When Death Frees the Devil Read online

  This wasn’t the first time he’d been whipped. It wasn’t even the second, when he’d learned just how soothing warm blood falling over raw skin could be. No, the first time had been like this. Full of pain but no blood.

  He’d been nine years old, resigned to the strange new life within the group of Sugar Babies and being called One-three, and Bad Luck, and Freak. Resigned but still confused about why his mother had left him in this horrible place with hurtful adults and odd children who pushed and pulled him in all directions, who hated him for no reason, or who plied him with affection and harm equally. He’d still thought of himself as Paul then, still tested the limits of this new world, of the new rules of right and wrong they were teaching him. Tested the capacity of the carers to live up to their name until they’d had enough and strapped him to the bars and whipped him until he was promising to never question them again.

  But no matter how hard the carers and instructors tried to bend Paul to their wills, he resisted. No matter what the Doctor said, Paul wouldn’t give up on himself.

  It wasn’t until a year later, sitting in a shower stall, watching blood from the carved “TWO” on his foot swirl away down the drain, that Paul surrendered. Ribs aching, split lips stinging and whole leg throbbing, Paul St. Clair took his last, sobbing breath and One-three let it out.

  So many years later, once again at the mercy of the Cabal, Ethan vowed he wouldn’t give in this time.

  They left him hanging for another hour. The pain of his lashed, stretched back outweighed that of his straining lungs and burning arms. Every drop of sweat from his head and shoulders ran in a stinging line down his back, giving him no reprieve.

  The door opened before he passed out from the pain. Wreathed in agony so he couldn’t concentrate enough to use his other senses, he slitted his eyes to see what was happening. Thankfully the lights had been dimmed enough he could watch as two men with guns trained on him come in first, followed by someone Ethan hadn’t expected at all.

  Zero rolled his wheelchair to a stop only a couple of feet back from Ethan’s hanging body. The handler looked him over. “One-three.” He shook his head slowly, then commanded the guards take Ethan down.

  Once Ethan was on the cot, the guards left them alone and Zero manoeuvred around so he was next to the cot. “I can’t say I’m pleased to see you here.”

  Ethan shifted to relieve his aching back. “This wasn’t where I was hoping to end up, trust me.”

  “It never is the plan.” Zero patted the armrest of his chair. “And yet it always seems to happen.”

  The handler hadn’t always been “Zero.” Ethan was certain of that. He was the last of the first experimental group. A sole survivor. Whatever number they’d given Zero originally had been changed when he became the handler for Ethan’s group. Their contact with their masters once they’d been cast out into the world. His legs had been solid and muscular the first time Ethan met him, so he had only recently been paralysed. Zero had been bitter and mean at first, then he had seemed to become resigned to the chair and over the years, mellowed. While the buzzed grey-blond hair and diagonal scar across his face hadn’t changed, he looked tired and defeated now. And his words and tone confirmed it.

  “No one leaves the Cabal alive. Not even the bosses. People have tried but the Cabal usually finds a way to make it . . . beneficial not to. When they—” He cut himself off with a grimace, and when he continued, his tone was flat and dry. “When I was shot in the back, the damage was reparable.”

  They. Back. Was reparable.

  With those few bland words, Ethan suddenly knew Zero better than he ever had, even after working with him for half his life.

  Zero rocked his chair back and forth. “But I did think you’d be the one who managed it. I hoped you would at least.”

  “I had wondered if that was your goal when you told me I had to come in.”

  Zero gave a little shrug, then retrieved several white pills from a pocket. “For the pain.”

  Ethan wanted to snatch the pills out of his hand but resisted. While it seemed as if Zero was sympathetic with his desire to be free—for reasons Ethan was only starting to realise—he’d learned long ago that anything offered by the Cabal came with a commensurate price. He shook his head.

  With an understanding nod, Zero backed up his wheelchair. “Then rest as much as you can. You’re going to need your strength.”

