Blood Revolution (God Wars, #3) Page 2

  More nodding followed the General's words, and the lieutenant swallowed nervously. He liked his current body. It suited him and he had no desire to lose it. "I have assignments for you and your remaining minions," the General added.

  "Yes?" the lieutenant looked up eagerly. He'd certainly do better on this assignment so he'd be in the General's good graces again.

  "I have a list prepared—of those who have influenced the timelines in favor of our enemies. Only a few, mind you, but the impact has been great. I desire that you devise a way to kill them discreetly, so the enemy won't suspect. For some, you will be required to traverse the timelines to accomplish your assignments. Employ the Sirenali we have stationed throughout, and any others under your control. Allow them to do as much as possible, to keep the Mighty away from us and our remaining army."

  "It will be as you say," the lieutenant readily agreed.

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  The house in San Rafael hadn't changed at all. I landed there two years after I'd disappeared from Earth. It was my house, after all, and the only real home I had. People had short memories, too, so I was hoping that they'd been distracted by something else and didn't remember much about that stupid book.

  I wanted to shout at Jayson, still. He and his father had ruined everything for me. I'd never be able to face Hank again, thanks to Rome Enterprises. Whether Jayson knew about the book or not, his family had profited from it—I'd read that easily in Lissa's face.

  The book had been a bestseller for months and netted Rome Enterprises nearly half a billion in profits. I guess Jayson could afford a few more cars at my expense—I wanted to weep from the callous betrayal. Hank (and everybody else on planet Earth) had seen photographs of my tortured, nude body. They'd bought the books by the truckload, and eagerly swallowed up the horror of my early life.

  That wasn't the full extent of it, either. The book didn't cover the things Joyce Christian said while she'd beaten and tortured me—nobody knew about that. She'd always sent the housekeeper away on an errand while the dirty work was accomplished.

  Sighing, I shoved the memories away and attempted to rein in my emotions. There was one more place to go before I settled in and attempted to put myself back together. I misted toward Terry Johnston's office.

  * * *

  "Terry, I don't want to talk about it. I just need updated credit cards—the old ones are expired," I muttered as I sat in front of his desk.

  "Breanne, I've already done that," Terry slid a thick, sealed envelope across the desk toward me. "There's a new phone in there, too; I bought a new one after your old one ended up in deep water."

  "Please tell me somebody didn't go to the trouble of pulling it out of there," I mumbled, feeling embarrassed.

  "Yep. Government agency, I heard. Somebody was worried about you, I know that much. Kept showing up here, asking if I'd heard anything. They finally stopped about nine months ago."

  "I want to kick Rome ass," I muttered angrily.

  "So do I. I think you have a viable lawsuit against them, if you decide to sue. I've tolled the statute of limitations, if that's what you want to do."

  "Terry, what do you think that might do for me, besides telling everybody where I am again? I want nothing to do with that. I just want to be left alone."

  I did—peace and quiet sounded really good to me. PTSD is a strange animal. When you think you have it beaten, something comes along and triggers it again. It's the way things seemed to happen for me.

  I just hoped Jayson and Trina never noticed I'd come home—I had no desire to see anybody. After all, I'd just walked away from my sister, and she did want to see me. Wanted to know me, too, and I was too numb and upset to allow it.

  "Miss Hayworth," Terry said sternly, his dark-brown eyes quite serious as he blinked at me. "You cannot let that ruin your life. Get help if you need it. I was hoping that's what you were doing while you were gone. I kept hoping you were alive, too, since no body was ever found, but I was beginning to worry."

  "I know. I didn't mean to worry you. You've always been there for me, and I appreciate that."

  "You pay me well for my services," Terry sighed. "But that's not all it is. I like you. I can't say the same thing about a lot of my clients."

  "People are different," I shrugged.

  "Your car may need a new battery—it hasn't been started or moved since you disappeared."

  "I know. I'll look into that. I think it has less than a thousand miles on it."

  "You don't drive much."

  "Yeah."

  "I've gotten payments from Hank Bell—the entire loan—with interest, has been paid and he's expanded the club. You still own half—he continues to refuse my offer to sell your half back to him."

  "I don't care anymore. Send the money he paid to a good charity, Terry. I don't want any of it."

  "You think he knew about the book, too?"

  "Possibly. He and Jayson Rome are good friends. What one knows, the other generally does, too. That's the way things usually turn out for me." I rose and lifted the envelope off Terry's desk. "Thanks for this, Terry. Give yourself a raise." I walked out of his office.

  * * *

  The grocery store had remodeled, and I couldn't find anything. That meant grocery shopping took twice as long as it should have. That would teach me to jump forward two years in time, expecting everything to remain the same in the meantime. I took the liberty of disguising myself, too, while I shopped. I had no desire to be recognized by anyone.

  Was I depressed? In truth, I was so depressed I could barely move. It didn't matter—I'd worked under more difficult circumstances in the past. I pushed myself to do what needed to be done, whether I felt like it or not.

  Lissa hadn't brought up the subject of what I'd done or where I'd been, either, and I was grateful. I was afraid I'd voice my fears aloud—that although I'd gotten rid of a large number of rogue gods, I felt I hadn't gotten all of them.

