Dead Man Walking (The Fallen Men, #6)

by Darling, Giana

  I walked back to the dining room to reclaim my seat in the guest of honour space to the left of Seth at the head of the table. Usually, I loved to hear stories of Seth’s work at the hospital, but that night, I was worn down by the events of the day and distracted by the violet and blue bruises on my knees I’d tried to hide under my sheer black tights. My fingers frequently crept beneath the table linen to press into the bruises, loving the little tinge of pain as a reminder of my debauchery the night before with Priest.

  It secretly thrilled me to wear the marks of such a man at a table such as this. If these people knew how much I loved to be choked, spanked, and generally fucked hard by a man who was devoutly atheist and entirely criminal, they would have had me committed for madness.

  Maybe I was mad.

  The problem with “madness” as a general concept was that there wasn’t a base model for a “normal” psychological makeup. Each person was so uniquely different, each society with its own rules and cues, each culture with its norms and penalties meant there was no way to define normal. Yet so many people made a study of abnormal psychology. It was so much easier to focus on the “other” than what similarities we might conceive between them and us.

  This, of course, was the problem with the serial killer the newspapers were calling “The Prophet of Death”. Unoriginal and harmful. Giving serial killers a nickname was a horrible idea because notoriety for a killer like this who staged his victims was giving him exactly what he wanted.

  Notice.

  A spotlight to shine on the story he was determined to tell in blood and dead bodies.

  “So morose this evening,” Seth noticed with a twinkling grin. “What’s going on in that smart head of yours? I hope you weren’t too traumatized by what happened at First Light today.”

  I moved my broccoli around my plate with my fork, feeling nauseated. “Traumatized is a bit strong. I do think the cops are underestimating this murderer, though. It’s clearly more than just a disturbed man killing without consideration. He has some kind of agenda, and he’s clever. Maybe he even has more than one person helping him.”

  “Is that typical, though?” Seth asked with a self-conscious laugh. “Forgive me, I can list every bone in the body, but I don’t know the first thing about crime and psychology. I’m afraid I always fell asleep in my psych classes.”

  “I can’t imagine you being less than an A-plus student,” I teased because Seth was meticulous and incredibly smart. I’d once caught him reading the Bible in Latin. “And I thought you listened to my podcast every week? Or were you just being polite?”

  I was used to that. Supportive friends and family claimed to tune in to Little Miss Murder, but most of the time, they were too squeamish to do so. I didn’t hold it against them.

  Seth leaned forward in mock confession. “I do listen on my commute home on Mondays, but I’m usually too tired to do anything but register the sound of your voice. Do you forgive me?”

  I patted him on the hand and clucked my tongue. “I suppose. I haven’t spoken about him on the air since he sent that gruesome…package to the studio, and we’ve suspended the show for a bit because I don’t want to give him another spotlight, you know?”

  “Oh? You think that’s what he wants? Attention?”

  “Yes, he seems like a classic clinical psychopath in that he’s narcissistic and very aware of his own heightened intelligence.”

  Seth pursed his lips over his steepled fingers. “Clever enough not to get caught?”

  “The entire provincial RCMP and the local PD are on it now, I think it’s only a matter of time and maybe a matter of a few more murders before he makes a mistake,” I hypothesised, enjoying myself for the first time that night.

  So of course, my mother had to ruin it.

  “Bea,” she murmured from beside me, her mouth covered by her napkin to hide her whisper. “This is not polite dinner table conversation.”

  Irritation itched at the back of my neck. I arched an eyebrow at my beautiful mother, decked out in the pink pearl set my father had gifted her for their tenth wedding anniversary. How she could still stand to wear anything that he had given her was beyond my comprehension, but she always pulled out the relics of our old life when we dined with our friends from First Light Church. My mother could disassociate her two lives even easier than Lou once had between Louise and Loulou. Two days ago, she’d donned a classy leather jacket while shooting the shit with Maja, Buck, and Smoke.

