Vendetta
Harold had gone back to his desk, sitting down both to stop the shaking in his legs and to hide the tremble in his hands. What had he started? All he wanted was an accounting—a life for a life. Justice. Entwistle had killed his brother, and now he was going to die in the same way. Eye for an eye.
But Norman wanted something else. He wanted pleasure, and Harold did not doubt that Norman would gleefully pull the trigger if allowed to. “They’ll be coming for him, Norman. His friends. Mistress warned us of them as well.”
“Let them come! I’ll be ready.” Norman moved, gripping the rifle that hadn’t left his side since Entwistle had been delivered the night before last. Harold could understand his anger. William had been his brother and losing him was a terrible blow, but he’d lost a brother. Norman had lost his father.
“They’re good fighters,” Harold observed.
“I don’t care!” Norman snarled. “I’ll kill them all!”
“That’s enough!” Harold said, rising from his desk again. He crossed the expansive room quickly, grabbing the barrel of the gun. “They did not kill your father. Entwistle DID. Focus on him.”
“Oh I am.” Norman smiled a crooked, twisted smile. “I’m focusing on how much it will break him watching me pick them off like ducks in a barrel.”
“Norman, I’m not going to let you do that. We’re after justice, not blood-spilling.”
“They’re the same, Uncle! Don’t you see that? They’re the same!”
Harold just shook his head. He couldn’t understand what his nephew meant; but then, he’d never come under Mistress’s influence the way that William and Norman had. Harold was quite sure that given time, Norman would become one of her loyal souls. “I’m surprised that you would extend your anger to people who had nothing to do with your father’s death . . . and yet not to the ones who failed to save him.”
“They did all they could. They at least TRIED. Those four bastards didn’t even TRY! They left him to die in his own filth!”
Deep down, Harold suspected that wasn’t true. “You expected his enemies to rescue him, and not his allies?”
“I expected them to be human! Instead they reacted like animals!” He fingered the rifle. “And this is how animals die.”
“Norman, I started all this for justice. I didn’t do this to bring about a massacre. I forbid you to go after the others unless they attack you first.”
He glared at his uncle. “You forbid? You FORBID? Get sense, Uncle, or you’ll die like the rest!”
Harold drew himself up. He was William’s older brother and hadn’t received the same natural grace and athleticism as his sibling, but he was powerful in his own way. “Norman, this is still my house. I am your uncle and your legal guardian. You will do what I say in this matter. I will not have more deaths on my hands.”
Norman’s eyes blazed. His mouth worked impotently and his hands twitched as if they longed to fire the gun right then and there. But after a tense few moments he mumbled, “Yes, uncle,” and stood down.
“Good lad.” Harold laid a gentle, paternal hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s get some supper, and we’ll see how our little experiment is faring.”
“Yes, uncle.” He didn’t meet his eyes. His own were still blazing with hate.
Harold made sure the boy had turned away before he let doubt and horror creep into his eyes.
The announcement from Pete and Keith that John was dying had spurred them all on. They’d literally flown from the inn out into the early morning, running through the chill air to the car. They went from house to house, sometimes running blindly onto the grounds and around the houses looking for wells. Each time one was found they shone their torches down, not wasting any time on cursing when they turned up empty.
Most of the houses were dark and shuttered, but a few were occupied; more than once the Who were chased from the grounds by an angry homeowner clutching a poker or a gun, but more often than not a man or woman would come to the door, blinking in a puzzled way at the three long-haired men running around the house shouting to each other. In those cases it fell to Roger to smooth things over, coming over with his reassuring smile, to assure the residents that they meant no harm, but were looking for their friend. More than once he substituted the word “dog” just to make it seem less strange.
The sun had climbed high in the sky and was beginning to arch the other way as the Demons moved farther out, to the last few estates in range, ones that boasted much larger acreage and were, by and large, much bigger. One, a large gated mansion, proved difficult to get to, requiring nearly fifteen minutes at the gate’s intercom before realizing that the owner was not home. They’d driven around to the side and scaled the wall, exploring the grounds with their hearts pounding in their throats.
