Chapter 17 #3
Clutching some IV tubing, Brennan snatches him off the floor, and hauls him to the bigger room, shoving him to the floor where a faint brown spot still torments my forsaken soul.
Using the tubing, he ties the man to the mantle.
He turns to face the rest of the room, before pacing over to the pre-lit fireplace—a fire, like a group of exotic dancers, throwing small ripples of light across the floor.
“What family sent you, peasant?” he inquires, cleaning the underside of his nails with the blade.
When the room remains silent, he slides the whip from his shoulders, and an almost chain-like sound rumbles across the hardwood floor.
“I heard you murdered my grandfather.” Brennan cracks his neck, “So, your silence is not allowed. You will either answer my questions, or the desolate halls of this manor will spring to life with your screams.” Then, he rolls his shoulders.
“Old hallways, which have long since forgotten the vibrations of any sound, will now be charged by the melody of your pain.”
“Fuck you, fucking Selby swine.” He draws the length of the whip and flicks his wrist. The screech that erupts from the whipping boy’s mouth, as the steel struck his back, sends a spark of energy up Brennan’s spine—he shivers ever so slightly.
“Ravel in A-Sharp? I figured you were more of a Mozart man.”
Brennan laughs, mocking the higher pitch of the fool's screams. “I will only ask until the symphony of life has left your body. So, again... what family?” He stalks closer, “The Rougeou's... No, they understand what it means to cross me after the last time.” He draws the whip back again, releasing it forward faster than I could blink.
“The Lee family… now, they love hiring me for cleanup. They tend to get… a bit messy.” He turns, smiling, and the light plays maliciously over his face. Using his tongue, he lets out a… tsk-tsk-tsk. “The Downey family, then... it makes sense.” He stops his pacing. “You reek like a bottom-dweller.”
The man shuffles and looks over his shoulder. “Fucking filthy pigs, the lot of your inbred family.” The man bellows back, “My Grandfather is Theodore fucking Downey, and he’ll have your head for this!”
“Where are my manners, Downey, do boy?” This time, Brennan spins and fully extends his arm with a graceful motion.
Taking a half-ass bow, as a low cackle transmutes into shouting as he comes full circle, “Did you forget your fucking place! Did you not realize where the fuck you are!” Brennan’s body started to shake.
“You may not be aware of this, but I am Brennan Selby, and the only BS I take is my initials.”
You are the lowest of the low!
A fucking pebble in my boot—no one likes a pebble in their boot!”
He roars as he snaps his arm like a spring—the muscles ripple and flex, pushing the vessels to distinct visibility for a moment.
All seven of the whip's strands catch the captive on his face and side.
A strike strong enough to split skin, shred muscle tissue, and leave the right eye a mess, oozing what could only be ocular fluids.
I relish watching it slowly collapse and fall out of the socket.
Brennan coils the scourge and fastens it through a belt loop in such a manner that, if necessary to release it, all he had to do was pull.
Storming over to his bound prisoner, Brennan draws in his knee, stopping once it hits his chest, then, with full force, he plants his foot firmly against the man's hip.
The prisoner screams—his cries marinated in the agony his body is undergoing.
Brennan’s hand flies like a saucer to meet its target, while the screams transcend from a piercing pitch to a scratchy gargling tone.
Bending over, he whispers, “Don't you ever think your life is worth something to me.” He spits on the man’s face, “My life prior was spent teaching lessons of death. From the delicate crime of passion to the visually deprived, premeditative slaughter.”
Brennan then stands tall—taller than I've ever seen, like he was growing by the second. “I’ll ask. One. Last. Time. Did you put out the mark on my head?” Entangling his fingers in his victim's hair, he yanks his head back, “OR do I need to continue my entertainment?”
The man began to sob, and his broken words fell out in sputters. “I-It was m-m-my uncle.” The man slumps over, still breathing but unresponsive.
He fainted, seriously?
“That’s a good boy, get your rest, I have much more in store for you,” Brennan whispers as he releases the captives’ hands—then ties them behind his back, as he attaches them to his belt. When done, he stands up, and parades over to the curio cabinet—my focus is back on the Downey low life.
A distinct sound of a crystal decanter clinks, followed by the sharp staccato of ice dropping into a glass.
Heavenly ticks and cracks sound off as warm liquid caresses the ice—filling the glass.
The light baritone pulse of the bourbon rushing through the aperture of the glass bottle, reminding me of… Auld Lang Syne… as a drink is poured.
Aw, I miss the smell of an old-fashioned with Honey, not to mention the taste.
My eyes wander to the grandfather clock, then back to the body at the foot of the fireplace.
I should have time to meet Emory and get back before he comes to.
Leaving Brennan to his thoughts, I make my way out of the West Wing, but by the time I make it to the bottom of the staircase, a gust of wind dashes past me.
As I recover from my momentary discombobulation, I am startled as the front doors slam.
I turn back to the hallway, to see Brennan—his anger dyes his skin beet red as he stalks out the doors.
Following, I see Niven standing just outside the bookstore.
I make my way over to her. Throwing my hands up, in preparation, for what I have predicted would come next.
“What in the name of the gods happened in there?” she questions.
Moments pass as I fill Niven in on the atrocities that took place in the west wing, and before I know it, Emory is running at me—fear plastered to her rain-kissed face.
I looked to Niven for help on what to do next, but she had already gone back inside and was standing behind the counter as we walked through.
My hand firmly around Emory’s wrist, quickly, we writhe between the towering bookshelves.
Emory says something to me breathlessly, but I don’t quite hear, so I respond with a simple two-word response, “Not here.” Seeing how that seems to work, I lead her to the nook.
Turning to face her—I can see she has a lot to tell me.
Her fear cannot be present when she speaks, for I know the conversation would be easier if she were calm.
Using my fingers, I brush her rain-soaked hair from her face.
Looking into her eyes, I lock my lips with hers.
This was the first time I would kiss her pain away, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.