  Today, she could pretend that entire life had nothing to do with her.

  I shivered as I realized I’d spent so many years doing the same thing, being ashamed of the person I really wanted to be and the people I honestly wanted to surround myself with. I was so afraid I wouldn’t live up to my sister’s glory that I’d unwittingly become my mother by attempting to straddle two very different worlds and, therefore, two different souls.

  It was exhausting and ineffectual.

  She’d have to make a choice at some point, and I’d just found I was more prepared than I’d thought to make mine.

  “It’s fine, Phillipa,” Seth allowed, reaching over to squeeze my hand sympathetically. “If it makes Bea feel better to talk about it, I think it’s healthy she should.”

  “By all means, let’s listen to the sister of a whore talk about inappropriate topics,” Margaret snipped as she took a deep draught of wine.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, honestly shocked by her rancour.

  The older woman, beleaguered by long nights in hospice visiting her dying husband, stared me down without a shred of remorse. “You heard me, young lady. It’s obvious that the club”—she spat the word—“your sister married into has brought more chaos down on this town. It’s about time The Fallen were all incarcerated as they should be.”

  I blinked, turning to my mother, who was looking down in her lap, wringing her napkin between her manicured hands.

  But she remained silent.

  Loathing burned through me, igniting something in my belly only Priest had previously had access to. My sister was my idol, my primary source of love and affection for my entire childhood. In marrying that “criminal”, she had gifted me a found family more exquisite than any I could ever conceive of being born into. In marrying that criminal, she’d given me mine.

  I sat ramrod straight in my chair and sent Margaret a withering glower down my nose. “Obviously, you’re in shock, Margaret, because it was clear to everyone that one of those club members put out most of the fires in church today.”

  “That was my Seth, I heard,” Tabby interjected, smiling lovingly at her husband across the table. “He’s always had a bit of a hero complex.”

  My mother laughed, a little manically, eager to dissolve the tension.

  I would not allow that. Margaret wanted to throw down with me, then she’d discover just how much like my “whore” sister I was.

  “These killings have nothing to do with The Fallen. If anything, you should be thankful they are here to protect this town as much as they can,” I continued in a tense voice.

  I was hot and cold with anger and disappointment, my unsettled stomach clenching into a hard knot that made me want to contract around it in the fetal position. I hated conflict. I abhorred even the barest hint of friction in a social group. Yet there I was, practically provoking an altercation with a woman who was probably delirious with exhaustion and riled by the unjustness of losing her husband.

  Beatrice Lafayette was known as the peacekeeper, the sweet girl with the ready smile.

  But she was also the second-string choice, the sister in the shadows, the girl no one looked at twice.

  I was tired of that, of the girl who conformed to fit into the small box people made for her.

  I was ready to be noticed, and if need be, I was ready to fight.

  I am not weak.

  “I know you’re grieving, Margaret,” I soothed like silk over my iron words. “I know this year has been hard on your family. But The Fallen have nothing
to do with your misfortunes.”

  She sniffed loudly. “They’ve been a bane on this town for years. Just last year, they were involved in sex trafficking.”

  A snarl built in my throat, but I swallowed it back and sent her a saccharine smile. “As a matter of fact, I think that had something to do with the mayor’s wife, Irina Ventura. Lila Meadows, an old lady in the MC, actually helped take them down.”

  “You’re just defending them because you’ve been brainwashed by that man, Zeus Garro,” she claimed righteously. “He’s turned you away from God’s path. You’re hell bound now, girl.”

  “Margaret,” my mum finally protested softly. “Bea is a good God-fearing woman. Please don’t conflate her with the club.”

