The Swan & the Jackal

by J. A. Redmerski

  Olaf guided me into another room adjacent to the main room where a boy, older than me and probably Willa’s age, was strapped to a strange-looking chair that allowed his legs to stretch out in front of him elevated evenly with the rest of his body. His blond head was strapped against a headrest by a thick piece of leather, like his torso and his ankles and his arms, which were laying out straight against the chair arms and bound at the wrists.

  The boy thrashed about in the chair, though he could hardly move. Blood spilled out over his chin, crimson and sticky. His hair was drenched in sweat. His eyes were wide and frightened.

  I wanted to throw up. I wanted to run out of that room as fast as I could, to hide in Willa’s room and hope to never be found but by her so that she could hold me against her breasts and comfort me.

  But I could do nothing.

  A man with curly gray hair, wearing a white lab coat stood over the boy with a pair of pliers in his hand, covered in blood. He didn’t even wear gloves. I got a dark feeling from that man, even worse than the one I got from Olaf. This man liked blood. The smell of it. The mesmerizing crimson color of it. The thickness of it. The taste of it. But most of all, I could sense that he loved drawing it, in any way possible. This man frightened me more than Olaf ever could.

  “Is this the little jackal?” the man asked.

  “Yes, this is Fredrik.”

  “Good, good,” the man said and caught my eyes with a spine-chilling smile.

  I didn’t want to look at him, and I wasn’t supposed to, but I couldn’t help it. Thankfully he didn’t feel any need to have me reprimanded for the mistake. No, this man was beyond beatings and punishment. His mind danced in Death’s realm too much to be bothered with such petty things.

  He turned back to the frightened teenaged boy strapped in the chair and inserted the pliers into his mouth. The boy grunted and tried to scream while attempting to bite down on the pliers at the same time. But the man grabbed his lower jaw with the other hand and forced his mouth open.

  My hands were shaking on my backside. Bile churned violently in my stomach. I started to look away until I remembered promptly that if Olaf noticed, he’d punish me.

  The pliers wrenched back and forth, side to side, and a bloodcurdling sound of bone crunching almost made me faint. My knees began to buckle again, but this time I wasn’t able to control them and I felt Olaf’s hand around my elbow, catching me before I hit the floor.

  I gathered my composure quickly and stood up straight, my breathing heavy and rapid, my hands trembling now down at my sides.

  The man jerked the tooth from the boy’s bleeding mouth and dropped it on the floor.

  And then he went to work on another one.

  By the fifth tooth, I could no longer stand up on my own.

  I can’t look at Cassia. My chest is heavy with the memory, a weight so oppressive and unforgiving that I’m still surprised every day of my life that it hasn’t killed me yet. I still have the nightmares. I still wake up in a feverish sweat, so tormented by the faces—those evil, those incapacitated—that I believe I’m living it all over again. And in my reality, it makes my need that much greater. It makes my addiction that much more dangerous. All-consuming.

  I will never stop. I can never stop.

  The past has shaped me, molded me into a monster. A monster with a persecuted heart and a dead soul.

  Chapter Nine

  Cassia

  I can’t speak, not because I don’t know what to say, but because I don’t know what to start with.

  My heart is breaking into a million pieces.

  Fredrik pushes my hands away carefully when I try to cup his face within my palms.

  “No pity,” he says. “Is that understood?”

  “How can you say that?” I gaze deeply into his eyes filled with absolutely nothing, mine filled with heartbreak. “Fredrik—”

  “No,” he says resolutely and rises to his feet, leaving me on the floor. “You have to understand, Cassia, it doesn’t hurt me to talk about it. I don’t cry myself to sleep at night thinking about my childhood. It does something else to me. It puts me in a much darker place.” His beautiful blue eyes peer down into mine with a chilling darkness. “I neither deserve nor want pity.”

  I stand from the floor, the chain around my ankle shuffling as I approach him.

  “Did that man ever put you in that chair?” I ask quietly from behind now that his back is to me. “Did he pull out your teeth?”

  Fredrik’s shoulders rise and fall with a heavy, silent breath.

  He turns around to face me, his tall height and gorgeous features as always make my heart flutter and my stomach harden when he looks at me like that, like he’s hungry for something. It’s the darkness within him, the part of him that takes over and compels him to control me, to ravage me in ways that, although I can’t remember, I know that no other man ever has.

  “No,” he answers. “It never came to that with me. But many of the other boys, they weren’t so fortunate.” He looks away, his bare arms defined by hard muscles crossed over his hairless chest. “Other things were done to me. I would’ve preferred the teeth pulling.”

  “What kinds of things?” My chest clenches uncomfortably just thinking about it. I step a little closer, being careful not to invade his space too quickly because I’m unsure of his mindset.

  “Why do you want to know, Cassia?” He turns around fully now so that he can face me. He appears suspicious. “What are you trying to pull?”

  Shaking my head repeatedly I say, “Is that what you believe? That I’m trying to manipulate you?” While I can understand why he’d have suspicions, it still troubles me to know that he even remotely believes that.

  I step right up to him and close that last bit of space between us, resentment in my eyes. “Is that what you truly believe, Fredrik? That I would use something as horrific as your past against you for my own benefit?”

