Vice and Void (The Savage Wolves Brotherhood #1)

17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Dakota

Dakota didn’t make a single stop as she dashed over to the mechanic’s shop. Hands trembling as they clutched the steering wheel, she bit her lip to keep the bile from rising into the back of her throat. The tires squealed as she pulled into the parking lot, brakes screeching in protest when she stomped them to a halt.

Bounding to the front door, she glanced up at the cameras watching her from the corners of the garage. A shiver built in the base of her spine at the stark reminder of the prison. Someone had to know. She plowed through the door anyway, grimacing as the bell jangled against the glass insert.

“Here we fucking go,” Ace said when she entered the shop’s lobby. His eyes rolled as he grabbed a set of car keys from a hook behind the shop’s computer. “Aren’t you due for Kane’s rehab in like two hours? You’re in the wrong place, princess.”

The jab sent a shock of irritation racing from her chest, but Dakota ignored it. “Is Callum here?”

Ace braced his forearms against the counter, wrinkling a drop-off form. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yes, I would,” Dakota replied, not bothering to hide the ire in her voice. “That’s why I’m here. It’s important.”

Ace snickered. “Can’t imagine it’s that important, but he’s in the back. He doesn’t like— “

Dakota whirled away from Ace and stomped down the narrow hallway. She passed the window overlooking the garage bays, where Rocco and Logan were bent over a car’s engine. The mingling scent of grease and motor oil was enough to sting her eyes, but she kept a brisk stride as she approached the office door. All these years later, it was still labeled Tex Reynolds .

Opening the office door before her body and brain could come to an agreement, her eyes planted on Callum’s broad frame stationed behind the desk.

Callum glanced up from the pile of receipts set beside the keyboard, his gaze hardening into something resembling unadulterated annoyance. “By all means,” he started as Dakota shut the door and dropped into the chair opposite him, “come in. Make yourself at home.”

Her mind finally collided with her body, and she jolted when she saw his gray eyes studying her green ones. His tattooed hands and the front of his shirt were stained with black grease—something he always hated and would scrub off at first chance. It was abhorrent that she could still shovel out that sliver of information.

“I think I might have a lead on Lyra.”

Callum’s brows rose. “What makes you think that?” His arms crossed over his chest, stretching the material of his work shirt across his chest and ten million abs. The distraction was unasked for.

Dakota took a deep breath, his earthy cologne overtaking the motor oil scent drifting in from the gap under the door. He hadn’t moved away from her favorite cologne either. Gods.

“I was at the prison today. Laura Sanchez, you remember her, right? She took James and me to these underground cells. There are people down there, people that they took from the Fieldhouse to experiment on. They aren’t even in the system. They’re torturing them. One of them died while I was there.” The words rushed out of her in an uncontrollable word vomit.

Callum’s face remained as impassive as it was before she began talking. “Bad coffee?” He rolled the office chair back, grabbed a paper cup, and filled it from the glass pot.

“I—did you not hear me?” Dakota asked incredulously as he placed the cup in front of her. He folded his arms over his chest again, only accentuating the wideness of his shoulders and arms.

“I heard you."

Dakota ignored the coffee. "You know? "

"I know."

“So what are we going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Dakota gaped at him. “What do you mean nothing? Lyra could be in that prison and—“

Callum shook his head. “She isn’t at the prison.”

Dakota bristled, her impatience taking on a life of its own. What she wanted to do was dump the hot coffee on his lap. The urge was difficult to fight, but she prevailed. “You can’t possibly know that. According to Laura Sanchez, this development started a few weeks ago.”

Callum stared at her before leaning forward to brace his elbows on his thighs. “I was in that prison for nine years. I have a network at my beck and call to tell me exactly what happens there. Guards, prisoners, you name it.”

“You were there for nine years?” Dakota asked. She immediately wanted to kick herself for voicing it. This was about Lyra. Anything extra was just that.

