The Bonds of Blood (The Final Formula Series, Book 4.5) Page 8

“If you like spicy, they’re great.” The cashier dropped the chips into the last of several bags he had just filled.

  James grunted in response after setting two of the cable ties on the counter, then pushed the package to the cashier. He then turned his efforts to opening the roll of duct tape.

  “Doing some car repairs?” the young man asked with a chuckle.

  “I wish.” James ripped off a six-inch section of tape. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain the old man shopping in the back of the store was still out of sight.

  “Cable ties and duct tape are my tools of choice.” The cashier ran the open roll of duct tape over the barcode reader, but didn’t get a beep. He stopped and straightened out the package to try again.

  James didn’t comment. He clamped the cable ties between his teeth, then vaulted the counter.

  The padlock Henry had stolen from the hasp outside the men’s room thumped painfully against James’s collarbone. The lock secured the dog collar in place, ensuring that James remained human.

  The cashier gasped, dropping the roll of duct tape as James closed with him. “What are—”

  James slapped the duct tape across his mouth, then grabbed the man’s wrist as he belatedly raised an arm to stop him. James spun the guy away from him, then knocked his legs out in the same move. In the span of a few seconds, he had the cashier face down on the floor behind the counter, securing first his wrists, then his ankles with the cable ties. The iron in the dog collar might hinder him, but James was still more than human.

  “I’m sorry,” James said. “It was either this or let them kill you.”

  The cashier mumbled something against the tape, but James couldn’t make out the words.

  “When you get free, call the Elemental Offices and ask to speak to the Flame Lord. Tell him James was here. Tell him my brothers found me.”

  The young man twisted around to stare at him. He grunted out something that might have been Flame Lord.

  James rose to his feet and began emptying the register. A pad of paper lay beside the register along with a pen. “I’m writing down the tag number of the vehicle they forced me to steal.”

  The door opened, and a woman walked in leading a little girl by the hand. “Where’s your restroom?” she asked James.

  “In the back.” James waved a hand in that direction. He had no clue if that was true, but he needed to get her away from the counter before she heard the cashier’s grunts and stirrings.

  George had made it quite clear that if James messed this up, George and Henry would clean it up. James didn’t need him to spell out what he meant by that.

  “Thanks.” The woman gave him a weary nod and hurried off in that direction. Once she was out of sight, James shoved the money into one of the sacks and gathered them in his hands. “Call the Flame Lord,” he repeated to the cashier.

  The young man tried to shout something. This phrase might have started with F as well, but it wasn’t Flame Lord.

  James sighed. Better to have the guy cussing him than to watch him die. And James had no doubt that his brothers would have killed everyone in the store if they had robbed the place. That was why he had volunteered. One of the reasons.

  He circled the counter, bags in hand, and walked toward the front door.

  “Hey.” The woman from earlier stepped out of the aisle ahead of him. “There’s no toilet paper.”

  “Grab a pack off the shelf.”

  She frowned, her gaze dropping to the padlocked chain around his throat before falling to his bare feet. His brothers had given him a T-shirt and a pair of camouflaged pants, but no shoes.

  “Go on.” James walked past her. Outside the front door, he could see Henry leaning against the side of the SUV James had liberated from a park and ride. Henry’s eyes met his through the glass.

  The woman stepped back—fortunately into the aisle and out of Henry’s line of sight.

  “You’re not the cashier,” she whispered.

  “Go back to your little girl,” James muttered. He bowed his head and kept moving toward the door. “Keep out of sight until I’m gone.”

  He pushed open the front door and hurried over to where Henry waited.

  “I hope you got everything,” Henry said.

  James opened the door and began loading the bags into the back seat, then climbed in himself.

  “If you forgot something, I’ll have to go back in and get it.” Henry fingered a throwing knife.

  “Henry, get in,” George said. He dropped the SUV into reverse.

  Henry hurried to comply, barely getting his door shut before George began to pull away.

  James slumped in his seat. The bags rattled as Henry went through them, but he didn’t look over.

  “Nice,” Henry said with a laugh.

  George lifted a brow, meeting Henry’s eye in the rearview mirror.

  “He really did clean out the register.” Henry grabbed a handful of cash and dropped it in the front seat.

  George glanced over, a slight smile on his face.

  “Looks like our baby brother is good for more than just a blood snack.” Henry punched James in the shoulder. “Who knew he was so good at armed robbery?”

  “I wasn’t armed.” James glared at him.

  “Are you bragging?”

  James held his brother’s gaze. Henry was the first to look away.

  They left the convenience store behind, returning to the interstate. James released a silent breath, glad that was over. He had managed to save a few lives—for now.

  George pulled the stolen SUV to a stop before the Timberland Retreat and shut off the engine. James eyed the decades-old motel. It was the furthest thing from a retreat, but it was bordered by timber on two sides. So the advertising wasn’t entirely false.

  “Out,” George commanded. He opened his door and slid from the seat.

  “Get the bags,” Henry told James, opening his own door.