  Once Zero had left, Ethan lay down. Zero was right and he needed to stay as strong as he could.

  When he woke up, the Doctor was waiting for him.

  “Good morning, Ethan.” Standing next to the door, he pocketed a small screen he must have been looking at while waiting.

  Stomach twisting from hunger to nausea and heart hammering in shock, Ethan struggled to sit up. His muscles had stiffened, a result of sleeping on the uncomfortable cot and unconscious efforts to keep from causing himself more pain in his sleep. Thighs, calves, and chest all ached, but it was the fire ripping across his back that pulled the gasp from him. Tears welled and he blinked them away. He didn’t want the Doctor to see him hurting, even though a little voice in the very back of his heart cried for the comfort he remembered.

  “I’m sorry that you’re in pain,” the Doctor murmured. The but you only have yourself to blame was clearly implied. “Would you like something to ease it?”

  If he hadn’t taken the pills from Zero, he certainly wouldn’t take them from this man. “No, thank you.”

  The Doctor nodded. “As you wish. How about some breakfast?”

  This one wasn’t something Ethan could refuse, because the door opened immediately and three non-descript Caucasian men carried in a small folding table, a chair and a tray with hot food and a teapot. Another stood in the doorway, a rifle trained on Ethan while the others set down their gear. When they exited, the door was closed but not locked. Ethan didn’t doubt the rifleman would be right outside it, waiting to take him down if he made a run for it. If they’d been told anything at all about him, they shouldn’t have worried about a frontal assault.

  The Doctor pulled out the single chair at the table and sat. He waved at the spread of food. “Come, Ethan. I know you must be hungry.”

  And just like that, he was, the nausea settling into hunger pangs. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d last eaten and it would help him regain his strength.

  They’d set it up out of reach of the cot, so Ethan had to move, and by leaving only the one chair, he had to stand at the table like a supplicant. Both of which held him back, along with a healthy scepticism about the content of the plates and bowls. He wouldn’t put it past them to drug the food.

  The Doctor delicately spread butter on a slice of wheat toast. “Best hurry, mon doux garçon, lest I eat it all.” He took a bite and chewed, his gaze locked on Ethan squarely as if knowing his thoughts and reassuring him.

  Ethan was moving before he’d made the conscious decision to. He’d never suffered in the presence of the Doctor, always finding comfort and understanding with him. The pain always came at other times.

  Mostly certain the skin on his back hadn’t been broken by the whip, Ethan nevertheless felt as if he’d been flayed open, raw muscle burning as he stood, nearly crippling him. Yet he managed it, and one painstaking step at a time, reached the table. Despite the now gnawing hunger, he accepted the fine China cup of tea from the Doctor and sipped it. The heat felt good going down his throat and into his belly. It made him want to gulp it down, but if he did, the Doctor would make that disappointed hum of his and Ethan would fold up in shame.

  Patiently, the Doctor put toast with butter and jam on a plate for him and handed it over. Ethan took it and, legs aching, retreated to the cot to sit and eat. Again he measured his bites, telling himself it was because he didn’t want to risk upsetting his stomach, knowing, though, that he did it for the Doctor more than himself. After the first piece was down and settled, the Doctor offered him another. Ethan tried to refuse but a soft, “Come, don’t
be silly,” had him staggering over to the table again.

  When he’d returned his empty plate and cup to the table, the Doctor smiled at him, eyes sparkling warmly.

  “You always were so polite and charming, One-three . . . sorry. Ethan. Such a lovely young man.”

  A lovely young man they’d turned into a cold-blooded killer. A child they’d abused and manipulated until he’d become what they wanted him to be. Ethan fought to remind himself that the Doctor had been a part of that, even if everything they had done together had felt so different, separated from the cruelty of the instructors and carers and experimental group by soft words, kind touches, and small gifts. Just a different way of creating a monster.

  “Tell me about him,” the Doctor said.

  “About whom?”

