Three hours, four bottles of Dom Perignon, and countless matches later, and Mason’s initial astonishment at Julien’s prowess in the ring had turned into out-and-out awe. Julien had fought four more times since his initial bout, and although he’d won each time, true to his word, he’d prolonged each fight, exchanging rapid-fire volleys of punches, kicks, elbow- and knee-strikes with his opponents to the uproarious delight of the crowd. Mason had never seen anything like it in his life, never seen anyone move with such deliberate speed and brutal precision before. With every bout and every victory, Nikolić’s claim that Julien was some sort of “living weapon” sounded less and less far-fetched.
By his fourth fight, however, the strain of physical fatigue began to show. Julien looked up into the stands as the ringmaster clasped him by the wrist and lifted his arm, declaring him the winner. His body was glossed with sweat; the stage lights from overhead bathed him in golden glow under which his skin seemed luminous, his eyes radiant and sharp. No longer small or vulnerable to Mason, he looked proud and strong, like a lion that had just turned back a larger rival; his back arched, his shoulders thrust back, his face lifted, his muscles cast in finely etched relief.
The crowd roared in approval as Julien scanned the tiers with his gaze. When his blue eyes lit across Mason—when their gazes locked—Mason’s breath caught in his throat.
My God, he thought with a soft smile. You’re amazing, Julien.
He was also injured. Julien’s mouth and nose had been battered, and he turned his head to spit blood onto the mat. His breathing had taken on a ragged, labored quality Mason could see even from a distance, and as the guards led him from the ring, he visibly limped.
“I need to see him,” Mason said to Nikolić. “He’s hurt. Take me down there.” When Nikolić arched his brow as if surprised and amused by his insistence, Mason frowned. “He took some hits to his side. I told you that could cause his lung to collapse again. He’s breathing funny now—I need to check on him.”
Nikolić and Miloš had made their peace since Julien’s initial win, and Nikolić turned to his friend now, laughing. “You hear this?” he asked. “Ordering me around, worse than a goddamn wife.”
He’d put away more than his fair share of champagne, and his cheeks were ruddy and bright, his eyes glassy with drunken good humor.
Miloš chuckled. He had his arm wrapped around Sofiya, who had slumped against his shoulder some time earlier, drifting off to sleep. “Go ahead, take him,” he said. He gave Sofiya a squeeze and she murmured softly, restlessly. “I’ll take care of things up here.”
Even though Mason hated the idea of leaving the girl alone with him—especially out cold and vulnerable—he couldn’t let Nikolić force Julien into the ring again if he’d suffered another chest injury. If he was bleeding internally again, the strain could kill him. He had to believe that Sofiya would be safe as long as she stayed in the booth; that between the guards and the other spectators around them on all side, Miloš would exercise some discretion and restraint.
Instead of returning to the locker room, this time Nikolić brought Mason to a dingy bathroom at the end of a narrow hallway. One of Nikolić’s goons stood outside the door, his arms folded across his broad chest. His posture straightened when he caught sight of Nikolić, and his hand darted for his pocket. He’d pulled something out before Nikolić had gotten within ten feet of him; as they drew closer, Mason saw it was a screwdriver. The guard used it to jimmy the lock on the door handle, which proved to be nothing more than the average, run-of-the-mill, turn-clasp kind. Between it and the guard, though, it was enough to keep other people out—and most importantly, Julien in.
Mason found Julien sitting on the floor by the toilet with his legs outstretched. He held one arm across his midriff as if to crutch his ribs, splinting against pain. He’d tipped his head back to lean against the wall, his eyes closed, but lowered it at the sound of the door opening.
“Hey, Doc,” he said, cracking a feeble smile.
Nikolić still stood in the hallway just beyond the threshold. His phone had started to vibrate just as they’d arrived; whoever was on the other end of the line must have been important, because he’d turned his back to the bathroom, giving Mason and Julien a modicum of privacy, while he stuck his finger in one ear and held the phone against the other.
“You look like hell,” Mason said.
Julien managed a laugh. “Thanks. Nice to see you again, too.”
“Where the hell’d you learn to fight so well?” Mason asked, kneeling beside him.
