Lucius, p.1
Lucius, page 1
Lucius
An Acquisition Novel
Celia Aaron
Lucius
Copyright © 2021
Celia Aaron
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book only. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron. Please do not participate in piracy of books or other creative works.
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover: Mitchell Wick by LaneFotograf
Design: PerfectPear
Contents
Lucius
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Also by Celia Aaron
About the Author
Lucius
Lucius Vinemont ruined my life.
It was a long time ago. It feels like yesterday.
I haven’t let it go, and I won’t. Not until he’s dead. Lucius is the bogeyman, the shadow under my bed, the nightmare that wakes me in my sleep.
I loved him once, in the foolish way of a teenage girl. Those feelings are buried deep, soaked in blood and covered in a fine ash. Because Lucius was never just a bad boy, he was so, so much worse.
When you shoot a man through the heart, he’s supposed to die. But Lucius isn’t a man. He’s a monster. One who promises pleasures wrapped in pain.
But the closer I get to him, the more I realize he’s not the only evil lurking in my past. . .
1
Lucius
A ghost flits through the forest at the southeastern edge of my property, the trees hiding its movements. But I can sense it even if I can’t see it. It’s been haunting me for weeks.
I sip my bourbon and kick my feet up on the second-floor balcony railing as a muggy nighttime breeze stirs and eddies around my home. Out there in the dark, someone is playing a game with me. One that will most likely end up with one of us dead. I flex my free hand, the knuckles scarred from a life of solving the “him or me” equation that has defined human existence since Cain and Abel. Unfortunately for the ghost, I always win, no matter the cost. This intruder will go down like the rest, but I’ll wait for him to make his move. For now, it’s enough to know he’s out there as I lean back in my chair and breathe in the humid night.
The house’s square edges and neat lines jut out into the well-trimmed lawn, imposing its presence—my presence—on this piece of land. So different from what it once was. Gone is the gaudy French palace that once metastasized onto the dark Louisiana dirt. The overbearing estate and its master were both turned to ash five years before. But the Oakmont property has a special place in my past, so much so that I bought it and built my modern mansion on top of the former home’s ruins. And if some of the victims’ ashes are crushed beneath my feet with each step along my floors? All the better.
I take a bigger swallow of the bourbon, the burn nonexistent in this near-priceless bottle. Only the best for a Vinemont. I would laugh at the thought, but I’m too focused on the woods, the moonlight filtering through the leaves, the darkness holding sway, oozing around and between, coating the spaces where I can feel the ghost watching and waiting.
Enemies are nothing new. Not for a man like me. But I admit this one is different. Patient. Not coming for my blood in the sloppy, haphazard way that so many others have. This ghost is wary.
I raise my glass and tilt it a little. “To you, ghost.” The liquor slides down easy, and I stand and return inside, the glass door sliding shut behind me with a near-silent thunk.
Heading down to the first floor, I bypass my main living area and delve even farther, descending the staircase into my damp basement. A small puddle glimmers, my reflection inky as I pass and make my way to the very back, the deepest and dankest spot in this part of Louisiana.
“How are we doing?” I pull a sparse chain on a bare bulb, the light immediate and bright.
A man squints at me, one eye swimming with blood and the other laboring beneath a black and swollen lid. “Let me out.” His voice is quiet, hoarse from useless screaming.
“Not until you tell me what I want to know.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I can wait, but I’m getting tired of coming to check on you. I have a business to run and shit to do.”
“Fuck you.” He strains against the barbed wire I’ve wrapped around him, but he isn’t going anywhere. “My people will come for me. You can’t keep me here without someone finding out. I’m a goddamn judge, for Chrissakes!”
“It’s been three days, Leonard. Three days of you screaming and pissing yourself. No one has even sniffed around about you. Were you reported missing? Sure. Will anyone connect it to me? Not a fucking chance.” I run a hand through my hair, a simple movement intended to calm the rage burning through my veins as I remember his sins. “You made a big mistake going after my nephew. The guys you sent died screaming. But first they squealed just like you’re going to squeal.”
The papery skin on his forehead wrinkles, and he clenches his useless fists. “Someone will know. They’re probably out there right now, waiting to storm this place. And once I’m free, they’ll kill your filthy family—your brat nephew and nieces, their bitch of a mother, and your brothers. The Vinemonts will suffer for what they’ve done, the decent people they’ve murdered, the ruin they—”
“You tried to kill a child, Leonard.” My calm voice belies the raging volcano inside me. “A six-year-old.”
“A Vinemont,” he spits.