  “I wouldn’t be speaking if I were you, Phillipa.” Margaret’s eyes were narrow and dark reflections of her corroding heart. “You’re the one who let your eldest daughter marry that heathen. I heard they named their son Monster. Fitting name for an abomination.” Her lips curled in a malicious, contemplative grin. “I wonder if sin runs in the family, and you’re next in line to become one of their filthy sluts––”

  Poor Margaret’s words were cut off with a shrill cry as I lunged over the table at her. My knee landed in a cool bowl of mashed potatoes, and my thigh knocked over a bottle of wine, the force of my movement dragging the tablecloth with me so every dish dislodged haphazardly. One of my hands dove into her hair to squeeze in an unforgiving fist while the other reared back to deliver a punishing blow straight to her gobsmacked face.

  The gold heart-shaped ring I wore on my right hand split open her cheekbone, and blood dribbled down into her open mouth.

  I sat back on my haunches on the table and wiped my bloody, sore knuckles on Margaret’s discarded napkin. “Next time you speak about my family like that, I’ll do more than hit you, Margaret. I’ll grab those criminals you seem so fixated on, and we’ll do some real damage.”

  My smile was hot and twisted on my face like a hanger forced between my lips, but it felt good. Anger and violence coursed through me, making my head spin merrily.

  “Bea!” my mother cried as she had been since I started my attack. “Oh my gosh, Bea, get down from there and apologize.”

  “No,” Seth said calmly, standing up and bracing his hands on the table to lean forward as he addressed us. There was a cold fury on his face as he studied us, some dark hole whirling in his blue gaze. “Margaret, I think you should apologize to Bea. She’s done nothing wrong, and though I do not condone her violence, you provoked her beyond all hope of passivity.”

  When Margaret only blinked in shock at him, Seth rounded the table and stood a few feet away from her. He did nothing but maintain eye contact with her, his face composed, those eyes still as placid water, yet the energy radiating from him was so palpable, my skin pebbled into goosebumps. He had the same peaceful authority that my grandpa so often exerted over lost people in his flock, nipping at their heels like a shepherding dog to bring them back into the fold.

  Finally, she made a kind of whimpering sigh, clutching a hand to her hurt cheek, and turned to look at me with a petulant scowl. “I apologize, Beatrice.”

  I glared back at her, unwilling to accept what was so clearly an insincere apology.

  Seth cleared his throat. “Bea? Forgiveness is divine, need I remind you? I’d accept Margaret’s apology. You are above this behaviour. Above her acting out so childishly.”

  I watched something like fear and disappointment war on the older woman’s face and felt a flare of pity in my chest. She was losing her husband. It was a normal part of the grieving process to feel angry even when there was no cause.

  “I’ll forgive you if you promise never to utter another bad word about my family, which, just so you know, includes The Fallen,” I allowed graciously, looking down my nose at her.

  She seethed, eyes flashing. “You’re a disgrace to our religion.”

  “I could say the same thing about you,” I rebutted as I swung off the table. “I’m going to clean up. Seth, Tabby, thank you for having me for dinner, but I’m going to leave early. Suddenly, I’m not feeling well.”

  Without waiting for their response, I sailed out of the dining room with my head held high even though my adrenaline was fading and shakiness was descending.

  I’d just punched a middle-aged woman in the face.

  But, but, but she’d called my nephew a monster, my brother-in-law a heathen, and my sister a whore.

  That was unforgivable.

  Suddenly, the anger was back, hot and tacky at the back of my throat, and impossible to swallow down.

  I used the bathroom again, spitting out the bile lingering in my mouth, wiping the potatoes off my tights, and straightening the hem of my cream cashmere dress.

  I didn’t want to go back out there.

  In fact, if I was being honest, I wished I’d never come to dinner. I wanted to be with Priest, with my friends and family who never judged and always supported me.

  Without thinking, I left the bathroom and went into the front living room to peer out the sheer curtains at the street.

  Priest was there, as he said he would be, waiting for me in the dark, clothed in black, drenched in shadows leaning against his Harley across the street. Attuned to even the slightest shift in the curtains, he snapped his head up from the wood carving he was whittling to lock intractably with mine.

  Even from across the street, I felt that gaze on my soul, dark and claiming.

  Mine, mine, mine, it seemed to say.

  Yours, yours, yours, my heart echoed back.