  The Doctor folded his hands together on the edge of the table, as he used to do on his desk in his rooms at the home. “You know very well who I wish to know about, Ethan. Tell me about Jack Reardon.”

  Nausea returned at the mere thought of talking about Jack to this man. Nausea because Jack was too good to be tainted by anything to do with Ethan’s past, and because he wanted to tell the Doctor. Wanted to explain how Jack had given him everything this man and the Cabal had taken away from him. Wanted, blast it all, to let the Doctor know that he was happy, that he loved and was loved in return—that all of them had failed to break him completely.

  “He’s a very attractive man,” the Doctor continued when Ethan didn’t answer. “And intelligent, if a bit emotionally unstable. I believe it took him a deplorably long time to tell you he loved you.”

  “He didn’t need to.” Ethan hadn’t meant to say it aloud and a blush heated his neck and cheeks as soon as it was out, which unsettled him further. He only ever blushed with Jack. No one else had ever made him feel that mix of arousal and coyness Jack could inspire in him with a dirty word or touch, or even just a look. Physical attraction and sex, or even the details of love, hadn’t been part of his sessions with the Doctor. Admitting now that he felt wildly aroused not only by an attractive body, but the person himself, made Ethan want to squirm.

  “Oh, Ethan.” Pity lowered his voice and creased his brows into a frown. “Have you truly mistaken the pleasures of the flesh for love? Have you so thoroughly forgotten all you learned with us?”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

  The Doctor made that little disappointed hum. “Tell me the truth, Ethan.”

  “That is the truth.” Slowly, Ethan lifted his gaze and met the Doctor’s. “I haven’t forgotten anything I learned back then. But I have learned other things since, and one of them is that I’m not the monster you wanted me to be, that I am capable of being my own person and making my own decisions. The right decisions. I also learned that I am worthy of being loved, and capable of loving in return.”

  A fact he’d finally allowed himself to accept that night three months ago. After Jack had finally kissed him and they’d made love, Ethan had let himself believe they’d be together wholly and completely forever.

  Then he’d heard that ping.

  “I love him and he loves me. Why else would I have left him?”

  Ping.

  Something woke Ethan up, but before he could search out the disturbance, he was caught by the vision of the man lying beside him.

  Jack lay on his belly, one leg bent part way, an arm tossed across Ethan’s chest. Ethan trailed his fingers up and down his arm, loving the feel of his curled black hairs and the bulge of his biceps. Jack’s long fingered hand, too, held his attention for a good while. The gunman callouses, the short nails a little ragged and chipped, the lighter shade of his palm compared to the back of his hand. How it felt to have it glide down Ethan’s body. He shivered in recalled pleasure. Lord, those fingers on his skin, barely touching or gripping tight, and oh, when they were inside him. He bit his lips to keep from moaning.

  Ethan pressed against his lover’s side. “Jack,” he whispered between kisses on his shoulder, leading up to his neck. “Are you awake?” Ethan had loved topping but now he needed Jack inside him. Needed Jack to drive him crazy and out of control.

  Jack mumbled incoherently and rubbed his cheek over his pillow, then settled.

  Disappointment mellowed by how gorgeous Jack looked with his face relaxed, lips parted and black curls falling across his forehead, Ethan snuggled closer. Head on Jack’s pillow, he contented himself with gazing at this handsome man.

  Never before had he believed this would ever be his. A real home, with someone he wanted to spend time with. Someone he could be himself with, who accepted that he wasn’t “normal” and still wanted to be near him, be with him . . . love him.

  Jack hadn’t said it, but he’d told him all the same. Every time Jack came home to him, or let Ethan have space when he needed it and then welcomed him back with warm arms and smiles. Each time Jack pulled him close, just to be touching him without anything more. All the times Jack had laughed at him and with him. Whenever he forgave Ethan for making a mistake.

  Every time Jack kissed him.

  Which he seemed determined to make up for lost time with. They’d kissed over and over, soft and hard, dirty and chaste, each one as eloquent as the one before, all the way back to the first.

