Page 2 of Wrath
“Yes, sir.”
“But, darling? Never forget our priority.”
His darling bowed. “To complete the puzzle.”
One
After six monthson the road, Wyatt Lazarus had returned, circling Cardinal City like a hungry shark.
He hated himself for it.
No matter how much distance he’d put between him and his family, he was right back where he started—somewhere between fucked and a place called the Pierogi Palace, about forty clicks from the city where the air smelled like burned oil and garlic.
He polished off a questionable burrito from the Mexican joint across the way while straddling his motorcycle, admiring the tank’s glossy shine under his torn jeans and army-grade boots. The black and chromed out vintage ’79 Ducati was low slung, sleek and powerful for her age. A badass cruiser that gave him more love than he’d received in years. She outran the cops in Cooperville and helped him evade a disgruntled bar owner in Vegas. After that last one, he’d decided to give her a name: Betty. No reason. He just liked the name.
A few towns back, he’d rescued Betty from some dirtbag owner who’d been wailing on a skinny-assed woman in the bar’s bathroom. The fucker wasn’t even sorry he’d broken two of her ribs—as if Wyatt would leave Betty in his incapable hands. Since that dirtbag was… well, fuck. He couldn’t remember what happened to him. He’d blacked out. Whatever. Point was, Betty was his now.
Wyatt pulled a hip flask from his back pocket, giving it a shake for measurement’s sake. Almost empty. Just like his wallet. As he took a burning swig of whiskey dregs, he eyed a commotion brewing at the Polish place. It was a small restaurant. Glass door. Red and white flag in the window. Potted flowers around two empty sidewalk dining tables, each with a little vase holding a poppy. The “Help Wanted” sign in the window looked like a five-year-old drew it, or he supposed, someone who spoke English as a second language. Someone like the stocky gray-haired man getting pushed around by two men in business shirts and long black coats. Two young men against a fifty, maybe sixty, year-old—not exactly fair.
After being shoved, the old man crashed into one of the tables, upending it. Wyatt sent his sin-sense roaming to test for deadly levels of wrath, but found none. He checked the Yin-Yang symbol on his inner wrist. The ancient symbol had been tattooed using a special bio-indicator ink, meaning the more wrath in his system, the blacker the tattoo looked. Today, it was almost black.
Wyatt darted a glance to the Polish restaurant and dismissed the idea of intervening. Any attempt to help would involve his fists, and inevitably wrath. With his blackouts getting more prolonged, and the bodies left in his wake, he couldn’t afford attention. Sorry Polish dude. Not wrath,not my problem.He put away his hip flask and donned his black helmet, snapping the visor down. He didn’t know where he was going at five in the afternoon, but stepped on the kick-starter all the same. It clicked, but no engine fired.
Wyatt exhaled slowly and rubbed Betty’s tank.
C’mon, baby. Fire up for me.
He stomped again. Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
She normally purred like a kitten in his hands, but today…Shit.
He pulled his helmet off. He’d have to find somewhere to lie low for a few days until he figured out what was wrong with her, but he knew next to nothing about bike repair. Never needed it with the newer model the family had supplied.
The small amount of tinkering he’d done over the past few months had kept her running, barely. But he was more like a blind man in a china shop where Betty was concerned. It was time to give her a proper service, except… he had no money. No transport. No place to stay.
Only a few minutes away in the city, his family would jump at the chance to rescue him from his self-imposed banishment. But the thought of looking his brother Evan in the face, after what Wyatt had done, still made him sick. Admitting he’d been wrong made him feel worse.
The shouts from the Polish restaurant grew louder, and the sense of wrath tickled Wyatt’s skin but, fuck it, he didn’t want this. Never asked for it. The only thing his sixth sense had been good for lately was giving him an avenue to let his demons out. When all he’d wanted to do lately was rage and scream, he didn’t feel so guilty afterwards knowing the people he’d put in the hospital were the worst kind.
Someone had to pay.
It wouldn’t be his two brothers with their perfect fucking relationships.
It wouldn’t be the Syndicate. They were just as invisible as they’d always been, and Sara was dead in the ground.
And it wouldn’t be the rest of his righteous family.
It sure as hell wasn’t going to be him. Not after the raw hand he’d been dealt. Nah. Fuck that shit.
The sense of wrath stabbed him like a knife in the gut. He doubled over, clutching Betty’s handlebars. Damn, if it didn’t feel like a hit of heroin; he was already high on the sick sensation—on the promise the pain made.Release.Punish. Hurt.The agony was welcome. It made him feel something other than hate, something other than self-loathing, somethingmore. It meant someone out there was a bigger bastard than him.
The thugs hadn’t noticed Wyatt sitting there. Too engrossed with their prey… or, more likely, they assumed they were kings of the little town and didn’t expect to be challenged by a newcomer on an old motorcycle. A quick glance around the cultural food center’s lot showed most restaurant owners and patrons had shut themselves inside the protection of their establishments, as though they were used to this sight.
Wrath wriggled its fingers in his gut and eased its way into his chest, tightening, coiling, ready to release.Release.Punish. Hurt.
