Rainfall

“You have to stop.”

Clayton’s head pounded, filled with an intense ringing that made it nearly impossible to focus on the man before him. 

Outside, a heavy downpour watered the streets of Sturgis, thundering upon the warehouse roof above him. Enough to create a soundproof barrier so that any unlucky bastard wandering outside would be none the wiser. And there Clayton was – thirsty, starved, and sitting in a wooden chair, wrists wounded by a thick rope restraining them behind his back.

“Stop stalling. Stop crying out for help. Stop bullshitting me.” Fingers fisted themselves into his bloodied hair, a sharp yank forcing his head back so he stared at the ceiling with blurred vision. “You’ll tell me, Clayton. Where did you put it?”

“No . . .” he strained the words out of cracking lips, followed by a dried-out cough, throat aching in thirst. “No idea—” The fingers in his hair left, and he was disrupted by a swift fist to the gut. Clayton threw his head forward from the impact, coughing and sputtering, raw pain rattling throughout his core.

The fifty-something-year-old before him, Jasper Thorburne, stood straight with a click of his tongue, watching the restrained man gasp for air. “Let’s go over this one more time.” Clayton watched, in misery, the shadowed silhouette of boots trail the cement floor, circle around him until they were out of sight. “I gave you one job: Buy the damn locket with the cash I gave you, bring it to me, and you get your money’s worth. Does that sound about right?”

Clayton went to speak with his already hoarse voice, but a heavy hand clamping itself on his shoulder from behind shut him up. “And I asked you politely - with a nice little ‘please’ and a cherry on top,” Jasper said into his ear, tone dripping in bitter, sarcastic venom. “Yet somehow, a Drakeblood couldn’t deliver.”

The hand taunted his shoulder with a squeeze before it pulled away, and Jasper entered Clayton’s line of sight again. The high-ranking man glared amber daggers at him. “Now here we are; You without money, and me considering spending the last of mine on getting you cremated.”

“I didn’t mean to lose it, Jasp—”

“I don’t care if you meant to win me the fucking lottery with it. That’s not what I asked for. Was it?”

“You—”

“I asked for a goddamn silver necklace on my desk by the time the sun set.” Jasper lifted a hand, pointing a scarred, calloused finger to the window. It was dark and gloomy beyond the dirtied glass, the outside made unclear by the pouring rain that blurred it. Even with the mask of storm clouds and rainfall, however, the darkness of night pooled through. “But it’s way past sunset, isn’t it?”

Francesca’s Locket. That’s what Clayton was sent to get. A priceless relic belonging to one of the few nobles left in Sturgis. It was beauty, not unlike the dame who wore it. When she passed in only her youth, the thing became encased in a glass box and worshipped, worth more than any other thing or person in the city. The leader of the Drakebloods, Jasper Thorburne, needed it; that’s what he said when he entrusted Clayton to buy it from their smuggler. The mission given to him that he failed – almost too smoothly. It was a blur, really. A split-second stumble that even he didn’t see coming. But now he was paying the price for showing up empty-handed. 

Jasper was momentarily silent as if giving Clayton a chance to speak, but cut him off the second he parted his chapped lips. “I contacted our seller,” he said, lowering his voice, but the hostility stayed. “Gavin said he sold it to a man. With short, golden brown hair, narrowed green eyes, and a denim jacket” At that, Clayton felt Jasper clutch the collar of his jacket, pull him forward as much as he could with Clayton’s wrists bound behind the chair. “If you’re gonna fuck with me, Clayton, you might wanna change your clothes.”

Clayton knew about Jasper’s cruelty far before taking the job – he was infamous in the brotherhood - the Drakebloods. However, they were meant to be brothers, meant to work together instead of beating each other into nothing. One mistake shouldn’t have led to this. One mistake over a piece of jewelry. 

“I did buy it,” Clayton closed his eyes, unable to meet Jasper’s burning gaze as he let out a shaky exhale, as if hesitant to breathe in front of the man. “I just– must’ve dropped it. I–”

“You don’t–” The legs of the chair rattled against the concrete floor as Clayton was pushed back, a loud grunt leaving him. “Drop Francesca’s Locket. You aren’t that stupid.” Even in Jasper’s anger, the name Francesca came out carefully, as if a fragile thing he feared he’d drop and let shatter. Jasper’s hard boot then came down, slamming into Clayton’s sneaker and dragging a cry past his lips. Pain scorched through his foot, and he was sure a nail had been smashed in. “Where is it?!”