Callum didn’t respond right away, his eyes searching hers as though he somehow knew the regret boiling inside of her. “Lyra isn’t at the prison,” he finally said. He settled back in his seat, resting his hands on his lower abdomen. From the position of his thumb, she could see her name inked on his skin. Staring at her, mocking her. “Like I said two days ago, I’ve covered the Lyra piece. Now, if you could just—“

“What’s a Vital?” Dakota asked before he could finish dismissing her entirely. She crossed one knee over the other, getting comfortable. There was no way she was leaving here without answers—ones that even James refused to indulge her in as they drove back to the Guildhall. “Or a Veil. I think Void was mentioned as well. We learned about them briefly in school, but nothing more than in passing.”

She could have sworn he blanched at the question.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said easily. The chair squeaked as he rocked back and forth in it.

Dakota’s eyes narrowed on him. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Callum chuckled. His lips upturned in a sly, shit-eating grin.

“Yes. Want to know how I can tell? You always look bored when you’re lying. Leaning back, hands in your lap.”

Callum stilled, that shit-eating grin sliding off his face. “We don’t know each other anymore. Let’s not pretend like we do. ”

“Apparently, there are still things we know about each other,” she retorted, resting her arms casually over her knee. Callum’s gaze dropped to where her hands dangled. “I want to know what James and Laura are talking about. I deserve that much from you.”

“You are mistaken,” Callum replied. His jaw clenched so tightly that Dakota saw a muscle tick in the corner of it.

Dakota tilted forward to grab the cooled coffee from the desk. She took a sip, suppressed a grimace from the terrible taste, and set it back down. “Callum, I’m asking you to be honest with me. I’ve jumped through every hoop you’ve asked.”

If possible, his jaw tightened even further at the sound of his name on her lips. “This is dangerous. It could get you killed.”

Dakota huffed a laugh. “Don’t act like you’re worried about my well-being now.”

“This is different—“

“Worse than being brought to the basement of the prison against my will to keep a secret for the governor on the torture victims they’re illegally detaining there?”

Callum opened and closed his mouth. Like he wanted to argue but couldn’t figure out a good enough reason to. Victorious satisfaction swelled like a bullfrog, but she kept her face neutral not to piss him off more. He scraped a hand down his face, rubbing at the stubble on his jawline before he began.

“The Brotherhood operated in Pain and Euphoric until about thirty years ago. My father got wind from a Guard he was friends with regarding the…experiments they were doing at the Fieldhouse.”

“Experiments?”

Callum nodded. “There've been rumors of innumerable places where the Banished God’s blood was spilled as they were pushed to The Boundary, including the swamp and farmland surrounding the cities.”

Dakota rolled her eyes. “They can't reasonably expect us to believe that the only place their blood was spilled is conveniently where the Fieldhouse is now.” She was toeing the line of Lyra-conspiracy theory territory.

“I know, but the plants we’ve eaten our entire lives, the ones grown in those farmlands, have been changing people’s molecular structure. It makes their blood…valuable.”

Dakota recalled James and Laura’s conversation about mixing blood to try and force the magic out. Her throat squeezed, lodging her swallow in place. “Valuable…how?”

Callum sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. “Vitals, Veils, and Voids. The best way I can describe it is that old magic is bonding with the blood in some humans. No outward shows of it, they can’t fly or some shit like that.” He grabbed the coffee from the desk and took a long swig. “But markings appear, designating those who have the evolved blood.”

Dakota tracked the coffee cup as Callum returned it to the desk. “What's the difference?”

Callum ran a finger over his lower lip before he said, “The type of marking. Vitals are the most common. Their blood is changed by divination magic from Ilios. The marking looks simple and raised. It often passes as a mole unless you know what you’re looking for.”

Dakota slumped back in her seat. Her father had said something to that effect a few weeks earlier. I believe her blood was vital to the cause of the accident. The word choice was so odd that it stuck with her.

“Veils are next,” Callum went on. “From Kynetos—the energy manipulator. The marking is flat and skin-toned. It could pass as a rash that doesn’t heal. That’s how most Veils are discovered. They go see an alchemist for one thing, and the next…”

Was this what was expected of her? Was she going to be forced to use her alchemy training to drag people away from their families? To trap them in the basement of the prison until the day they die?

“And the Voids?” she managed to ask through pursed lips. She didn’t want to know more. But she needed to.