  Ethan hadn’t said it aloud, either. He wanted to, but it was so daunting. What if Jack couldn’t say it back? What if what they had right now was all they needed and Ethan messed it up because he spoke aloud when it wasn’t necessary? He loved Jack, had realised it several weeks back. The peace he felt with Jack, the warmth he found in his arms, the lightness in Ethan’s mind and heart when Jack was near, could only be love. As was the way he didn’t need to constantly analyse and survey his surroundings when Jack touched him, or the crazy swirling mess of emotions he felt when Jack took him apart in bed. He knew Jack loved him, the kisses told him that, so perhaps that was enough. They’d always been better at the physical side than the verbal side.

  And perhaps Jack would say it, when he saw the present Ethan had got him in the morning. Maybe afterwards, Jack would take him to bed again and—

  Ping.

  No. Ethan refused to hear it. That part of his life was over. It had no part in this place or time.

  Ping.

  He would go to the Office and ask them to program a kill switch into his implant. He would prefer they turn it off permanently, but doubted Director Tan would allow it. After that, he and Jack would celebrate his birthday properly and maybe say I lo—

  Ping.

  Ethan buried his face in Jack’s warm body. It was his choice to be here and they wouldn’t make him change his mind.

  Several minutes of blessed silence and Ethan let himself start to fall asleep.

  Beep, beep, beep.

  Blast it. A warning tone. Any second now, someone was going to remotely access his implant and sure enough an unknown voice spoke inside his head.

  “One-three, confirm.”

  Ethan rolled away from Jack and stared up at the dark ceiling, counting the exposed beams. It helped focus his mind away from the repeated calls for acknowledgement. Still, his hands twitched for something to occupy them as well. Shoving down the sheet, he found the abandoned tube of lube and without thought, began flipping it.

  “One-three, confirm receipt of transmission. If you do not confirm within twenty seconds, base will send an automatic location ping and a team will be dispatched to pick you up.”

  Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. Ethan searched for a way to stop them. Short of an electromagnetic pulse, there was nothing he could do. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen. He and Jack could hold off whatever force the Cabal sent. Ethan had made sure it was possible when he’d bought the penthouse. Eight. Seven. Six. Of course, that meant in five seconds, the penthouse would no longer be their secret. The security Ethan needed would be destroyed. Three. Two . . .

  “One-three, receiving transmission,” he sent silently.

  “Hold for command.”

  Ethan look
ed at Jack, and the peace he usually found in the thick brows, narrow nose, perfect mouth, and strong jaw wasn’t there. All he saw now was everything he had to lose and just how much it would hurt when it was gone.

  A new voice entered Ethan’s head. “One-three, the bosses are expecting a full report on the deaths of Two and Nine, in person. You’ll have to come back.”

  The first voice had been unknown. One of an ever-changing staff of people who had no real idea of who they were talking to, or who they worked for. This voice, though, Ethan knew very well.

  “I don’t work for you or them anymore, Zero. Remember that conversation we had after Vietnam? You let me go.”

  Zero sighed. “I remember saying I would pass on your decision to the bosses, nothing more. You, of all of the group, should know that they don’t do anything they don’t agree to. They don’t agree with you about leaving, so you haven’t left the Cabal.”

  Which was what Dejana had said when Ethan had told her the same thing, and then she’d promised to help him finish severing the ties that held him against his will.

  “And don’t think that accountant is going to do anything for you,” Zero said, a touch of sympathy in his voice as he seemingly read Ethan’s mind. “They had her eliminated before she could, and not just because she said she’d help you.”

  Of course they knew about Dejana. They found out everything. All the trouble he’d caused because of Dejana and her demands and promises, made pointless because of the Cabal.

  Jack snuffled in his sleep and turned his face away, bent knee straightening, straight leg bending. He didn’t know everything Ethan had done while Jack had been chasing a serial killer, but he would find out eventually, and when he did, would he still be able to forgive Ethan? History said he would, but there was always a breaking point.