  James considered refusing, but with the collar around his throat, he knew where that attitude would land him. His brothers wouldn’t let him bleed to death, but they had no problem with leaving him battered and bruised. James knew that well.

  He gathered the bags and climbed out. He had to play along until an opportunity presented itself for him to take advantage of the situation. That’s why he had made certain the cable ties and duct tape made it into the bag. He hoped to have his brothers bound before Rowan, and possibly the PIA, caught up with them.

  “Put the bags on the table,” Henry instructed him once inside the small room.

  James curled his lip at the stink. The room itself smelled of mold and decay, but his brothers had added the stench of sweaty socks and rotting food. George and Henry didn’t share his sense of smell, but their olfactory senses were better than the average human’s. James didn’t know how they could stand this.

  He set the bags on the cluttered table, pushing aside a handgun and a gun-cleaning kit. When he turned, he found both George and Henry watching him.

  “Meek as a kitten, isn’t he?” Henry said with his usual sneer.

  James suspected he mocked him for not picking up the handgun and holding it on them. But they knew James couldn’t really hurt them. They had always known that—and used it to their advantage.

  Crossing his arms, James waited for the next task he would be given. It would be something unpleasant. It always was.

  “So, tell us,” George began, drawing James’s attention. Of his brothers, George was always the most dangerous. He rarely broadcast his intentions and usually thought things through. “Who is the blonde?”

  James stilled.

  “Tell us,” George commanded.

  Now here was a command James would never obey. He met George’s gaze and held it.

  George crossed the space between them, his eyes locked with James’
s. “It’s said that you spent a week at her bedside.”

  Who had told them that? Or rather, who had they hurt to get that information? James wanted to ask, but knew it was best to maintain his silence.

  “Elysia Grace Mallory,” George said.

  James lifted his lips, a soft growl building in his throat he was unable to stop.

  Laughing, Henry stepped up beside George. “She has an Athens address. A seedy little apartment.”

  James dropped his arms and fisted his hands. They had been there?

  Henry laughed again and nudged George with his elbow. “Oh yeah, he’s got it for her. Of course, she is fucking gorgeous.”

  “Stay away from her,” James said, his jaw so tight he could barely speak.

  “But he hasn’t had her yet.” Henry smirked. “I didn’t smell him on her.”

  The fact that Henry had been close enough to Elysia to catch that detailed a scent destroyed the last of James’s restraint. He sprang forward, capturing a fistful of Henry’s camo jacket in one hand while he buried the other fist in his face.

  He pulled back for a second punch, but George seized his arm and jerked him away. James’s strength might be a little more than human, but George outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Fifty pounds of muscle. George had lost some weight during his imprisonment by both the PIA and Ian, but by the force of the blow he landed on James’s chin, he hadn’t lost any of his strength.

  Ignoring the blood streaming from his nose, Henry joined the fight, and in moments, James was on the floor, trying to shield his head from their kicks. He muffled a cry when a rib snapped, followed immediately by an equally painful blow to the kidneys.

  “Enough,” George finally said.

  “Fucker broke my nose,” Henry complained, the words muffled by his damaged nose. He gave James another kick to the kidneys.

  “I said, enough,” George repeated.

  Henry stepped back. No one gainsaid George. “He broke my nose,” Henry repeated.

  “You’ll live. Go clean yourself up.” George squatted beside James, dismissing Henry.

  Still whining, Henry walked toward the open door on the other side of the room. By scent alone, James knew it was the bathroom.

  “Now talk,” George said, his tone low and dangerous. “What’s your connection to this Mallory girl?”

  “Why does it matter to you?” James hedged. He pushed himself into a seated position, struggling to ignore the pain. It didn’t matter how bad it hurt. He refused to cower anymore.

  “Do you really need to ask that?” George held his gaze. Unlike his other brothers, George never broke eye contact first.

  “I should have killed you both in that warehouse,” James muttered.

  “You would never do that. Your greatest desire is to live.” George smiled, mocking the wish he’d once heard James make as boy, when he had tossed a coin into what was supposed to be an authentic wishing well.

  James leaned closer, holding George’s gaze. Even after all their recent conflict, it was still surreal to stand up to his eldest brother. “Exile from the mortal plane is a small price to pay to rid the world of a couple of psychopaths.”

  “Aren’t you the altruist? But I know the truth. I know you’ve come into your full power. I know you’ve killed with it.”

  “I’ve freed liches and protected the innocent.” Or he had tried to. The convenience store clerk, Kari, had still died in the crossfire.

  “Your motives don’t matter. All that matters is that you’ve used it to kill.” George gripped his T-shirt and pulled him closer. “You’re finally a man now, James. You know what that means.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Henry puts a bullet through His Grace’s eye.”

  James swallowed.

  “You have a role to play,” George continued. “It’s the only reason I bothered to raise you.”

  James couldn’t stop the snort that escaped. He’d had to fend for himself most of the time. If not for the hound, he probably wouldn’t have survived his childhood.

  George gripped James’s side, right over the broken rib and squeezed.