  “If I were in your position,” he says cocking his head to one side, “it’s what I’d do.”

  Hurt by his admission, my eyes fall away from his.

  “Do you remember anything?” he asks, all too soon going back to the inevitable.

  And I don’t have the energy to fight it anymore.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t remember anything.”

  The chain is dragged noisily across the floor as I walk away from him and go back toward my corner.

  “Cassia,” Fredrik calls out softly, “please don’t sit on the floor. I’m asking you.”

  I do anyway.

  Curling up in the corner with my back pressed against the wall, I pull my knees covered by my long gown toward my chest and wrap my arms around them. And I stare out at nothing, defeat consuming me.

  “Why am I not enough?” I ask listlessly.

  I feel Fredrik’s eyes on me without having to look up at him.

  He says nothing.

  “Why do you love that woman so much?” I go on. “I may not know anything about her because you refuse to tell me, but I know in my heart that she must be evil. She’s done something terrible to you, something unforgivable, yet you still love her. I can tell.”

  “You aren’t seeing the whole picture, Cassia.”

  He walks over and stands above me. I still don’t look up at him. My gaze remains fixed out ahead, something white, probably the dresser, slowly blurring into focus.

  “And I’ll never see the whole picture if you won’t tell me.” I choke back my tears. I don’t want him to see me cry anymore. “But why am I not enough? Tell me why you love her, a woman who doesn’t seem to want to be found, yet…I’m here and you refuse me.”

  “I love no one,” he says and I know he’s lying. “And neither do you.”

  Stung by his accusation, I finally look up at him. But I can’t speak. I’m too hurt to speak. I wonder how any man can be so damaged that he doesn’t see love, real love, when it’s right in front of him.

  “I’ll ask you one more time,” he sa
ys. “Is there anything you want to tell me about what you remember?”

  “No,” I lie. “I remember nothing.” I glare up at him for a long tense moment, the tears finally seeping from my eyes, and then my gaze drops toward the floor and Fredrik leaves me sitting here as he makes his way toward the concrete steps.

  “Are you going to kill that man in there?” I ask without looking at him.

  He stops for a moment, but then proceeds up the stairs without another word.

  Chapter Ten

  Fredrik

  Today is the first day in a long time that I’ve left Cassia alone in Greta’s care and am relieved to be away from her. She is dangerous to me and I can’t let her get under my skin. I may be a devil in my own right, but I’m still human, and I feel remorse and compassion for Cassia, among other things, that are a recipe for pain and regret.

  Seraphina is my priority. She’s all that should matter to me because in the end—

  No, I can’t think about that right now. Not here.

  “Fredrik?” Izabel Seyfried says from her seat to my left. Her voice snaps me back into the moment. “Are you still alive in there?” She waves her hand in front of my face, grinning at me with bright green eyes framed by long, auburn hair that lays over both shoulders.

  Izabel has become quite an asset—and quite the killer—to our growing organization. She’s like a sister to me, a stubborn, feisty, blood-thirsty vengeance-seeker, but a sister, nonetheless. And I have no room to talk. She and I are more alike than I care to admit.

  I let out a heavy sigh and lay both arms against the elongated table. Between them are photos of two targets in Washington State. The same photos are on the table in front of Izabel, Niklas on the other side of the table directly across from her, Dorian across from me, and next to him, of all people who stink of permanent markers and cheese, James Woodard.

  It turns out that Woodard was telling the truth about Marion Callahan, the man he was selling false information to, which in turn almost got him killed.

  Victor sits at the head of the table where he always sits, between Izabel and Niklas. I’m of higher rank than Izabel and would normally sit to Victor’s left, but seeing as she’s the one sleeping with him and might cut me if I argue with her about it, I don’t mind so much the demotion in seating arrangements.

  The room is dimly lit with dark, dingy walls and a single exposed light bulb set in the high ceiling. There are no windows and the entire place reeks of mold and water damaged walls. It’s but one of dozens of bases scattered all over the United States that we use to conduct business and hold meetings just like this one.

  I crack a smile at Izabel, hoping to deter her from digging deeper into my head.

  “That’s a fake smile if I’ve never seen one,” she says, calling me out. “Seriously, what’s goin’ on with you?”

  “I just haven’t had much sleep the past few days.” I refrain from looking her in the eyes. If anyone at this table can detect a lie other than myself, it’s Izabel. She is, after all, a master of manipulation and deceit.

  “If you need to sit this mission out,” Victor speaks up, “you’re free to do so, and you’ll only be contacted if an interrogation is needed.”

  “No,” I say right away because I want to be as far away from Cassia as I can be. “I’m good to go. I’ll get some shuteye on the flight out.” I glance back down at the photos of a man and a woman taken outside of restaurants, convenience stores, and one of the man coming out of a daycare center, which is disturbing on so many levels. “Besides, I have a feeling that this woman, if we don’t get to the man before her, won’t give him up.”

  “What makes you think that?” Izabel asks simply with curiosity.

  I glance at the fair-haired woman in the photo standing outside a restaurant, carrying a fountain drink in one hand and a small purse in the other.