  In addition to that fear, I worried that some of the remaining rogues were the worst of the lot. I had to work through my depression in a hurry, if I expected to have enough energy to deal with anything else that might come along. I wanted to shiver at the thought that I had absolutely no idea what form that might take or whether I'd survive it.

  A cup of coffee was in order after I put groceries away, and I drank it on the back patio. Fog rolled in, obscuring San Rafael Bay below, and I watched as it enveloped the hill where my house lay. Was it wrong that I hadn't even glanced toward Jayson's house at the top? I felt no guilt over it.

  * * *

  Lissa's Journal

  "I can't keep her here. What makes you think I can?" I blinked at Ashe in confusion. He and Trajan had both come. Trajan was prepared to go to wolf and growl for some reason, and I couldn't figure that out.

  "What about Chessman? He might have convinced her to go to NorthStar at least," Ashe pointed out patiently.

  "She said she didn't want a sire. She likes Adam, but she didn't want that. What was I supposed to say?" I shook my head at the Mighty Hand.

  "I didn't even feel it when she pulled all those rogues into her wake," Ashe shook his head in disbelief.

  "You know what happened to them?" I asked.

  "Yeah. I know. It's not information I feel comfortable telling," he replied.

  "Belen said the same thing. He said he couldn't say."

  "Better that way. Much, much better," Ashe sighed. "Any idea where she went?"

  "None. Never knew where she was before. Probably wouldn't go back there anyway. That would be crazy unless she wanted somebody to find her."

  "True."

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  A month passed. I read. Bought a computer and did research. Drank coffee and hot chocolate. Lost weight anyway. Took a chance at times and misted to Francie's for a veggie sandwich if I didn't feel like cooking. I always kept an eye open for Jayson and Hank. So far, I'd managed to avoid them.

  I l
eft the lights off at night, too, so Trina and Jayson wouldn't know I was at the house. As a vampire, I could see well enough at night without light of any kind. I'd only used them before because it was a comfort. Too many times, I'd been left chained in a very dark closet, in pain and suffering greatly, so I understood comfort more than most. Now, I lived without that tiny bit of reassurance.

  The television barely saw any use, either, except during news times. I always watched the news when I ate or went to bed—after making sure the blinds were tightly closed.

  "Three men were killed last night after leaving the Sub-Mariner, a club in the Castro District," the news anchor announced. "While there are no signs of struggle, each man died of a slashed throat. The bodies were discovered at a vacant rental property in Oakland. Police have determined that the men died elsewhere and were later dumped at the property across the Bay."

  I watched as they showed images of a two-story rent house in Oakland, with yellow crime scene tape strung around the yard. Then the images jumped to an interview with a man identified as Dale Saylor, owner of the Sub-Mariner.

  "I knew all of them, and this is horrifying," Dale Saylor said. I could tell easily that he really was upset. I toyed with the idea of reading him before dispensing with that notion. Several people stood behind Dale Saylor. I paid little attention to them until the camera moved slightly to catch someone standing nearby.

  Hank Bell stood there, arms crossed over his chest in a familiar gesture. He looked angry. I blinked at him for a moment before turning back to Dale Saylor and reading everything I could from him. Dressing in record time, I folded space toward San Francisco.

  * * *

  Hank was doing very well. Dom Bell's now took up at least half the block as I watched the club's name blink in (much larger) green neon over a newly bricked façade. Looked like he'd bought the businesses on either side plus the accompanying apartments overhead, too. I didn't want to think what those apartments might be used for. Yeah, I used to live right over the original bar. He'd expanded, so business was obviously good.

  As I stood across the street, watching a few people walk in and out, six who exited the building caught my attention. Three women were on leashes and a dark limo pulled up outside as they waited on the sidewalk. Yes, my stomach turned at the sight of three women who'd allowed themselves to be leashed like dogs. I shivered and recalled Hank's explanation—this was their way of gaining permission to do what they craved. They wanted to be controlled. I shivered again.

  One of the men spoke to the driver in Russian before shoving the girl he held inside the back of the car. "Drive to the house in Sausalito," was the terse command. The words contained a threat—a promise of violence to come. I was about to see what that threat involved, and if it involved extreme physical harm against any of the women, well, compulsion might be placed and those three men might become docile chimps. Yeah, I wasn't in a charitable mood.

  Misting inside the car, I hovered over the heads of the three women, all of whom were squeezed onto the limo's back seat, too obedient to look up at the men who'd convinced them to play. I lowered my shields and read all three men. I didn't bother with the driver—he was a flunky and only doing what he was told. If I'd had blood running through physical veins at the moment, it would have run like ice water. These men—all three of them, bore an obsession.

  An obsession meant I couldn't read past it to find the intent of the one who'd placed it, but they'd been ordered to find three women at Hank's bar, and then drive them to a specific house in Sausalito, where all would be gruesomely murdered. It didn't take a genius to add two and two—looked like somebody had it out for Dale Saylor and Hank Bell, and this was a way to expose and ruin both.