“Lots of different places,” Julien replied as Mason leaned toward him, cupping his hand over his right eye. “What are you doing?”
“Checking your pupils,” Mason replied, turning Julien’s head gently toward the light, then using his hand to block it. “You took some pretty good hits to the head.” He repeated these same steps on Julien’s other eye. “I want to make sure you didn’t wind up with a concussion.”
“I’m fine,” Julien said. “You always said I was hard-headed.”
Mason placed his hand against Julien’s chest, feeling for crepitus, the tell-tale sensation of soft nodules beneath the skin, almost like Rice Krispies, where air that was leaking out if Julien’s lung had collapsed again would become trapped beneath the skin. He didn’t feel any, but Julien winced at the pressure of his touch. “That hurts?”
Julien nodded. “A little. That last guy…he cracked a couple ribs, I think.”
“Yeah. I figured.” Mason didn’t have a stethoscope with him, so he settled for leaning over, pressing his ear to Julien’s chest. “I’m worried about that lung. Breathe for me.”
“I’m fine.” Julien sounded tired but amused, like he humored a ridiculous and somewhat exasperating request simply by inhaling.
“Again,” Mason said. “Deep as you can.”
Julien draped his hand lightly against Mason’s head, his fingers threading through his hair. “This is nice,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “You could move your head a little lower, you know…”
Mason sat up with a scowl. “I’m trying to help you.”
“That would help,” Julien assured him.
“Yeah. Help get us both killed when Nikolić walks in and sees,” Mason said drily.
Julien shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s too late for that.” He opened his eyes and smiled again weakly. “He knows. The son of a bitch had cameras in my room.”
Mason’s eyes widened. “Fuck,” he hissed.
“That’s my idea, yeah,” Julien said with a laugh.
“Will you stop?” Mason’s frown deepened. “You’re hurt, Julien. You can’t fight anymore. You shouldn’t have been fighting to begin with.”
“Hey, I’m just following orders.”
Julien said this with a faint chuckle, but something flashed through his eyes as he spoke; something bitter, nearly rueful that Mason would’ve had to be blind to have missed.
“Yeah. And that’s what I don’t get.” His expression softened and he touched Julien’s face, brushing the cuff of his knuckles along the arch of his cheek, drawing Julien’s gaze. “Why are you doing this?”
Julien cut his eyes away, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Bullshit! I can’t just sit by and watch you get the shit beaten out of you over and over…watch you wearing down, wearing out—you’re exhausted, Julien.”
Julien shook his head again. “I’m fine.”
“You weren’t fine to begin with—and you’re sure as hell not now. What’s Nikolić got on you to make you do this? Is it money?”
That old, familiar, stubborn crimp formed between Julien’s brows. “What? No, it’s not money. Jesus Christ, Mason, two hundred years go by, and you still think all of my goddamn problems revolve around money.”
“Considering it wasn’t until after you’d left Boston that I found out the kind of lengths you’d go to for money if it meant helping someone you cared about, I wouldn’t…” Mason began hotly, but then his voice faltered and his eyes widened.
“Me,” he whispered in realization as Julien turned his face away again, looking down at the floor. The son of a bitch had cameras in my room, Julien had told him of Nikolić. He knows.
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” he said softly. “Holy God, Julien, are you…are you doing this for me?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Julien murmured, drawing his knees toward his chest.
“Did Nikolić say he’d let me go if you fought for him?” Mason asked. “Julien, look at me. What did he promise you? What did he say?”
He’d touched Julien’s shoulder as he spoke, only to have Julien shrug him away. With a frown, Mason tried again. “What did Nikolić say? Talk to me, goddamn it. I can’t help you if you don’t—”
“You can’t help me anyway,” Julien snapped, his brows furrowed as he pushed Mason’s hand away. “He didn’t promise anything, didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. I know the drill, believe me. I’ve lived it my whole goddamn life.”
Mason blinked, caught off-guard. “What are you talking about?”
Julien shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said again.
Mason pressed his hand against Julien’s cheek, drawing his gaze. “It matters to me.”