  “I don’t know exactly,” I say peering down at the target, “but she’s got that look. They’ll likely need me. She won’t be easy to break.”

  Woodard’s chair legs scrape annoyingly against the floor as he adjusts his seating position. All eyes shift to him. He smiles dopily across the table at me and reaches a hand up to push his glasses over the bridge of his nose with the tip of his pudgy finger.

  “I suppose you’ve been interrogating people long enough to see these kinds of things,” he says with admiration that makes me uncomfortable. “I really admire your work. I-I mean, not that I’m a sadistic freak with a hard-on for that kind of stuff, b-but I just mean how you’re able to break anyone.” His smile gets bigger, revealing his lightly-yellowed teeth. “It’s impressive.”

  Dorian, sitting next to him, tries to suppress a smile. Niklas, on the other side of Dorian, raises a brow and grins at me.

  “Sounds like someone does have a hard-on for you Gustavsson,” Niklas jests.

  “Damn, man,” Dorian says looking over at Woodard, “could you be more obvious?”

  “H-Hey, I’m just giving credit where credit is due,” Woodard tries to cover himself. “I’ve heard things about the Specialist for years.” He points at me now as if something jumped in his mind. “I’ve always wanted to ask you, why do they call you the Jackal?”

  My teeth crash together behind my closed lips.

  I turn to Victor.

  “Why is he here, exactly?” I ask.

  “You should probably shut the fuck up,” Dorian tells Woodard.

  “Y’know, that’s actually a good question, about what he’s doing here,” Izabel says to Victor. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea letting him see your face. We don’t even know him.”

  “And I don’t like him,” Niklas adds and Woodard appears quietly offended.

  I’ve noticed the entire time we’ve been in this meeting that Niklas’s hand often twitches over the pack of Marlboro reds on the table in front of him. I’m mildly surprised he hasn’t said, Fuck it, and lit one up already, but he has more respect for his brother and leader, Victor Faust. At least until the nicotine eventually wins out.

  Victor sits quietly and seemingly unperturbed by everyone talking around him, but when they realize they should let him speak, the table gets quiet and all eyes shift his way.

  “Woodard is here because I want him to see my face,” Victor announces. He steeples his hands in front of him. “Marion Callahan is unaware that we’re onto him. I’ll be using Woodard to feed Callahan information that I want him to have. But it’s nothing any of you should concern yourself with. Seattle is your priority. I’ll handle this situation with Callahan while you’re gone.”

  Izabel’s auburn head snaps around.

  “I don’t like that, Victor,” she says demandingly. “Sending all of us away while you—”

  “I’ve been doing this longer than anyone in this room,” Victor cuts in, retaining his unruffled composure. “No disrespect, Izabel, but I’m very capable of taking care of myself.”

  Izabel’s nose crinkles on one side. I pretend not to have noticed. Obviously, Victor isn’t pleased with her ‘lover’s worries’ being thrown on the table like that for all of us to see. Victor is all business when business is being conducted. Izabel, although she knows this, still hasn’t quite grasped it yet. She may never.

  Relationships are quite fucking ridiculous.

  “Hey, I’m trustworthy,” Woodard speaks out offensively. “Don’t be so quick to—” A scraping noise pierces the air as Woodard nearly falls out of his chair when Izabel leans across the table in her tight black pants and buries the tip of her knife in the wood in front of him. His dark, beady eyes grow wide in the sockets and his double-chin rears back.

  “Nobody asked you,” Izabel growls. She pulls the knife from the table and slowly slides back into her seat.

  Woodard, as stiff as a statue, moves only his eyes to look at Victor.

  Victor shrugs. “Don’t look at me,” he says nonchalantly. “If she wants to kill you, I won’t stop her. So, perhaps you should mind your tongue.”

&nbs
p; Woodard slinks against the back of his seat and drops his short arms from the table placing his hands in his lap.

  Dorian and Niklas can’t stop grinning. I just shake my head.

  “As I was saying,” Victor goes on, “I’ll be dealing with Callahan on my own. If he’s an order leader, I’ll be the one taking him out. This will be Woodard’s chance to prove to me that he’s an asset to us. And if he doesn’t, I’ll kill him myself.”

  Woodard’s throat moves nervously as he swallows.

  I take the opportunity to further the discussion on our mission, sliding the photo of the man coming out of the daycare center, into the center of the table.

  I tap it with my finger. “The guy allegedly molested a five-year-old girl,” I point out. “What’s he doing anywhere near a daycare center, much less leaving one?”

  “He wasn’t convicted of the crime,” Victor says. His steepled hands fall away from the table as he rests his back comfortably in the chair. “Guilt could not be proven.”

  “Lemme guess,” Dorian says, leaning forward and folding his hands together on the table, “parents of the five-year-old girl are the clients. Fuck yeah. I like their style. Nothing I wouldn’t do if some greasy motherfucker touched my daughter.” He pauses and then adds, “Well, actually I’d kill the piece of shit myself.”

  Niklas pulls a cigarette from the pack and slides it between his lips, but doesn’t light it. He leans back in his chair, interlocking his hands together behind his head. “What about the woman?” he asks.