“That was your mistake. Now, tell me who’s behind it. I know you didn’t come up with it on your own. That addled brain of yours isn’t capable of any sort of real plan.”
He stares up at me, malevolence in his battered eyes.
I’ve never been a patient man, and Leonard isn’t doing a thing to change that. I want to twist his neck and hear it break, but I need to wait. And he’s right—someone is out there watching me, but I have a gut feeling they aren’t interested in this particular shitbag. Otherwise, the ghost would’ve materialized by now. No, the patient specter doesn’t care for Leonard, likely doesn’t even know he’s here.
I try a new tack, one that’s never worked for me before. “Give me names, and I’ll let you off with a warning. I’m a reasonable man.”
“I know what kind of man you are, Lucius.” He spits a bloody wad of snot onto the wet floor, sending ripples through the swamp water.
That’s too bad, because if he’s telling the truth—if he has any real inkling of what I’m capable of—he knows he’s never leaving this basement alive, no matter what. I guess the “good cop” routine is never going to work for me. I sigh and walk to the cinderblocks across from him where a gray panel is set into the wall.
“What’s that?” An edge of worry creeps into his words.
“Power control.”
“For what?”
I open the small gray breaker panel. “Sump pump.” Glancing at him over my shoulder, I flip the switch. A low, almost inaudible hum dies off, leaving us both in total silence.
His gaze lowers to the concrete floor, the cracks already wet with the boggy water that’s impossible to keep out even during a drought. The bayou is never far away, not even here on my thickly-treed property. In a few hours, the water will cover the entire floor by at least an inch.
I press my boot to the seat of his chair and kick. He falls backward with a clang, and his scream is just as high and sharp as usual. I suppose the barbed wire digging into him plus having his hands crushed beneath him is more than a little uncomfortable.
I shrug and stare down at him as his cries die off. “It’s funny. When I had this house built, my architect told me there was no way I could have a basement in this part of Louisiana. Too much water in the ground. He said the water table is so close to the surface that this space would fill in no time, especially if there isn’t a heavy-duty pump to keep it dry.” I grin and tap my foot into the puddle beside me. “But here we are in my very own basement, so joke’s on him, am I right?”
His ruined eyes widen, understanding finally hitting him in his gut. “Lucius, you can’t leave me here like this. The water—”
“I’ll be back in the morning.” I head to the stairs, not even bothering to look at him. “I expect you to talk if you haven’t drowned by then. And if you have—” I shrug. “Keep hell warm for me.”
2
Evelyn
Lucius stalks around his home like some sort of aggressive beast, never staying in any one room too long. I watch him stride through the living room, his phone at his ear, anger telegraphing through each of his steps. Out here in this solitary stretch of land, he doesn’t even bother hanging curtains or blinds. The steel and glass monstrosity of his ultra-modern home jut and shine, and he prowls through the entirety of it like a tiger in a zoo enclosure … If the zoo invested in bullet-proof glass, anyway.
I lean against a moss-strewn oak and resist the urge to unzip my jacket and let the humid air circulate through. Darkness is my friend, and the lighter shirt beneath my black jacket wouldn’t be a prudent look. Even though his house is lit, and he’s not looking my way, I have the creeping sensation that he knows I’m out here. That’s ridiculous, of course. I’ve covered my tracks again and again. No one knows where I am. Besides, there’s no one left who would care.
He ends his call, then turns toward me, his gaze on the patch of woods where I watch and wait. He’s too far away for me to see what he’s looking at precisely, but it’s a hard enough stare that I shrink behind the tree a little more. He watches for agonizing seconds, each moment lasting longer and longer as I foolishly hold my breath. He can’t see me, can’t hear me, I remind myself.
I slide my hand into my pocket, the cold gunmetal reassuring me that it doesn’t matter what Lucius does, his end is coming soon. I’ve waited a long time for this, and if I need to wait a little longer to find an opening? So be it. I’ll be ready. And I won’t miss.
Skulking around his house in the dark is just part of my reconnaissance. There’s plenty more for me to do before I can deal my death blow. The machinery is already in motion, and I want to twist all the screws, to make him bleed, to cut him into a thousand slices of agony. And when I’m done? I’ll fade away into the night and start fresh somewhere else. Once he’s dead, I’ll be rid of the nightmares that wake me screaming. No more memories, no more regrets. Justice will be done, and I’ll be the one to watch his eyes fog over, to witness the moment his particular form of malignancy dies.
An icy trickle of worry slides down my spine. I snap out of my bloodlust and return my gaze to the window.