Julien stared at him, his eyes round and pleading. “You don’t know,” he whispered. “Oh, God, Mason, you have no idea…the things I’ve done…the god-awful things…”
“For Nikolić?” Mason asked in confusion, but Julien shook his head. Closing his eyes, he turned his face into Mason’s palm. A shudder went through him. “For who, then, Julien? Talk to me. Please.”
“Dr. Morin,” Nikolić said from the doorway, his voice low and stern. When Mason turned, he found the big man standing with his phone still in hand, his brows crimped, his mouth turned in a disagreeable frown. “Time is up,” he said. “Let’s go. He needs to get ready for his next match.”
* * *
“How many more times are you going to make Julien fight?” Mason demanded of Nikolić as they returned to the upper tiers.
Nikolić didn’t answer; he seemed surly and distracted as he tromped ahead of Mason, and with a frown, Mason caught him by the arm.
“He’s had enough,” he snapped. “Whatever you’re trying to prove here—you’ve done it. You’ve won. Let him stop now. Let him rest. He’s had enough.”
Nikolić whirled on Mason, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him back into the nearest wall. His face was twisted with murderous rage, his pupils wide and dilated. He’d apparently been hitting the juice and it had kicked in full-force, the bloodlust surging through his veins.
“He’s had enough when I say he has,” Nikolić seethed through clenched teeth, spittle spraying Mason’s face. “I want him broken—I want him crawling on his belly like a goddamn worm. I want him to weep like a goddamn woman and beg me to keep from getting in the ring. And I say he’ll fight until he does.”
“Why are you doing this?” Mason gasped as Nikolić turned him loose, leaving him to stagger, clutching at his throat. “What the hell was his crime? Why do you hate him so much?”
Nikolić opened his mouth to snarl in reply, but someone stumbled into him in the crowd. He swung around, the tendons in his neck stretched taut and straining with menace, and Mason caught sight of Sofiya backpedaling away from him, her eyes flown wide.
What is she doing here? he thought stupidly. He heard Miloš shouting out from the throng as he shoved his way toward him and realized. With him and Nikolić gone, she’d been relatively unguarded; she would have only needed to get past Miloš and the two goons behind the booth. She’s trying to escape. I’ll be goddamned—Sofiya’s making a break for it.
Nikolić must have realized this, too, because his face twisted with all new rage. “You little bitch…!” he snapped, grabbing for her.
“Sofiya—run!” Mason shouted, charging forward and tackling Nikolić, knocking him to the ground. He landed heavily atop the bigger man, and looked up, meeting the girl’s large, terrified eyes. “Run!” he yelled again.
She took off, jumping over the tangle of their legs and pushing her way through the crowd just as Miloš broke through and into sight. He skittered to an uncertain halt, blinking down at Mason and Nikolić.
“Get that bitch—go!” Nikolić bellowed at him, and with a furious roar, he threw Mason off him. With the juice infusing his body with preternatural strength, he sent Mason flying backwards, crashing into the wall again with enough force to splinter the plywood, and leave him crumpling to the floor, breathless and stunned.
Miloš took off again, and Mason groaned, trying to push himself up, his head swimming. He felt Nikolić’s hand close in a tight fist in his hair, jerking his head back, and he bit back a cry as pain seared through his scalp.
“That…” Nikolić seethed, his voice ragged. “…was a mistake, Dr. Morin. A very big, very foolish mistake.”
* * *
Julien looked up at a sudden sound from the hallway outside the bathroom. At first, he thought he was imagining things, but then he heard it again and his heart seized.
“Julien!”
Sofiya’s voice, frantic and tear-choked, screaming his name. “Julien! Gde ty?” Where are you?
“Sofiya!” he shouted, scrambling to his feet and rushing toward the door. He hit the door with his fist once, twice, then for good measure, rammed his shoulder into it to get her attention. “I’m here! Hey!”
The door flew open and he danced backwards in surprise as Nikolić’s guard charged into the bathroom, his rifle unslung from his shoulder and between his hands. Julien grabbed the barrel in his left hand, pushing it away, and simultaneously snapped his right fist forward, punching the guard in the face. He then hooked the rifle and twisted it loose from the guard’s grasp, swinging the stock around and smashing it into the guard’s temple, knocking him out cold. He moved so quickly, the guard hadn’t even anticipated the attack; he crashed to the floor in a sprawled, motionless heap.
Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he drew back, leveling the barrel of the Zastava M84 at the doorway. To his surprise, it wasn’t more guards who came rushing into view, but Sofiya. He barely lowered the muzzle of the rifle before she crashed into him, her arms locking around his neck in a fierce embrace. He yelped, staggering back in surprise and then falling on his ass.
“Julien!” she cried, clinging to him. “Oh…oh, Julien!”
“Hey,” he said. In Russian, he tried to calm her. “It’s alright. I’m here. It’s okay.” Setting the rifle aside, he used both hands to push her disheveled hair back, to cradle her face. “What are you doing here?”
“I…I ran away,” she said, her voice warbling, on the verge of tears. “I pretended to be asleep and then I…I just…”
Julien jerked in surprise when she caught his face between her hands and fell against him, kissing him fiercely on the lips.
“Sofiya…!” he gasped, his eyes flying wide. “What…what are you…?” When he tried to draw back, she only kissed him harder, tangling her fingers in his hair.
“Make love to me,” she whispered urgently in Russian, shoving the door closed behind them and straddling his hips.
“Wh-what?” Shock didn’t begin to describe his reaction.
“Make love to me, Julien,” she said again, reaching between them to fumble with the waistband of his pants, and all the while, she kept kissing him. He tasted champagne on her tongue—and tears.
“Sofiya, no,” he said, trying to ease her hands away as her lips moved to his cheek, then to his throat. “You’re drunk. Stop…honey, listen to me…”
“I want you inside of me,” she told him in Russian, looking up to kiss him again.
“No,” he said again, turning his face away. “Please stop. Please.” Because she paused at this, blinking in confusion, he said it again. “Please.”
“Don’t you…” she whispered. “Don’t you think I’m pretty?”
God, how did he explain this to her? She was fourteen years old, only a child, and he could no more take advantage of her than he could stomach the thought of Nikolić—or anyone else—doing so. But even if she’d been older, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Not to him.
Although he’d been with women before—and unlike Mason, had found their soft curves to be interesting, if not somewhat enjoyable contrasts—in his heart and mind, Julien preferred the harder, rougher edges of a man’s body. And while he’d had sex countless times in his life, both with women and men, he’d only ever considered the act making love when he’d been with Mason.
Because he’s the only one I’ve ever loved.
“I think you’re beautiful,” he said softly. “God, Sofiya, you…you’re so beautiful, honey. Inside and out. I swear to God. But we can’t do this. Please. I can’t do it.”
“But if you make love to me…” Her eyes flooded with tears and her bottom lip quivered. “They won’t want me anymore. They’ll let me go. Please, Julien.”
“What do you mean?” he asked—then realized. “Because you wouldn’t be a virgin anymore. Is that why you’re here? Why Nikolić brought you tonight—he sold you?” When she nodded miserably, his brows furrowed and he clenched his fists, the muscles in his arms suddenly straining through the leather restraints. “That son of a bitch…!”
“He won’t want me anymore if you make love to me,” she pleaded. “No one will want me, so he…he’ll have to let me go home!” She began to cry, crumpling forward, against his chest. “Please, Julien! I want my grandmother! I just want to go home!”
Oh, Jesus, he thought, stricken. Closing his eyes, he turned his face toward her. He could have told her that it wouldn’t make a difference, that he and every other man in the goddamn building could have a turn with her, and Nikolić still wouldn’t let her go.
“I’ll take over from here, Fido.”
At the sound of the voice from the doorway behind them, Sofiya moaned. Julien looked up and recognized the man pushing the door open wide. Sharply dressed, smartly coiffed, his tan a shade too close to burnt sienna to be anything but sprayed on, he’d been the guy Nikolić had been speaking to upon their arrival at the warehouse: Miloš Selaković. Julien recognized the name—a small fish in the big pond of international sex trafficking. He ran a couple dozen strip bars and sleazy massage parlors up and down the east coast.
