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“No,” the word exploded from my throat as I looked down at her.
Before I could stop myself, I fell to my knees beside her, searching for the bullet wound, ready to apply pressure, to save her. That was when I saw it. The fuzzy puffball stabilizer, and the cylinder it was attached to, below that, a needle was buried in Dahlia’s upper shoulder. A tranquilizer. She wasn’t dead. Not yet.
The immediate horror averted, I spun toward Owen, but a blast of pain rocked my head. He’d hit me with the butt of the tranq gun. Tumbling to the side, my vision went blurry for a moment, but I managed to turn my fall into a roll, and leapt to my feet. The gun could only hold one dart at a time, and Owen tossed it aside, sneering at me.
“How did you like the way I left dear mommy and daddy, Drake?” Owen asked, a nasty smile on his lips. “You know I shoved my cock up your momma’s asshole before I cut her tits off, right?”
A howl of unmitigated rage screamed from my lungs, and I lunged toward him. My hands were around his throat in an instant, my vision red with madness as I squeezed. Before I could crush his windpipe, he slammed both arms down onto my wrists, breaking my hold, then threw his shoulders forward, slamming the crown of his head toward my nose. By the barest margin, I managed to move aside, and rather than shattering my nose, his head struck the side of my jaw.
“Fucker,” I hissed, and kicked out with my foot, connecting with Owen’s stomach.
He fell backward, breaking a small wooden chair as he went.
“You want to see what I can do?” I growled. “Do you Owen? I think you forget who taught you what you know, you sick fuck.”
The knife was out of my waist band in a flash. Owen, still on the ground, saw the blade, his eyes widening in surprise and fear. He had no chance. He was too far away. I swung my arm to the right, the blade sinking deep into Blaine’s neck. The sedative I’d given him kept him unconscious even as blood spurted from his throat in a wide arching spray.
“Blaine!” Owen howled, stumbling up to his knees, tears already flooding his eyes. “No!”
For good measure, I swung my hand again, opening the throat into a wide toothless and gaping maw. The boy’s head swung back and oceans of blood poured out onto his lap and chest. For a solid three seconds I got to enjoy the look of heartbreaking horror on Owen’s face; I even had a split second to imagine how it would feel to rush him and slam the same blade into his guts. That was when Bri appeared.
Screeching like a banshee, she rushed me from the shadows of the other room, a lamp held high above her head. Gaping at her dumbly, I had no time to block her path, the porcelain body of the lamp burst apart on my temple. A flash of white blinded my vision, and I tumbled aside, but I still held my knife.
“Kill him,” Owen shouted, his voice a psychotic roar. “Kill the fucker.”
Bri tried, coming closer, pulling her own knife. The room spun and wobbled as my mind threatened to go dark. The only thing keeping me conscious at the moment was the understanding that if I went out, I would never wake up. Animal instinct took over; survival was the only emotion or thought I could conjure in that moment. I swung my knife out in an arc, back and forth, my vision still blurred.
“Jesus, fuck,” Bri shouted, as my blade glanced off of something. “He cut my fucking wrist.”
Crawling further back, still swinging my blade, I willed my head to stop swimming, for my vision to clear, and the ringing sound to stop tolling my skull like a bell.
“Help me with this bitch then,” Owen growled.
He was going for Dahlia. Killing her? Taking her? What? I blinked rapidly, the scene before me tilting wildly as I struggled to try and right myself. Owen had Dahlia, his arms wrapped around her chest, dragging her toward the door, Bri, blood oozing down her forearm, as she took Dahlia’s feet. Together he rushed toward the door.
No. I couldn’t let them take her. Again, I shook my head, trying to throw off the cobwebs as they exited. Hissing with rage, I slapped my cheek. Hard. Finally, the world stopped spinning, and the nausea of vertigo faded. I got up, gripping my knife tighter, and walked toward the door, not quite well enough to run yet.
At the entryway, I leaned against the busted door jam and saw Owen stuffing Dahlia into the back of a white van. Bri was already jumping into the passenger seat.
“Owen,” I screamed. A Viking bellow of rage.
Owen glanced up, locked eyes with me, his still wet with tears for his dead nephew. The boy bled out like a pig inside the house. He peeled his lips back, showing me his teeth, but said nothing. Instead, he rushed for the driver’s seat.
I lunged forward, hurrying down the steps toward the van, my body getting stronger and less dazed by the second. The van’s engine roared to life. I had to hurry. If they took Dahlia, I might never see her again. God knew what that fucker would do to her.
Still, no matter how fast I moved, deep down I already knew I was too late. The tires spun, then caught, and an instant later, it was rocketing down the driveway. Arms pumping, legs flexing, I sprinted to try and catch them. A pointless endeavor that I pushed for nonetheless.
The van quickly left me behind, and still I ran, desperate to catch it, to save my soul mate. And still, within seconds, the red pinpricks of the taillights were gone. Turning, and running for the house again, I had a plan to jump in the car we’d stolen, yet before I even got close, I saw the hood up. I cursed under my breath when I saw the serpentine belt had been cut along with the spark plug wires. This would go nowhere.
“God damn it,” I shouted, and banged my fist down on the fender.
There was only one thing I could do now. I had to hunt. For the first time in a long time, I was alone. A dark monster left adrift with no compass. No one to keep me pointed in the right direction. My parents were dead, Dahlia taken. The only things that gave me any connection to the humanity inside me. Now was the time to allow the beast within to come out. At the back of my mind, I recalled the address of the apartment where Owen had lived when we weren’t operating the playhouse. It was a slim hope but all I had.
Rushing inside, I dug through Dad’s lounge and found a pistol. I loaded the clip and stuff two more into my pocket along with another knife, strapping it to my belt on my lower back. After arming myself, I pulled a key from the mudroom hooks, one of a half dozen that hung there, before running to the massive garage out back. Inside Dad’s car collection sat, but instead of the Ferraris, or Porsches, I took an old pickup truck he’d always used for the manual labor he liked to do around the grounds rather than paying someone. He’d always been a hands-on person, and when I got behind the driver’s seat, it still smelled of his cologne. The smell sent a wave of nostalgic pain through me, but I tamped it down and started the car. Moments later, I barreled toward the street, teeth bared, knuckles white, and mind aflame with the bloody vengeance I would rain down on Owen when I found him. At the back of my mind, I prayed that I wouldn’t be too late to save Dahlia.
Chapter 16
Dahlia