Callum cleared his throat, shifting in his seat—unease blanketing the stiffness of his shoulders. “Nekros’s blood—the necromancer. The marking looks like a patch of freckles, some like constellations. They’re the rarest of the three.” The way his unfiltered stare bored into her made her want to pace the room.

“You said the Brotherhood used to operate in Euphoric and Pain.” The unease on his face evolved into a wariness that pulled his brows together. “What are you doing with the blood you collect?” The question ratcheted up the tension between them, and Callum shifted again. His hesitation wasn’t lost on her. “Callum.”

“My father discovered through his informant at the Fieldhouse that you can inject the blood into the distillation process to create new distills that temporarily give humans the magic’s ability. Speed and strength, divination...”

Magic requires a sacrifice . James’s words clattered through Dakota, and her thoughts instantly redirected to the journal she had stored at Lyra’s house.

“How do you get ahold of the blood? Is it a—no.” Realization dawned on her, as did the guilt that riddled Callum’s features. “Are you…please don’t tell me that the Brotherhood is trading blood for protection.” When he didn’t reply, Dakota shot out of her chair so suddenly that the legs scraped against the linoleum floor. “Are you kidding me?”

Callum stood from his seat, agitation and anger burning away the remorse in his glare. “You fucking asked.“

“Are those the distills you're selling to the Syndicate?” Dakota demanded loudly. Through the small window in the office, Rocco lifted his head from the engine and glanced at them over his shoulder.

“What the Brotherhood does for business is none of yours.” Callum’s rage pulsed at her in waves.

“They kill people,” Dakota bit back. “They’ve killed hundreds of civilians in Blackdon. I would know. I watched them die.”

Callum didn’t even blink. “ I kill people.” He stooped to place his knuckles on the forgotten receipts, bowing to her eye-level. “I’ve killed dozens of people since getting out of prison. Fuck, I killed a few in there, too. Norwich and the Brotherhood aren't the same. They haven’t been for years. You’ve just been too far away to see it.”

Ouch. “Working with you was a mistake.” She bent her knees to grab the bag off the floor, slinging the straps over her shoulders.

“I’ve been fucking saying that for weeks!” He punched the desk for emphasis, scattering the receipts across the floor. “We weren’t compatible twelve fucking years ago, and we aren’t compatible now!” The words rocked through her, shredding through her shielded heart with horrifying ease. Callum sighed and hung his head. “Dakota, I—“

“No, you’re right,” Dakota said against the lump in her throat. The backs of her eyes began to burn, but she wouldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of him. Too many tears had already fallen over Callum Reynolds. She gathered what was left of her dignity and lifted her chin. “We’re different people. We always have been.”

“And Lyra?” Callum asked as she turned to leave the office. “You’re just going to forget that your best friend disappeared?”

Dakota didn’t stop to look at him as she clasped her hand around the knob. She desperately missed Lyra, down to the core of her soul. She would have made a killer drink and told Dakota exactly what to do.

“Rocco will make sure she’s found. You don’t need me.”

Despite telling herself there was no fucking way she would cry over Callum Reynolds, the tears still soaked Dakota’s cheeks during the mind-numbing drive to Lyra’s house. Callum's help, if one could call it that, was unnecessary. Dylan would suffice. Or, she could leverage her knowledge of the prison over James and Laura.

Gods, she was more likely to end up in that basement if she was dumb enough to try.

Dakota turned down Lyra’s quiet street and parked in the driveway. Wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm, she turned off the engine and let the lights in the car fade. It was nothing more than naive to think they could work together. Twelve years was long, but it wasn’t long enough to erase their history. His rejection of her, her wariness of him—they worked in tandem to build an impenetrable brick wall between them.

And she could never forget what he did to her.

Dakota finally opened the car door, the cool evening air like a salve. The water trickling from the stream beyond the house had her shoulders relaxing and her fists unclenching. Peace. That's what she needed—not Callum Reynolds. Peace and calm. She took a deep breath as she climbed the porch steps, scenting the end-of-summer flowers in the gentle breeze.

Sighing, Dakota shoved the key into the front door but found the lock unbolted. She could have sworn…she shook her head as she shouldered into the house, ignoring her dread and the unnerving plunge to her stomach.