Miloš dropped Julien a wink. “But thanks for warming her up for me, man.”
As Julien’s hand darted for the assault rifle beside him, three of Nikolić’s goons rushed through the door, locked and loaded. Julien froze without touching the gun, his hand poised and unmoving above it.
“No, no, no,” Miloš said, waggling his finger. “Bad dog. I’ll take that.” As he strode toward them, reaching down to grab the rifle, Sofiya scrambled behind Julien, clutching desperately at his shoulders. With a smile, Miloš extended his free hand in her direction. “And that, too.”
“Julien…!” she whimpered, so pitiful, it broke his heart.
He thought of Aaron’s face the first time he’d ever struck him, that horrible day in November of 1818, in Lamar’s library. He’d seen Aaron’s face reflected in the glass of a mirror before he’d swung the whip for the first time, that terrible tangle of bewilderment and fright in his eyes. Aaron hadn’t understood what was happening, but more importantly—he hadn’t understood why Julien was a part of it. And just before Julien had swung the whip with all of his might, leaving a bright red wheal as it struck Aaron across the spine, he’d heard his brother say his name with the same pleading terror he heard in Sofiya’s voice.
It had never gotten easier, not in two hundred years—not to deliver the blows, or to live with himself in the aftermath.
I can’t do this—God help me, never again!
Julien drove his heel forward like a piston, striking the other man’s knee cap. Miloš uttered a bird-like screech as his leg snapped back in an abrupt, unnatural angle that tore ligaments and muscles, ripping the joint loose. He crashed to the floor and rolled into a fetal coil, howling and clutching at his crippled leg. Before Julien could attack him again, one of the guards snatched a remote control from his pocket and thrust it out at Julien.
The Vaseline gauze Julien placed as an insulator between the electrodes and his skin had slipped earlier when his mask had been removed, and he was no longer protected from the ruthless, brutal shock. With a sharp cry, he twisted, then collapsed sideways, writhing against his restraints as electricity seared through him. He banged the side of his face hard against the floor and lay there, jerking in pain.
“Julien!” Sofiya cried as another guard seized her by the arm, hauling her roughly to her feet and dragging her for the door.
“Leave her…alone,” Julien gasped, and the son of a bitch shocked him again. He arched his back, teeth clenched, his head thrown back as his entire body convulsed. It seemed to go on for an agonizing eternity, the guard’s thumb mashed against the trigger, and when at last he released it, Julien fell limp again, shuddering. “You…bastard…!”
* * *
He wasn’t the least bit surprised when, less than ten minutes later, Nikolić came storming into the bathroom. His clothes were rumpled, his hair askew, his face flushed and greasy with a sheen of sweat. He snorted for breath, his fists clenched as he glared at Julien.
“Do your worst, Nikolić,” Julien said, limping to his feet. Squaring off against the bigger man, he turned his head to spit. “Come on. I’m right here. Do it to me, not Mason or Sofiya, you chickenshit fuck. Do it to me.”
Instead of replying, or even matching Julien’s fighting stance, Nikolić simply held out his hand, his fingers wrapped around his remote control device. When his thumb settled firmly against one of the buttons, a surge of electrical current through Julien’s collar knocked him back to the floor.
He writhed, choking and convulsing uncontrollably, every muscle in his body seeming to clench and unclench over and over again in violent, agonizing succession. When it was over, he continued to twitch reflexively, and groaned when Nikolić squatted beside him, planting a hand heavily against his shoulder and rolling him over onto his back.
“This…how you get your kicks, you son of a bitch?” Julien groaned. “Or…or do you get off buying and selling a poor kid’s innocence…raping little girls?”
“You disappoint me, mišiću,” Nikolić said. “I could’ve sworn we were past this, that we had an understanding.”
“Sorry…to disappoint you,” Julien growled. “But hey…thanks for the hand job.”
He heard a scuffle of footsteps from behind Nikolić, just as Anna stepped into view, shoving Edith ahead of her into the bathroom. Edith stumbled and nearly fell, catching herself with a soft cry against the edge of the sink basin. When she saw Julien lying on the floor, her eyes widened.
