by Mason, V. F.
“Hey, you,” I address her, snapping my fingers, and her eyes meet mine. “Get up and help me with the kids.” I intentionally use a harsh tone so she will snap out of whatever the fuck trance she’s in.
She jumps up, wiping her tears, and bumps into another maid, who runs to the doorway, crying out, “They’re here.” The woman barely gives her a glance, her attention on me.
Okay, if Liam hasn’t changed anything, then my plan should work. “There is a back door at the far end of the hallway—” She nods. “—which leads outside to the parking lot. The keys should be lying right by the door. They have vans there.” She nods again, and I sigh in relief, because it might be easy to escape from here. “Take the kids to any van now, and I’ll be here covering your backs. Drive to the nearest police station. No matter what, do not stop.” At this point, I can’t wait for the guys to show and handle this mess. The children need to be as far away from here as possible so no one will put their dirty hands on them.
Placing the little girl on the floor, who oddly has stopped struggling, I motion for her to take the girl’s hand and usher them. “Now.” They take off while I supervise the rest of the kids, checking if everyone got out.
Once they all run into the hallway, I stand like a shield, moving backward while firing my gun at the guards who come at me with weapons. Most of them don’t even know me, because Liam didn’t have a chance to introduce us, so they treat me like an intruder.
Where is Liam anyway? Even during our childhood, he was a light sleeper, so how come he’s not here crying like a bitch because his empire is crashing?
I’m out of bullets fast, so I throw the gun away and face one guard, kicking the gun out of his hand before hitting him with my head. He stumbles back as I dive to the ground for his gun and shoot him in the heart.
The path is clear and we get outside, where I see the woman already has the kids inside the van, only the little girl is in the middle, running to her, and I frown.
Wasn’t she the first to go out with her?
Her scream of fear echoes in the night though when a man grabs her, picking her up and pressing a silver blade, glistening in the night, to her throat. His gaze on me is full of hatred.
Liam.
“Drop the gun,” he commands, and since he has the blade right over her artery, I do as he says, keeping my eyes trained on him and paying attention to every small detail to find a weak spot on him.
The woman hops in the car, the tires screeching, and drives off before anyone can say anything—not that I blame her.
She is doing exactly what I told her, even though sacrificing one kid might seem cruel.
Liam pays no attention to that though; he probably couldn’t care less about it since he can always find new products just like his fucking daddy. “You betrayed me,” he seethes, shaking the girl in his arms who bursts into tears and extends her hands to me. I frantically search for a solution, although it’s not in sight.
“I prepared all this for you, and you destroy it?” he shouts, his crazy gaze running over me while he presses the blade harder. I see a droplet of blood on her neck. She winces but stops her whimpering. “You called your friends to betray me.” So he thinks it’s Lachlan’s crew doing all this.
What the fuck difference does it make?
I can take him in a fair fight.
Straightening up, I nod and almost spit my words. “Did you really think I would want to be part of this? You’re insane!”
His jaws twitches while his fingers start to drum nervously on her waist, a sign that Liam is quickly losing consciousness in this reality and fighting the desire to go back to his familiar shell.
Clearly he didn’t prepare himself for this in his grand plans. “I trusted you! Me and you against the world. Like we promised.”
“I never promised you that. We ended up in the same nightmare because of your father, and now you want us to continue his legacy? Well, fuck you, Liam. I’ll kill you and myself first before I allow that.”
“Not before I kill her,” he warns me, and then a twisted smile graces his face. Anger and the sadistic desire to inflict pain flash in his eyes. The look is so similar to his father’s gaze I wonder how I never noticed it before.
But then you don’t expect a boy who came from hell would want to become a monster like the one who created him.
“Kneel,” he orders. The fury coating his voice mixes with the desperate cries of the child in his arms. “Kneel and beg me to spare her life.” Everything inside me rebels against the idea, because I gave my word never to do it again.
His father liked these kinds of games. Liam might be insane, but he is not stupid.
Just delusional enough to believe in his reality where people like us crave the same violence done to us.
“I would have given you the reins. The power. We would have been invincible, never helpless again,” he says while still pressing the damn blade hard. “I trusted you the most in this life. Always.” He almost sounds hurt by my so-called betrayal, not that I give two shits about it. “You ruined it. I will never forgive you for this! Never.” I kneel, sliding my hands to my calf where I have a knife hidden. “I will make you pay. Even after your death, you won’t find peace.” His voice drops a few octaves and our gazes clash; my stomach flips at the madness shining in them, but also something else.
Something I can’t name, but it sends uneasiness through me even if I plan to kill him now.
“I hope it was worth it, Eudard. Because— Ahh,” he cries out when I throw a knife at him, right into his left eye, where it pierces him. His hands drop from the girl who dashes toward me, her feet slapping against the concrete. I quickly pick her up, grabbing my gun, ready to shoot Liam, when gunfire erupts around us.
His guards are back.
Cursing inwardly, I run into the garden and hide behind a statue, firing my own shots while the girl clings to my neck, breathing heavily but still making no sound as if understanding it might get us killed.
I fire one last shot and then the gun only gives me a click, click sound, because the bullets are gone.