  Shoving those thoughts aside and hoping that the one who'd placed the obsession was waiting in Sausalito, I did my best to calm down while I took the forty-minute trip as mist, following the would-be murderers and their victims.

  The house was on the southern edge of Sausalito. A much better home than the one I'd seen in Oakland, it was single story with a well-maintained lawn. Misting through the roof of the vehicle, I waited for the women to be pulled from the back seat of the limo and hauled inside the house.

  Two of the men were short and square-built, with shaved heads. I seldom used my nose, but it told me these two were brothers. My reading also told me they'd been involved in petty crime for years. Perfect for an obsession—it didn't take much to convince them to increase their activities.

  The third man—taller, heavier and Russian by birth, appeared to be in charge. He ordered the driver to park the car in the garage around the side before jerking his head at the other two, who now held all three leashes. I followed as the women were led inside the house.

  Murder had already taken place inside—the smell of old blood was evident, although it had been cleaned up as much as possible. A square sitting room was located right off the front door and the women were ordered to kneel near a wide doorway leading into a rectangular dining room. No furniture was inside either room—I had the idea that the house, like the one in Oakland, had been rented hastily for the purpose of committing murder.

  "Remain on your knees," the Russian ordered the women. "Do not look up." His accented English was low and vulgar to my ears. All three women lowered their eyes to the floor, just like the obedient submissives they were. I watched as the Russian pulled a thin, metal knife from his boot. Well, the obsession was activating and things were about to go down unless I acted now.

  It only takes a bit of power to heat metal, and the long, thin blade the Russian held became hot so quickly he swore in Russian and dropped it immediately, howling in pain. His two American flunkies rushed forward, which made things ridiculously simple for me.

  No, the one who'd placed the obsession wasn't there; I'd known that the moment I misted inside the house. Only the ones I'd followed were inside. Exerting more power, I released the particles of all three men. The three women, who hadn't even looked up when a knife clattered to the floor in front of them, never saw the sparks of the men fly away. I defied anyone to convict me of a crime with no evidence or witnesses.

  The driver walked into the house as the last man's sparks winked out. I materialized before the women while the driver squeaked in fear. Turning to him, I placed compulsion. "You will not remember me. Drive these women to their homes," I commanded. His eyes went blank and he nodded. I hated placing compulsion—on anybody—no matter how deserving. This situation required it.

  "Now, you three," I knelt to look the three women in the eyes. The men had been choosy, selecting a blonde, a redhead and a brunette deliberately. "You will tell that man your address," I said, "and you will go home and not go out again tonight. Do you hear me? You will forget me and the three who brought you here."

  They stared and nodded fearfully at me. "You may speak," I told them.

  "Who are you?" the redhead's voice wobbled.

  "Somebody who doesn't appreciate injustice," I replied. "Go with the driver, now. He'll deliver you safely to your homes. I have things to do." I backed away and watched as the three women rose and followed the driver out the door. I left the door of the house open when I misted away, flying as fast as I could toward my house in San Rafael.

  * * *

  "Charles!"

  "Yes, Honored One?" Charles stood in Wlodek's study seconds later, an inquisitive expression on his face.

  "Three murders occurred in San Francisco recently. I want you to track this, as all three died after their throats were cut. Should more murders transpire in the area from similar circumstances, I wish to be notified immediately." Wlodek pushed handwritten notes toward Charles, who reached out to take them from Wlodek's desk. "I received this call from one of ours in the area, and he is quite concerned about this."

  "I understand," Charles nodded slightly. "I will research this right away. Anything else?"

  "Bring me whatever you find. This troubles me."

  "Of course, Honored One." Char
les nodded respectfully and left Wlodek's office as quickly as he'd arrived.

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  It didn't matter that I'd saved three women. Two others died anyway. At least these were last seen at a third club. The news described the two as a couple who had teenaged children at home. I was so angry I could spit.

  These two were dumped at a house in Daly City. It looked as if they were killed after I'd taken care of the thugs the night before, so either this was a copycat crime or there was more than one team at work. More than one team wouldn't surprise me, with a Sirenali and an obsession on the loose.

  Another house was shown, with more crime scene tape draped around it. With very little hesitation, I Looked to see where it was and turned to mist.

  * * *

  Scents came, which might help me find the killers. With an obsession clouding two murderers, I couldn't Look to get their location. I'd had to mist through the Daly City location, too, because it was still under investigation. A few investigators still wandered through the property, looking for anything they might have missed during their initial round of evidence collection. They had no idea I was there for the same reason.

  While at the Daly City location, I found scents from the two murderers at the Oakland house, plus older scents from the three men I'd dispatched in Sausalito. Nobody was at the Oakland house, either, when I returned for a second time—they'd removed the crime scene tape already after gathering evidence.

  I'd materialized inside the room where the bodies were found, and there was little blood. I wondered where they'd been killed, but with the clouded obsession blocking my way, I couldn't make a determination.

  That meant one thing—I'd have to go looking for scents or other evidence around the clubs where these had disappeared. I knew what kind of clubs they were—the same kind Hank owned. Breathing a worried sigh, I misted home.