“I don’t know, Jasper!” Was all he could force out, the pain all too apparent in his simpering voice.

“I shouldn’t have put so much trust in you.” Jasper crossed his arms and turned, walking away from the battered man. He faced the large, metal doors of the warehouse, Clayton’s only exit blocked off. Despite being just the two of them, Clayton was aware of the presence outside, two men stationed to ensure no one came in or out. Probably more. 

In the brief silence Jasper had granted him, Clayton listened to the heavy pour of rain above, pelting the glass of the few windows in the room. He looked up at the single light hanging from the ceiling, illuminating the spot where he sat, like a proper interrogation. He swallowed, his throat dry, and bit the bullet as he directed his gaze back at Jasper. It was time for him to ask the big, bad Jasper some questions.

“Is the locket for Sydney?” Jasper paused, crossed arms slowly falling and hanging at his sides.

“Hm?” He didn’t look at Clayton, his face therefore unreadable. “Say that again.”

“Your daughter–”

A loud crack echoed through the basement, and it didn’t take long for a thick, warm liquid to gush out of Clayton’s mouth. His head careened to the side, cheek stinging and swelling. “You keep her out of your filthy mouth.” Clayton’s gamble was foolish, ending only in Jasper up close again, eyes burning with fury. 

“I– I know,” Clayton stammered, the raw wave of pain flooding his sense, blurring his vision. “What it’s like – having someone you care about.”

“Is that so?”

“My niece. Little Aveline.”

Jasper only scoffed, arms crossing over his chest once more.

“I made some mistakes. Now my sister doesn’t speak to me anymore. I don’t get the relationship you have anymore. But I understand.”

The older man’s face didn’t fall from its stone-cold exterior. “Then you will tell me where Francesca’s Locket is.”

Clayton grit his teeth. “Does she know?” he asked, staring at his captor with watered-green eyes.

“Know what?”

“About this? What you’re doing?” Jasper’s stance noticeably faltered. “That tattoo on your chest?”

Clayton didn’t need to see it to know about it. The ink marking illustrated on Jasper’s skin – on his own skin beneath his shirt – the one each person receives when recruited into the Drakebloods. A dragon surrounded in flames, resolute and proud - a harsh contrast to the broken shells of both Jasper and Clayton in that warehouse.

“That’s none of your business,” Jasper finally said after a few seconds of hesitation, and Clayton slowly pushed himself to sit up straight, meeting the amber eyes of the faltered man.

“All you’re doing,” he said, face heated in pain and heavy irritation. “Smuggling, beating a man, just to get a piece of jewelry for a girl who won’t even treat it right.”

“You shut it.”

“Did you make a promise to her, Jasper?” Clayton wheezed out a laugh, despite the grating soreness in his throat. “Francesca’s Locket could be all hers?”

Jasper glared at Clayton. He refused to answer, refused to give in to his incessant taunting. More than anything, he refused to acknowledge how right the man was. Francesca’s Locket, a silver necklace embedded with diamonds. He thought of little Sydney’s eyes, shining when she saw it - heard Mommy’s name. Francesca. To think, a high reigning noble could share the name of your own blood – your mother. Even an inkling of fantasy, of that sort of privilege and luxury, would be enough to make a little girl's heart burst. A little girl imprisoned in an otherwise ravaged, impoverished, and worthless life. 

And that was why he bore the tattoo. Why he beat a man near to death. Why he needed Francesca’s locket so severely. So he could turn his life around from the ravaged, impoverished, and worthless thing it was. For himself, for his late wife, and for Sydney. In Sturgis, that dragon tattoo was all the pride and strength one could have. Yes, Jasper made a promise. And yes, so much relied on that and the symbol he could then give to his daughter.

“You wouldn’t understand, Clayton.” That was all he said after a moment.

“I told you I do.”

“You could never understand.” Before Clayton could say or do anything else, he watched the glint of light on metal, the swift reveal of a pocket knife before it was pressed to his throat. “Now,” Jasper snarled into his ear, pushing the blade against bruised skin, to the point it pinched and nearly drew blood. “You can tell me where the hell you put it, else I’ll slit your throat like a pig.”

“Jasper, please,” Clayton begged, breath hitching in his throat as the knife broke skin. A quick nip, but it proved Jasper’s intent true.

“Tell me!” 

A loud clatter interrupted them. The man with his life in his hand paused and quickly stood up. “What the hell was that?”