Dropping it on the grass, I look over the garden trying to think of a good spot to hide, because dying at their hands is fucking offensive.
Not to mention the kid.
However, there is no cover in sight and staying here won’t help, because they will try to move once they realize my gun is done for.
But then other shots sound, and this time I hear the screams of the guards once again. Cautiously, I peek from behind the statue and see the four guys from earlier killing everyone in their path.
Do they even stop or just march around killing everyone?
Finally, no one is left standing. As these guys look around, the girl in my arms wiggles. Even though I squeeze her harder, she bites my neck, causing me to loosen my grip, and she slips from my arms.
Before I can stop her, she dashes in their direction. I snatch nothing but air; her dress is too far away for me to tug her back.
Kissing this life goodbye, I get up and run after her, ready to face danger but not give them the kid, when I halt. My eyes widen in surprise when one of them kneels, holding his arms open for the girl, and she jumps into them, wrapping herself tightly around him.
“Jimena,” he whispers, rocking her in his arms while she tells him something in her hushed voice, and his eyes land on me, crystal blue just like hers.
Only his are blazing with fury that has the power to shake everything around us.
Must be the brother.
Well, look at that.
He did save her.
My gaze slides to the rest of the men, who all seem just slightly older than me… but not by much. Their faces give nothing away, but each of them radiates one thing.
Power. Power. Power.
Is this some kind of gang? Is this why Lachlan acted so weird on the phone?
The blue-eyed guy walks to me. He still has his sister in his arms and extends his hand to me. “Thank you.�
� I shake it, noticing his strong grip. “My name is Santiago Cortez.” He glances over his shoulder, sees everyone nod, and then tells me, “The Four Dark Horsemen owe you a debt. Collect it anytime, anywhere. Your help in saving my sister will never be forgotten.”
What?
I chuckle at this, because it almost reminds me of my description of them, but none of them cracks a smile, staying serious as fuck.
Should I expect an apocalypse to happen now?
Back then, I had no idea how that night would forever change my life.
Four Dark Horsemen.
Four deadly men who don’t know words like remorse, sanity, mercy, or compassion. They see whatever they want, take it, and then destroy it.
Santiago, Octavius, Remi, Florian.
And I came to collect my debt sooner than everyone expected due to the insanity my life became.
For I might have saved the kids… but cursed myself and everyone close to me.
Forever bringing misery with me wherever I went, because the monster who haunted me craved my pain, and the only way he could achieve that was by hurting the people I loved.
One by one, leaving only blood as his mark and destruction as his witness.
Eudard
Cracking my neck from side to side, I flip a switch and instantly organ music vibrates the walls of my dungeon, bringing life to this place, because it’s showtime.
One snap of my fingers and then everything shines brightly, showcasing the perfect lighting for what I have planned next.
I address the man sitting by the table, flicking a paintbrush between his fingers. “Does this work for you?”
He grins, his brown-green eyes flashing in amusement, and he nods, pointing at his equipment splayed in front of him. “Ready to enhance this masterpiece.” He dips the tip of his brush to the sculpture in front of him; it’s a small figurine of a man pinned to the wall, carved from gray clay.
The figurine lacks personality or any kind of interesting details to be admired, but it will be changed soon. The artist didn’t come here for nothing, after all.
That’s when muffled yet loud whimpers slice through the organ music, snapping my attention back to the wall in front of me where Cole is pinned with the nails that I’ve hammered into his hands and feet.
Blood is sliding down his arms and legs, dripping on the floor under him, not that I care.
The more the better!
He is naked, just a flimsy, dirty cloth covering his junk. His hair is wet. I kept his head in a bucket of water for a long time, but I gave him short reprieves to breathe before dunking it again. I enjoyed how he twisted under my hands, whimpering as he choked on it.
Ah, the fond memories I shall cherish my whole life.
“Cole, Cole, Cole,” I say, noticing how he thrashes from side to side, tugging on his hands, but then he groans in pain when all it does is tear his skin more. “Don’t be so difficult.” I click my tongue, picking up a blade from my weapon table and walking to him, making sure my heavy boots thump with each step so his heartbeat will speed up in anticipation of my next blow. “It’s for the art,” I tell him, and he whimpers again, his mouth wet from his saliva, but still it does nothing to help him remove the tape.
Sighing in resignation, I address the other man in the room, aka the Sculptor. “Wasn’t I generous?”
He nods, giving me a thumbs-up. “Totally.”
“He didn’t appreciate that, did he?”
“Nope.”
I grin at Cole, who freezes at my harsh stare and then cries out when I stab him in the arm with the blade, sticking him to the wall firmer as more blood splashes around.
This is heaven.
Then I squeeze his chin and swiftly remove the tape from his lips, tearing his skin. It dangles on the tape, and I wiggle it at Sculptor. “I have some material for you.”
He grimaces, waving it off. “That is an offense to my art, Madman.”
“Ah, yes.” I chuckle and watch Cole spit blood and then rasp at me. “Eudard, please, I’m sorry for touching Arianna.” His voice rings of remorse and fear, while his eyes are full of tears. “I didn’t mean to be rude today. I was just mad. I didn’t think.” He sobs, choking on his snot and blood a little. The organ music continues to play around us, creating an aura of hopelessness and doom.
