Fool,” he shouted and reached for his belt buckle. “
You
created this mess. You should have never involved that stupid Townie in the first place.” He whipped the belt free from his pants, held both ends together until the leather strips were taut. “The sheriff and those buffoon, rent-a-cops are going to be more determined than ever to stop Hell Week.” He struck the wall with the belt, and both Junior and the pledge flinched. “Damn it! If you left any evidence—”

“I didn’t,” she said on a grating whine. “I swear.”

He stalked toward her, slapping the leather belt against his palm. “What did that security guard do to you?”

“I…what do you mean?” she whispered and stared at the belt.

“Did he sneak into your room and try to molest you? Rape you like—”

“No,” she yelled. “I used his truck to bring you your pledges. I drugged him and borrowed his truck. That’s it.”

Rage simmered under the surface. “You drugged him?”

“Yes, like I drugged him and the other guy,” she said and pointed to the puke. “How else was I supposed to bring them here?”

“How else?” he asked, and smacked the belt against his palm. “How about the way I told you? The way I
thought
you did. You lied to me.”

“No.”

“You lied to me and now I’m wondering how many other lies you’ve told.”

“I swear. Sir. Dad,” she pleaded. “You’ve been nothing but good to me. You took me in when I had no place else to go. You’re giving me an education…you’re giving me my life back and along with it, confidence and strength I’ve never felt before.” She dropped to her knees and hugged his legs. “Please believe me. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I wanted so badly to prove to you that I’m worthy enough to be called your daughter. Please.”
 

Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at him. Part of him wanted to kick her hard enough in the jaw her teeth would pierce the back of her skull. Pride held him back. While he was used to whining and pleading from his pledges, this was different. Junior wanted acceptance. While he’d never publicly accept her as his daughter, and he would likely kill her when everything was said and done, he admired her spirit.
 

“Stand up,” he ordered. “Why did you use the security guard’s truck instead of luring the pledge here the way I instructed?”

“It was dark and I was afraid I’d get lost in the woods.”

“Try again. You know that path like the back of your hand.”

“Fine,” she shouted. “I was afraid, okay? I didn’t want to be alone with them in the woods. After…after the last time I was alone with a man like that…I was afraid the two of them would…” On a sob, she turned away.
 

Stupid girl. She should have been upfront with him. He would have found another method to obtain his pledge. “Understood,” he said and kept his voice quiet, gentle. “But why kill him?”

Wiping her nose with her sleeve, she looked over her shoulder. “Those agents from Chicago wanted him to get some blood work done. If he made it to the lab, they’d know he was drugged with the same stuff I used on the kid I left on the side of the road, and him.” She jerked her head toward the puke. “So, I pretended I wanted to fool around with him, took him out into the woods where I told him I knew of a great spot, and knocked him out. Then I tied him to a tree, went back to his truck and put it in the river to get rid of any evidence I might have missed.”

Good God, maybe his daughter wasn’t as stupid as he’d thought. Still. “Why tie him to the tree, why not just kill him?”

“I needed to make sure the drug was out of his system,” she said. “Please don’t be mad at me. I know I should have told you…”

“Yes. You should have, but what’s done is done. Unfortunately I still need to move Hell Week along faster than I’d like. Rather than ending on Sunday, our puke will be initiated Friday evening.”