Jasper clenched the pocket knife tight, whipping his head around. He went silent, eyes locked on the metal doors behind him. There was shifting, muffled shouting, and then there was silence. 

Then a loud bang.

Jasper’s heart skipped a beat as he took a quick step back. “What the fu–”

Clayton flinched a little when the doors flung open, another bang sounding, and then a bloodcurdling scream. He kept his eyes open despite his desire to squeeze them shut, watching as blood splattered from Jasper’s leg, as he collapsed to his knees and cried out into the grimness of the warehouse. His pocket knife clattered against the cement.

Standing in the doorway were three figures; one slumped over, dead on the floor, while the other two stepped in. Clayton only recognized one of them, with long, dark, matted hair tied into a tangled bun and a pale face hidden by a scraggly beard. The other must’ve been one of Jasper’s men stationed outside the door. That was his only guess.

Either way, he let out a slow breath. “Took your damn time, Gavin.” 

He didn’t bother glancing at Jasper to see the man’s face, only watching his body writhe in the corner of his eyes as Gavin stepped over him towards Clayton. 

“Sorry,” His ally said, circling around him and roughly undoing the rope knot. “Truck wouldn’t start.”

Clayton pulled his arms forward, rubbing his red and raw wrists as he leaned over on the chair. “Ah . . .” He raised a hand, gently pressing his fingers to his face, where a tender bruise had developed and accompanied the others along his body. He flexed his toes in his shoe and, sure enough, garnered a sharp pain from it. “You really gave it to me, eh, Jasper?”

Finally, he pushed himself up, leaning all his weight on the non-damaged foot, before looking down at Jasper with a hole in his leg. His eyes were wide when he met Clayton’s gaze, evident shock and disbelief written on his face. With that, Clayton only chuckled softly. “What? Cat got your tongue, old man?” Before Jasper could utter a word, he stepped forward and slammed his forefoot against the Drakeblood leader’s face. He earned a groan and the sickening squelch of blood gushing from the nose. Then, he glanced at the pocket knife still lying on the floor, kicking it aside with ease.“Where is it, Gavin?”

“‘Ere you go.” Clayton kept his eyes on Jasper, watching the blood drain from his wrinkled face as the chill of silver fell into his hand. He held Francesca’s Locket and its intricate pattern of diamonds glimmered in the light hanging above them. Jasper watched it as if he were being hypnotized, eyes trailing every soft sway of it as it dangled in Clayton’s hand.

“This little thing isn’t so special,” He scoffed, the slight scrunching of his nose causing a burn in his face. “Fuck. You really pissed me off, Jasper.”

“Why?” It was all the old man could muster, words strained with what was probably sheer pain from the bullet wound below his knee. Blood flowed from it and coated the concrete.

“I took that job 'cause I was sick of your shit.” Clayton turned, shoving the necklace into his jacket pocket. “You’re a cruel man, Jasper. Desperate for riches. Willing to beat your own men when they can’t get you what they want. You abuse the brotherhood for your own benefit.”  

“It was for my daughter.”

“You lost the moment your daughter became more important than your brothers.” Clayton glowered down at him. “You knew what you were getting into when you got that marking. You knew. Everyone knew.”

He watched the man agonize below him, his body stiff in fear and constant blood loss. “But–” Jasper sputtered out, and Clayton raised a brow. “Gavin . . .” His eyes trailed to the scraggly man who shot him, then the man by the doorway, who was supposed to be his protection. “Traitors . . .”

Clayton merely clicked his tongue, leaning over to meet Jasper’s gaze. When he did, he felt a helpless smirk crawl onto his face. “If you’re gonna fuck with me, Jasper,” He stared down the man, watching him tremble in his own pool of blood. “Might wanna make sure the men like you.” Gavin stepped forward and held a pistol out to Clayton, who took it instantly. “I’m not the only one you’ve done this to."

Jasper could only stare at them, feeling the pounding heart in his chest, the heavy throbbing of pain running throughout his body from the wound in his leg. It pulsed as if letting out cries of its own, desperate for help. 

“What’s next?” Gavin asked, his voice distant in Jasper’s fading hearing.

“Two-ten Georgia Street, Apartment forty-five,” Clayton reveled in the panic that filled Jasper’s wide, amber eyes, staring down at them with his own unforgiving, green gaze. “Time to pay little Sydney a visit. Give her the bad news about her father.”

“Clayton–”

A bang echoed through the warehouse, and silence soon followed. Nothing but heavy rainfall in the city of Sturgis.