Page 29 of Beastly Armory
Max twists his head, as if surprised, while keeping his eyes on the road. “Y-you remember I wanted a Barracuda?”
“Yeah.” I roll my eyes. “Some days it’s all you would talk about.”
His face appears caught in a nostalgic smile. “I’ve had it for about ten years now. You remember that time I got so mad that you stole my replica matchbox car?”
“Do I remember that one day when you actually fought back? Yes.”
“Livia, you scared the shit out of me. I’d had it with you by then.” His eyes dart to the side as a corner of his mouth lifts, but there’s a sadness in his expression. “That was my favorite toy.”
I run my tongue over my teeth, behind my lips. Then, I do something I’ve never done with anyone. Reaching across the car, my fingers pry his right hand from the steering wheel before resting our hands on the wood paneled center console. His eyes glance to where we are joined and the grief that was in his expression is replacedwith happiness once again. As he takes a deep breath in, his gray suit jacket pooches open.
“We could die in there today, you know.”
“We could,” I respond.
“So, if I pull over to this motel up here off sixty-seven, will you let me fuck you?” His eyebrows jump up and down.
“Max!” Attempting to snatch my hand back from his, he grips tighter. I allow him to lace our fingers together. He’s right. We could die. Secretly, I consider his proposal, but it’s not on the agenda. We need to focus. “I need you to let me do the talking. Will you?”
With my change of subject, his face clouds with seriousness. “Yes.”
“No bear tactics. Strauss is a bull. He won’t respond well trying to push him over. I’ll handle him.”
“How will you handle him, little fox?”
“My foxy ways.”
He gives a curt nod and lets silence fill the air for a moment. “I don’t want him to touch you.”
“I’m not yours, Freidenberg.” The muscle in his jaw pops as he clenches his teeth. He lets go of my hand. “But I don’t want him to touch me, either.” Looking out the side window at the shadows of autumn trees dying in the cold air, I add softly, “Who knows what kind of diseases his dick has.”
Silence fills the car until we pull up to the iron gates. A uniformed guard waves us through after opening it. It’s been a few years since I’ve been to these lands.
As we crawl around a bend, the old mansionappears before us. If Max’s manor is Gothic, Strauss’s is the dark Romanesque haunted house from children’s nightmares. Onyx brick and stone cover every surface. Except for a few narrowly arched windows breaking up the brutal masonry surfaces, there isn’t much light coming from the foreboding structure. Even the glass only shows flickering candles burning within each. Turrets jut into the black sky, so high they almost puncture the clouds. I’m sure if we listen closely, we’ll hear the screams of his sex slaves from the dungeons. I shiver.
Max stops the car for a moment and peers up through the windshield, shaking his head. “This is exactly the type of place I’d picture him living in.” He pulls around to the front and parks. Stepping out, I pull my leather jacket tighter around me. Max walks around the Barracuda and shuffles me to the door with a hand placed protectively on my lower back, his action spreading warmth throughout my limbs. I wish he didn’t have such an effect on me.
Two large men in black suits approach us. The wind catches the jacket of one, flipping open to reveal two guns housed in holsters on either side of his belt. They are wearing small clear wires that reach into their ears.
“Stand still,” one commands. Max and I halt. The skinnier of the two, if you can even call him that, stands in front of me and the large man in front of Max. Each takes their time patting us down thoroughly. Max is eyeing the man touching my breasts, my thighs, and my ass.
“Alright. That’s enough,” he says, pulling the guy’s hands off my backside.
The man smirks at him, but steps back. The larger of the two holds his arm out to us, showing the way to the front door. We walk up the darkened wood steps carefully while they file behind us.
“They’re here,” the large man says in his earpiece.
Before one of us can use the bull head doorknocker, it opens, and a beautiful woman wearing a leather collar, girdle, wrist cuffs, and stilettos answers the door. She keeps her eyes cast down at the floor and the sight of her makes my stomach knot. Hopefully, Strauss doesn’t keep me here and force me to wear that, to perform who knows what kind of debased activities. Max stammers, but the woman uses her arm to wave us inside. The two stoic security guards wait at the door.
Black damask wallpaper covers the long entry hall. There are double doors every few feet and a dark wood staircase to our left. Lit candles in wall sconces light the low ceiling, which reflects the dancing flames ominously.
The butleress shuts the door behind us, then sways in front as we follow down the plush patterned red carpet. At the end of the hall is a full-size portrait of Vladimir Strauss standing in a regal posture in front of the cemetery located on his grounds. Like he’s pompously showcasing his work. We turn left and enter through a set of intricately carved wooden doors.
A two-story ceiling is the first thing I notice about the large space, then the massive stone fireplace along the back wall. Sounds from an eerie piano songfill the room, and I recognize the composer as Mussorgsky. Though I don’t see him, I know Vlad has prepared the piece for our arrival. After a few moments, the notes stop. The quietness seems more terrifying than the discordant chords playing before it.
“Ah, so glad you two could make it. Welcome to my humble home.” Vladimir Strauss strolls in from a far room where the grand piano sits in the middle of a rounded turret. His bleached white hair is slicked back, emphasizing the granite like features of his face. Lines of numerous tattoos are visible just above the V-neck of his tight black shirt with long sleeves. Leather patches cover his shoulders as well as his signature pants. He claps his hands twice and smiles. “Drinks?”
“No, thank you,” Max immediately says, and I touch his hand to remind him not to speak.