“This is fascinating.”

The voice made her jump, her terrified scream lost to the knot in her throat. Her body didn’t know whether to freeze or flee, and she tripped on her feet as she spun to do both. “Ethan!” she exhaled, her hand flying up to clap over her heart. “What are you doing here?”

His car hadn't been anywhere near the house—that she had been sure of.

“I came to see you!” Ethan stood, closing the journal with a quick snap. “But I found this with your stuff. Your mind is just…” He trailed off to a long, contemplative pause. “It’s illegal, but it’s intelligent work. I’ll give you that.”

“Did you go through the house?” Dakota demanded. If he left with that journal, it would be the end of her life. “That was at the bottom of a bag in Lyra’s closet!”

Ethan chuckled as he tossed it onto the couch. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

Dakota crossed the living room to snatch the journal from the cushion, tucking it against her chest. “You need to leave, Ethan. This is insane .”

“I wanted to spend time with you,” Ethan countered lightly, though there was a new agitation to his tone. His eyes simmered. “You’ve been making that difficult the past few weeks.”

Dakota forced herself to breathe, practically inhaling the cool air when she realized she had inadvertently put Ethan between her and her only means of escape. Stay collected . Her smile was tight, but she nodded her head. “Of course. Things have been complicated lately.”

Ethan sagged with relief. He stepped closer, but Dakota’s legs were already backed to the couch. “I’m glad you see it, too. Because your father—“

His voice droned into words she couldn't comprehend against the phantom wind whooshing past her eardrums. Instead of listening, she subtly scanned for a weapon. The lamp was too far away, and the coffee table coaster was too small. There was a half-empty glass of water that might buy her time, but the risk was too high. She doubted she could get across the living room. Her gaze flicked to Ethan’s hip, where his gun was still saddled in the holster.

“Dakota?”

Her name registered, but she was too slow. Ethan tracked the angle of her eyes, settling on the pistol at his beltline. The strain in the room grew, tensing and thickening as it strangled the air into something that no longer filled her lungs.

“My gun?” Ethan scoffed. She flinched as he reached out to grasp her upper arm, hauling her flush to him. That drone evolved to a deafening roar as the buttons of his shirt dug into her chest. “Do you think I’m here to hurt you? I’m here for you!”

She scrambled into motion, thrusting out a hand to grab the gun. It fell from the holster and clattered to the floor, taking her last thread of hope with it. When his gaze darted frantically to find it, she lunged—her final chance. Ethan shoved her off course. Tumbling to the floor, she landed awkwardly on her wrist. A sickening snap cracked through the room, and white-hot pain lanced to her shoulder.

“See what you did?”

Ethan's boots clomped against the plush carpet. Ignoring the slicing pain that sent stars speckling the corners of her vision, Dakota crawled away from him, keeping her wrist clenched against her chest .

“If you wouldn’t fight me, things like this wouldn’t happen!” Ethan’s shadow eclipsed the waning sunlight from the window, and then his hand was tangled in her hair, wrenching her head back.

Tears struck hard and fast as she fought to free herself, but it only made him grasp on tighter. Her feet left the floor as he threw her against the counter. Her ribs smashed into the corner, and another burst of pain exploded in her bones. Throbbing agony worked through her as she struggled to remain upright. Strained to stay conscious. The reek of blood was immediate, and a sticky heat sopped the side of her shirt.

“After this, things will be perfect. No more lies. Just us.” Ethan flicked on the kitchen light, and a sharp knife resting on a cutting board glinted against the fluorescents. “You’ll see."

Ethan made to grab her again. To strike her or pull her into an embrace, Dakota didn’t know.

But her body became a single heartbeat. A bloody and broken mess. Adrenaline masked her injuries long enough for her to fight. She had to fight. She had to fight . She lurched toward the knife, nothing left to lose. Every movement threatened to rip her apart. Warm crimson and black smoke leeched from her, wrapping her in a promise of death.

Ethan surged across the kitchen in a violent storm just as she gripped the knife's handle. Just as he spun her around to wrap his fingers in a vise around her throat. And seconds turned to years as she thrust her arm forward. The blade was still burrowing through his gut as he sank to the floor.