Fuck.
He’s gone.
3
Lucius
I weave through the trees at the edge of my lawn, my pistol up and ready. That feeling of being watched grew a little too heavy—or perhaps I needed a little energy release after that phone call with my brother Sin—so I decided to try and get the drop on my ghost.
If Sin had only listened to me when I said I didn’t want to take our company public, we wouldn’t be in this one of our many messes. But now we’ve got sharks circling us, trying to take down the sugar empire our mother built. I let out a deep breath and focus on the here and now. My tension falls away as I skirt the lawn in the dark. The ghost is here, a spectral form that teases the edge of my senses.
I should’ve let it go, drank myself into a stupor, gone to bed. Instead, I came ghost-hunting. Tension relief. Besides, it’ll be fun to have another captive in my basement. Give soggy Leonard some company.
Keeping my steps as silent as possible, I circle around to the spot where I suspect the ghost is waiting. The moon gives just enough light for me to follow a slight trail toward an old oak. Bent grass and the edge of a shoeprint sit in a boggy spot next to the roots. Someone’s been here, but they’re gone now.
I lower my weapon but keep it handy as I scour the area for any clues. Nothing remains, except the scant evidence on the ground. It’s too dark to follow the trail deeper into the trees, but I suspect he’s parking a car on the dirt road that cuts through the property just to the south of mine, then walking here.
I take a deep breath to smooth away my frustration. Why can’t I be patient like old Casper? If he saw me coming, he won’t be back to this spot. I’ve spooked the ghost. Shit.
Resting against the oak tree with the trampled ground, I peer at my house. From here, he can see everything. Not that I care. If someone wants to come for me, they know where to find me. It’s not hard. I relish a fight, and confrontation has always looked good on me. But I’m not stupid. The house has enough security to please any paranoia enthusiast. Even so, I still run to a fight. Here I am, in the woods like a rash fool. I turn to leave.
A twig breaking catches my attention, and without thinking, I dart deeper into the woods, running toward my ghost with my gun at the ready. Footsteps sound ahead. He’s running. I grin, because I know these woods better than anyone, and I can find him even in the dark. I follow the footfalls, racing to catch up, but then they stop.
I stop, too. He’s gone to ground—hiding behind a tree or hunkering under a thorny thicket. I’m breathing hard, but I’m not winded. I swallow the cool air and scan through the leafy saplings and climbing brambles.
“I know you’re here.” I rest my hand on a tree trunk. “And I’ll get you soon enough.”
“Not if I get you first.” A woman’s voice that’s far too close behind me.
I whirl to find the ghost, her gun aimed at my heart. A black ski mask covers her face, but there’s no doubt in my mind she’s all woman based on the way her dark jacket and jeans hug her curves. Don’t they say that people in life-or-death situations always stare at the gun? Right at the barrel? Not me, apparently. I stare at the woman holding it.
“Drop your gun.” She squares her stance as if she’s at a shooting range.
“You first.” I smile but don’t raise my weapon. I’m curious to see how this goes. A little danger can be the best aphrodisiac.
“I’m not kidding, asshole.” Her accent is local. She’s from here, or at least nearby.
“Okay.” I take a step toward her.
She doesn’t move. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Why not?”
“Because if you come any closer, I’ll drop you. I didn’t want to kill you tonight. Not yet. But you had to go and get nosy.”
“Sounds like you’re going to have to shoot me no matter what.”
Her eyes narrow, though I can’t tell their color in the shadows of her mask. “You want me to kill you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You have no idea how many have tried to take me out. Each one has failed. Though I admit, you’re the first woman.” I try to glimpse her hair, but she has it tied up beneath the mask. “I should’ve known anyone as patient as you had to be a woman. I only wish I’d seen you sooner.” My gaze travels down her body once again. Damn, even in black, in the dark—she’s stacked. “Just look at you.”
“Are you … flirting?” Her finger caresses the trigger.
“Just stating facts.” I can feel the blood thrumming through my veins. This little taste of danger hits me in all the right places, and I wonder what my would-be assassin looks like under the mask. “Let’s drop this whole murderer routine and head back to my house, darlin’.” I give her my most disarming smile. “We can talk about whatever beef you have over some cocktails, and then I’ll show you why killing me would be a great disservice to the women of the world.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be hard to pull the trigger, but you’re making it so much easier for me.”
“So you’re a hardened killer?” I take another step toward her. “I’m not your first?”
“Stop.”
“Because I think you’ve never killed anyone.” I take another step.