“Ah, good.” Nikolić’s smile stretched all the wider. “Right on time, Anna.”
“Let’s get this over with.” Anna slammed the door behind her. “I’m ready for some champagne.”
“I have a bottle on ice waiting for you, ljubavi.” Nikolić wrapped his arm around the slim measure of her waist and drew her near, kissing her hungrily. When they broke apart, he glanced down at Julien, wiping the corner of his mouth. “So while you were busy attacking my man, Miloš, it seems Dr. Averay took a mind to try and flush my serum down the drain. Fortunately, Anna caught her just in time…and was able to save it.”
He held out his hand and Anna dropped a vial into his palm.
“Listen to me, Nikolić.” Edith balled her fists and stormed forward. “It’s not what you think. Phillip duplicated the wrong—”
Nikolić slapped her in the face, striking with enough force to knock her off her feet and send her slamming into the bathroom wall. She fell to the floor with a breathless cry.
“Edith!” Julien cried. Brows furrowed, he struggled to sit up. “Leave her alone, you—”
This time Anna shocked him, and she looked like she enjoyed the hell out of watching him convulse, his voice ripping up into a strangled cry. He flopped on the ground like a hooked fish hauled ashore until she grew bored of the game and released the trigger.
“Give me your belt.” Anna squatted beside Julien and held her hand out to Nikolić, who obligingly began unbuckling. “Wrap it around his arm. Here, let me do it.”
Julien grimaced as he felt the strap of leather cinch tightly just beneath the curve of his bicep muscle. “What…are you doing?” he groaned. His head swam, his vision blurry, and he tried to pull away.
“Hold him, Vlad,” Anna said, cutting her lover a glance. As Nikolić clamped a hand against each of Julien’s shoulders, pinning him to the floor, Julien saw a glint of light against metal—a syringe in Anna’s hand.
“What are you doing?” he asked again in mounting alarm, and when she leaned over, he winced, feeling the needle slide into one of the veins at the inner delta of his elbow. “No…!” Gritting his teeth, he again tried to squirm, but he was weak from the electrical shock. Nikolić held him easily. “No, goddamn it…no…!”
Anna pulled the belt loose from his arm, and as blood flow restored, he felt the rush of something warm shooting through his vein. The heat spread fast, coursing up his arm and into his chest, splaying out in molten fingertips from there to engulf his entire body. Julien twisted against Nikolić’s grasp, his brows knitting in pain.
“It burns,” he gasped, and when Nikolić turned him loose, he rolled onto his side, shuddering as he drew his knees toward his chest. “Oh…Jesus Christ, what the fuck did you put in me? It’s burning!”
But he knew what it was—the same goddamn stuff they’d put inside Piotr, the same stuff Edith had been so desperate to destroy.
It’s in me, he thought, his fingers scrabbling weakly against the tiled floor. The heat had reached his mind now, tugging at his consciousness, dragging him into shadows. He struggled to stay awake, because all at once, to his bright, growing terror, he realized if he passed out, there was a very good chance he might never wake up again. Oh, God, it’s in me now!
If it was the same as the first blood, he’d be alright. He’d seen the results of ingesting it first-hand, both with Aaron and their father. But Edith had told him she didn’t know if that’s what the vials had contained.
Phillip was a molecular virologist—he specialized in genetically reprogramming infectious agents. God only knows what he did with it from there. He could have manipulated the prions any number of ways.
Which meant what had happened to Piotr—the overwhelming hunger of the bloodlust amplified to unimaginable and unbearable degrees, and the madness that had come from trying to slake it—could very well happen to him, too. Piotr had been little more than a kid, as clumsy and unfamiliar with the need to feed as the methods of hunting and subduing his prey.
But not me, Julien realized in mounting alarm. For two centuries, he’d done nothing except master the arts of fighting and delivering death. His father had forced the instincts of a natural-born killer upon him, had brutally instilled them and made frequent, ruthless demands of them. If Phillip’s serum intensified those instincts—and his own inherent desires to satisfy them—then God help anyone who happened to be near him when the bloodlust kicked in.
Because I’ll tear them apart.