Just how I like it.
I go to the table, tracing my fingers over the weapons scattered there, and settle on the electric drill. Turning back to face him, I press the button and the drill echoes in the space.
Trrr, trrr, trrr.
Cole cries out, pressing himself against the wall as if wanting to disappear, and then he bursts out crying, muttering words between sobs. “I never meant to hurt her. I didn’t touch her. Even all those years ago. I never touched her.”
My hollow laughter probably has the power to chill even a fire for how cold and detached it is. “Well then, that should make me accept your apologies, right?”
Sculptor chuckles, and then I hear the ice clinking in the drink, so I know he poured himself a whiskey.
“Interesting way of thinking, isn’t it?” I ask him, and he raises his glass to me, saluting me with it.
“You know it. Just imagine if it worked all the time.”
“We would have no victims to kill,” I muse, placing my hands on my chest and exhaling dramatically. “What a boring life that would be, huh?”
“Unbearable.” Even this small exchange with him is aimed to unbalance Cole, create deeper panic but also a sense of hopelessness inside him.
Like what he begs for doesn’t exist, doesn’t matter, and no one pays attention to that.
Just like they did to my phoenix while she begged him for help, but he refused—or rather lived in his head so much he allowed it to happen.
Forgive? Forget?
I’d burn the world before I ever let that happen.
“Eudard, it was a mistake. I was a stupid teen.” He starts begging again, closing his eyes and wincing before focusing on me and breathing through the pain it seems, since his breathing is panting. “I’ll apologize to Arianna, please.”
I move back to him and lean closer to whisper in his ear. I can see his pulse beating wildly in his neck; his body coated in sweat.
He lived without dignity, and he’ll die without it too. “Want to know a secret, Cole?” I ask him, and he nods vigorously, probably hoping this secret will somehow help him escape his fate.
Stupid, stupid artist.
“I don’t give a fuck about apologies.” Then I insert the drill into his chest, and he screams so loudly in my ear I think I might go deaf. “You watched her beg you over and over again while you read that damned letter,” I say, pulling the drill back and then inserting it into his thigh. “You let everyone feast on her flesh while she begged, and then you brought her to the church.” I insert the drill into the other thigh. At this point, the blood soaks his body and my gloves, smearing us both. “So tonight, Cole, you will suffer for hours and hours and hours. And then hours and hours and hours more.” Pulling the drill back, I stab it into his hand, which earns me another loud scream, but it’s raspy since his throat must have torn. “And even that might not be satisfactory enough for me.”
I push back from him, dropping the drill on the table and grabbing a towel to wipe my hands before motioning for Sculptor to join the fun.
It’s his show now.
He gets up, dragging the table closer to Cole, and then grabs the nearby knife while I sit on the chair, opening up the folded letter with that story written.
Even though Cole is barely holding on, opening and closing his eyes, he still manages to sob when he sees it’s not over. “Now I’m going to read while my friend here uses your help to finish his sculpture.” He blinks in confusion, so I elaborate. “You see, he makes them out of clay at first but then adds real skin and blood to make it more realistic.” Cole shakes his head, his face twitching, and then cries some more, tears streaming down his cheeks and mixing with
the blood. “Now, Cole. I’m starting to get embarrassed on your behalf,” I say mockingly and then get more comfortable. “Let’s start reading, shall we?”
And while I read, Sculptor keeps cutting pieces of his skin from his arms, legs, face, even his ear… all while Cole continues to bleed and whimper, murmuring something incoherent, close to the words please and help, but no one pays attention to that.
Then once all is done, I throw the letter down and catch Cole’s gaze, which is glassy, probably due to the loss of blood, but since we made sure not to hit any arteries or important veins, he is not dying.
Yet.
“Now I feel like drawing. Real blood and all.” The air sticks in his throat when I pick up the brush and so does Sculptor. We dip into his wounds, pressing harshly, and then smear the new figurine with blood, recreating Cole’s posture, where nothing but barely audible screams of agony accompany us.
Even once the sculpture is done, I keep him alive for hours, letting him bleed and bleed, hanging like she was left on the steps of the church where I found her.
My beautiful phoenix who never deserved this cruelty.
And so Cole slowly dies in a hell of my creation.
I even write a poem about it while Sculptor drinks whiskey with me, talking about the shit we used to do. I wonder if the psycho indeed could get obsessed with his student, because I can never see anyone escaping his clutches.
Only time would tell, I guess.
Don’t touch what’s not willingly given.
This sin will never be forgiven.
The devil will come to collect your soul.
And it will be trapped in hell for eternity without the option of parole.
Chapter Thirteen
“Religion is my salvation.
Clerical clothing my only destination.
I want to dedicate this life to serve God.
Maybe then the monsters will stop their hunt.”
Eachann
Eudard, 17 years old
Fall, Senior Year of High School
I put a cigarette in my mouth and flick the lighter when I notice Eachann coming down the stairs, judgment written on his face as always. I salute him with my middle finger. “Hello to you too, twin,” I greet him and notice how his lips thin, but he doesn’t say anything.