  James pulled a breath through his teeth, fighting the urge to scream. There was a time he would have screamed—and begged for mercy.

  “Play your role, and I will consider allowing you to remain in this world. Otherwise, we’ll be paying the Huntsman family graveyard a visit.” The old graveyard was in England and home to Gavin’s crypt. Gavin’s own brothers had built the specially designed tomb to house him, and he had remained there for centuries, trapped between the mortal plane and the land of the dead, yet not truly in either.

  James wondered at this threat. George usually threatened to lock him in the vault beneath the family gun shop.

  “I know where the crypt is,” George continued. “I’ve been there. Father took me over shortly before entrusting the family history to me.”

  The family history was some sort of container that housed, among other things, a journal started by the first Hunter. The journal was supposed to contain all the grim lore handed down through the family since the very first grim. James had never been allowed to see it. He had forgotten all about it until this moment.

  “So, talk,” George said. “Is this girl the one? Or are you just mooning over her like you did that alchemist?” His smile was cruel. “You never did figure out what to do with her.”

  “She probably didn’t want to be poked with that dead dick,” Henry said, rejoining them. He held a bloodied hand towel to his nose. The motel probably wouldn’t be reusing that one.

  James remained silent, refusing to let them bait him.

  “Talk.” George squeezed his rib again.

  James growled a curse and Henry laughed. When his brother finally got his mirth under control, James noticed a new sound. Was it his imagination or did he hear a siren in the distance?

  “George, you hear a siren?” Henry asked.

  Okay maybe it wasn’t James’s imagination.

  “It’s just an ambulance,” George said.

  “It’s more than one,” Henry said. He spun on his heel, and tossing aside the hand towel, he snatched up the gun from the table.

  James gripped his thighs. He couldn’t sit here and let them kill again. But what could he do? The iron held him in this form, and though he could match his brothers’ physical prowess, he couldn’t do it with a broken rib.

  George rose to his feet and went to get his crossbow. “Chain him to the radiator in the bathroom,” he said to Henry. “We can’t have him trying to rescue someone again.”

  Henry slammed the magazine into the handgun and walked to where James still knelt. He pulled the leash from his pocket. “Don’t get any ideas, dog.”

  James stilled. If he let them lock him up, this would all be over before he got a chance to stop it.

  Henry reached for the collar while James let the air wheeze in and out of his throat, hamming up his busted rib. It didn’t take much acting. Broken ribs hurt like hell.

  “Poor baby.” Henry’s fingers brushed his throat.

  James jumped up, catching Henry’s hand and letting his upward momentum bend it back. A satisfying pop, and Henry cried out. James dropped into a roll to avoid the kick that followed, but gasped as he rolled across his broken rib.

  “What the hell?” George demanded.

  “He broke my finger!” Henry shouted in response. He pulled up the handgun and leveled it on James.

  “Henry, don’t!” George reached for him.

  James’s focus narrowed down to Henry’s finger around the trigger. The knuckle flexed, and James dove to the side. The bullet clipped his shoulder, sending a stinger down his arm, but he ignored it. Bullets were lead; he wouldn’t even bleed.

  Surging to his feet, he grabbed Henry’s wrist and shoved his arm upward. The next
shot went through the ceiling, dropping moldy plaster on their heads.

  Tires squealed outside, and an instant later, doors slammed. Whoever this was, they had been smart enough to shut off their sirens once they got close. Unfortunately, they didn’t realize that they hadn’t shut them off soon enough.

  “We’ll settle this later,” George said. “Move.”

  Henry snuffed his bleeding nose. “You heard him. Let me go, freak.”

  James smiled. “Maybe I don’t want to.” He slammed his forehead into Henry’s face and his brother screamed as he shattered his broken nose further.

  A crossbow cocked, the sound almost lost to Henry’s scream, but James heard it. He jerked Henry around in front of him, and the quarrel slammed into Henry’s side, puncturing one lung, maybe both. Henry’s legs gave out, but James let him fall only to his knees. He gripped a handful of his grimy blond hair, holding him upright.

  “Fuck,” George whispered. He had never seemed all that torn up over Brian’s death, but James knew he had never thought much of Brian. Henry, on the other hand, George actually liked.

  James leaned over and pulled the hunting knife from Henry’s belt.

  “What are you doing?” George demanded.

  “You’re going to set aside your weapons and play nice with whoever comes through that door.” James laid the knife against Henry’s throat.

  George’s eyes narrowed. “Give him your blood. We don’t have much time.”

  “I’m not going to save the bastard; I’m going to kill him.” James pressed the knife closer until he felt the skin give. “Unless you give yourself up.”

  “You won’t kill him.” George smiled. “You want to live.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe I’m tired of all of this. The abuse, the threat you pose to those I care about, and the endless death. Maybe I want out.”

  George frowned. “You won’t do it.”

  A flare of light and heat, and suddenly the room’s outer door vanished. Rowan.

  George swung his crossbow toward the door.

  “No!” James shouted and dragged the knife across Henry’s throat. But he was too late. The crossbow twanged as George released the quarrel.