Marie Harte - Fortune's Favor

He downed another cup of coffee and slammed some caffeine pills. To beat the devil, he’d need a clear head. And two straight days of driving on top of all his worry had kicked his ass.

But now he felt ready. He gripped the KA-BAR tight, its warmth a comfort as well as a reminder. The energy in the knife revived him, and he accepted it, needing to draw on every little thing he could. He’d beaten Malcolm back once. He’d do it again. He just had to open himself up to more than the energy of the objects he touched. If he wanted to win, he had to allow himself to feel the hum of violence as well.

Somehow he needed to get his hands on Sangre and turn the fucking thing against Malcolm. He left the vehicle and climbed the steps to the porch, not trying to hide. Malcolm knew he was coming. So it was no surprise when the older man opened the door, holding Espada de Sangre by his side.

He looked different than he had the last time Nathan had seen him, some seventeen years ago. This Malcolm looked a little bit older, meaner, and devoid of any semblance of sanity. The blade in his hand seemed to purr, as if it recognized Nathan in some way. Suddenly his notion to use it against Malcolm didn’t seem like a good idea.

“Welcome home, Nathan.”

Home. What a joke.

Malcolm turned and walked into the house, expecting Nathan to follow.

And what else could he do, since the bastard had kidnapped Avery? Nathan had spent over forty-eight hours envisioning the worst. Avery tortured, bleeding, dying. Nathan’s imaginings had been nightmares; he’d envisioned his lover in pieces, his hands reaching out for Nathan, who was too far away.

Then he thought about what Avery might think of his anxiety. Avery would call him a pussy, knock him on his ass, then berate him for not having the balls to face his fears and push past them. No doubt the arrogant jerk expected a full-out rescue.

God, he loved that man.

Nathan didn’t allow himself to flinch at his worry. Instead he called on his ability and let his fingers brush everything he passed by, hoping to get a hit on Avery while he followed Malcolm deeper into the house. The walls didn’t speak, nor did the furniture. But the blood on the door frame of the kitchen showed Malcolm dragging Avery by one arm. Bloodied and semiconscious, Avery trailed Malcolm and slurred insults, calling Malcolm every name in the book before he’d passed out. Before Malcolm dragged him to the basement door and pulled his ass downstairs.

Nathan knew he couldn’t avoid it forever. Memories rushed back, the terror of not knowing what lay in the dark no longer resonating as it once did. Maybe because he still had a psychic hand on his surroundings, or maybe because the KA-BAR he carried reminded him he’d beaten the bastard before.

He caught sight once more of the blood-covered sword in Malcolm’s hand. It pointed toward the ground, angling in the direction of the blood smear that disappeared in the doorway to the cellar.

“Downstairs, I take it?” Nathan said with a calm he’d started to feel.

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. You first.”

Nathan shrugged. He walked by Malcolm with ease, content that his father wouldn’t stab him unless he could look Nathan in the eyes as he attacked. Face-to-face, horror to horror. The way he’d attempted to kill Danielle over twenty years ago. Nathan glanced over his shoulder before he stepped into the cellar doorway.

“Like old times, eh?” Malcolm’s smile held real malice. “Hurry now, boy. Your friend is downstairs waiting for you.”

Nathan squared his shoulders and walked down into the gloom. The nightmare of his past came roiling back, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a quick swipe of his forearm and shoved the memories back where they belonged. They were dead and buried, like his youth. He didn’t fear the dark, and he wouldn’t let Malcolm terrorize him any longer.

Malcolm’s voice echoed in the darkness. “The KA-BAR was a nice touch, wasn’t it? I thought you’d like that.”

Nathan left the last step into the cellar and put his back to the wall while he waited for Malcolm to join him. A dim light was the only illumination in the large basement. The corridor into which he’d walked twisted around to an open area, lined with hardy shelving holding all manner of things. At one point Malcolm had used the basement as a work space. He apparently continued to work down here…doing God knew what.

Nathan followed his father around the corner and froze. Avery sat tied to a chair, a small pool of blood beneath him. He sat so still, his head hanging low, that for a moment Nathan feared he was dead.

Then Avery groaned.

He forced himself not to react. “Well, Malcolm? Now what?” He paused. “Or should I call you Dad?”

Malcolm turned to face him, still standing between Nathan and Avery. He raised the bloody blade in his hand. “Say what you want, but I won’t be rushed. I’m going to slice you up like a turkey, boy. The way I worked your mother. But I won’t kill you. Not until I let you watch me carve up your fuck buddy, piece by piece.”

Avery moved, distracting Nathan from the anger building. “Hey. I have to piss.”

Nathan snorted. “Hold on. I need to take care of this windbag. Then I’ll untie you.”

Malcolm didn’t like being ignored. He frowned and took a step closer to Nathan. Away from Avery.

“Don’t you want to know how it went, boy? How she begged for her life, begged me to leave you alone?”

“Not really.” Nathan did his best to sound bored. “I realize you’re older now, and you’re probably starved for attention. But I’m tired, and I have things to do. Playing with an old man isn’t one of them.”

He heard Avery suck in a breath. Okay, so that might be pushing things, but he was tired of letting Malcolm call the shots.

He wasn’t prepared for the older man’s burst of speed. The blade bit into his shoulder in a flash, the burn of psychic pain one he felt to his bones.

“How do you like that, son ?” Malcolm laughed and pulled the blade back. “Sangre likes you. Yeah, it can feel the soul. And yours is one sick little ball of need.”

Nathan gripped the KA-BAR tight. “You’re kidding me, right? Talk about need? You’re so pathetic you couldn’t share your wife, a woman you supposedly loved, with her own nephew. Or should I say, son? Did you ever wonder why she gave me up? Because she knew you were crazy. That you couldn’t handle being a father. Christ. Look at you.”

This time when Malcolm came at him, he dodged the blow, using Malcolm’s own energy against him. The psychic memory stored in the KA-BAR let Nathan access Malcolm’s speed and agility. Everything Malcolm had felt and been while holding it bled into Nathan…the way the users of Sangre bled into Malcolm.

Malcolm smiled. “You might be a piece of shit, but you’re going to give me a good fight, aren’t you?”

“Well, like you said, I’m a piece of shit. A chip off the old block.” Nathan nodded at him with a similar grin.

Malcolm and he fenced and fought, but unless Nathan got his hands on a weapon with a longer reach, he wouldn’t be able to outlast Malcolm. He was wearing down, no sleep and his wounds taking their own toll. And Malcolm had the added benefit of fighting with a powerful object with a mind of its own.

Nathan bled from several cuts, intended to weaken and not kill him outright.

“Use your head, you idiot,” Avery snarled in the background. “Can’t you remember anything I taught you in the gym?”

Nathan frowned. “I could use some encouragement here.” Trust Avery to be a pain in the ass even now.

“Use it all, dimples. Hands, feet, balance.”