Keith finally rounded the last corner. The house’s only window wells were tiny, narrow stone troughs not being enough to hold a dog, much less a man. He screamed in frustration and fell to his knees, his fists pounding the dirt.
Pete and Roger heard the scream and ran, fearing the worst. They rounded the opposite corner shoulder-to-shoulder, bracing themselves for anything. But where Roger was picturing a gang of thugs setting upon Keith and Pete was seeing John’s dead body, they both stopped dead when they saw only Keith, head thrown back as he screamed at the sky.
“Keith, what is it?” Pete shouted, going to his knees next to the drummer.
“He’s not here!” Keith gasped out. “Dammit, he’s not here!”
“Keith, it’s okay! We’ll find him!”
“How?” Keith snarled. “There’s only one house left! And what if he’s not there?”
Pete grabbed Keith’s shoulder. “We WILL find him, Keith. We won’t stop looking for him—I SWEAR to you.”
Keith’s eyes blazed and he jerked away. “We’ll find his BODY, you mean. He’ll be fucking dead by the time we get there!”
“Keith, calm down,” Roger soothed, hands up. “We’ll find him before—”
“You didn’t see him!” Keith growled. “You didn’t fucking SEE him! We did! We saw him! We saw him die! I watched him . . . ” He curled his arms around his stomach and heaved, though nothing came up. “I watched him . . . ”
“Rog, we gotta hurry,” Pete said. “That last house has GOT to be the one.” He didn’t bother saying what would happen if John wasn’t there—or if he was and the worst had come to pass. He helped pull Keith up, waiting as the drummer heaved once again. “Rog, get his other side.”
“I can walk,” Keith snarled, pulling away. He took two steps forward and swayed, then recovered, shaking himself much like his zodiac namesake. “Let’s GO!”
As they ran, they saw the gates begin to open. Dodging to the side, they raced for the trees that bordered the high wall. Two cars—big ones—drove in tandem through the gates and up the winding drive to the house. Roger flattened himself against the wall. The last thing they needed was to be seen by people who probably would never understand. Waiting until they passed, the Demons scaled the wall and dropped to the other side, racing back to the car and heading off for the last house—hoping against hope that they weren’t too late.
Together, Harold and Norman walked out to the grate once they’d eaten their fill.
Despite the months of dreaming, scheming, and fantasizing, Harold could not bring himself to feel any pleasure or satisfaction at the sight that greeted him—at the hollow, barely-focused grey eyes, the pale, dirty skin . . . the complete loss of hope, the overwhelming pain, and yet the dignity that clung to him as desperately as the tattered remains of his shirt. He felt pity. Grief and rage and a horrible pity every time he thought of this man.
“Come to look?” Entwistle said. He shifted, barely suppressing a deep groan of pain in the middle of which Harold could see the wound, which was already clearly infected.
Good. That was what he’d wanted.
Wasn’t it?
“Yes, as a matter of fact, we did.”
“Well, have a good look.”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Entwistle.”
“I wasn’t being sarcastic. I’m chained up in a well, and I’m dying. You came for a look, and I’m not in a position to stop you.”
“No. You’re not. Come, Norman.”
Norman was looking down at their captive with no trace of sympathy or compassion. His eyes burned with seething hatred even when faced with someone who was sick, dying, and chained like an animal.
Harold got the uncomfortable feeling that Norman truly would enjoy putting this man down like a dog. He didn’t like to think of his nephew that way, wanted to think that Norman would not succumb to such base instincts, but the look in Norman’s eyes belied that in every way possible. “COME, Norman.”
Reluctantly, Norman turned away, but not before kicking a large clump of loose, wet dirt onto the grate. Harold saw Entwistle turn his head, the dirt hitting his hair and shoulder. It was a movement of such profound humiliation that his heart gave a painful lurch.
On to Chapter Six
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