  I subconsciously moved toward the front doors, needing him more than I needed to heed my ingrained manners and say goodbye to my hosts.

  But then I heard a girly little giggle and froze.

  I knew that giggle.

  It was my mother.

  I crept closer to the kitchen and strained to hear more.

  “Your daughter is fierce,” Seth complimented softly from behind the swinging door. “It was something to see that.”

  “Oh Seth, stop being so kind. She acted terribly.”

  My heart clenched at my mother’s words, hating that she would condemn me for defending our family when she hadn’t condemned my dad all those years ago for hitting Louise after finding out about her and Zeus.

  The hypocrisy of living two lives was an ugly, two-faced monster my mother was adept at keeping hidden.

  “She was beautiful,” Seth insisted with a smile in his voice, then softer. “Just like her mother.”

  I blinked at the white panelled door, unable to compute the intimacy in his tone.

  Seth was married—happily, I thought—to Tabby, who was just then in the adjacent room making nice after my incident.

  And my mother?

  For the past few years, she and Smoke had been flirting with something more than friendship. I always assumed my mum was gun-shy because Smoke had severe asthma and a significant heart defect. She’d already lost her first husband and nearly lost her eldest daughter, so maybe she wasn’t quite ready to sign on for more loss. I had understood that. My mother was soft, pretty, and as delicate as a figurine meant to sit on a shelf. She was not made for action or dangerous handling.

  But this?

  This, I didn’t understand.

  Sucking in a deep breath that I held tight in my lungs, I pushed open the door a crack to peer inside.

  Seth was holding my mother, who was at least twelve years older than him as if she was a young child, hands framing her gently lined face, forehead tipped to hers so all they could see was each other’s gaze. So intimate, like looking into a window I never should have opened, haunted with scenes I’d never forget.

  “You’re so good to me, Seth,” Phillipa whispered, placing her hands over his. “What would I do without your guiding light in my life?”

  I must have made some noise in my throat, but Seth’s head popped up, eyes unerringly finding mine.

  “Beatrice,” he said, a
puff of breath, shocked by my presence. He blinked once in bewilderment, then seemed to consider the situation before reining in his emotions, all at once wiping his features clean.

  “Bea,” my mother gasped, the pearl bracelet on her wrist clacking lightly as her hand flew to her mouth. Dramatic and elegant as Grace Kelly in a Hitchcock movie. “Oh darling, I’m so sorry.”

  “What’s going on here?” I asked, struck dumb by the idea that my mother and Seth could be having some kind of affair.

  They were both so devout, so entrenched in their beliefs that the sanctity of marriage was something I never believed they could break.

  Seth laughed lightly, moving away from Phillipa to lean his narrow hips against the counter and cross his feet. “It’s good to see you shocked by the idea of adultery, Beatrice. I know you’re a true believer, but given the company you’ve been keeping lately, I wondered if you still upheld the strictures of God.”

  “Do you?” I demanded, fisting my hands on my hips. “Explain, please.”

  “Seth has been…” My mother sighed wearily, hands fluttering over her heart in affected distress. “He’s been helping me through these trying times since your father passed. I’ve been so confused lately about what is right for me, and he’s been invaluable…”

  “Invaluable how?” I pressed, looking at Seth who seemed entirely unaffected by the proceedings, smiling a placid little grin as he watched us as if my outrage was only mildly amusing.

  “It’s been hard staying true to God when I spend so much time with The Fallen,” Phillipa admitted softly. “I’ve been struggling for some time. I love my daughter, but the life she’s chosen gives me pause.”

  “Okay…” My hackles shivered. I was ready to fight even my mother to her death in order to defend Loulou. Why was her lifestyle so flagrantly wrong? Yes, Zeus was the prez of a motorcycle gang that sometimes dealt in drugs and violence, but they protected the citizens of this town, and they stood for so many good values like love, loyalty, and family. I’d thought after all this time my mother understood that. “So you aren’t romantically involved.”