by J. Kearston
He digs the knife in deeper, my throat stinging. “You don’t deserve to call him brother.”
Running my tongue over my teeth, it finally clicks. “He was yours, wasn’t he? But wh-“ He jerks my head back even further, but at least it lessens the pressure of the knife.
“Dad was convinced the baby wasn’t his,” he whispers and I have to strain to hear him. “So she had no choice but to run.” His voice turns hard. “She didn’t have time to take me with her; she had to save him before Dad killed them both.”
It’s a lie that I’m sure he’s told himself countless times over the course of his life, the only way he could cope with being left behind. But as Cambria’s screams start to fade and I have a sudden lurch of panic, I can’t find anything even close to resembling pity for the man in front of me.
A tragic backstory doesn’t write you a blank check. You want a clean slate, you scrub the hell out of it. But don’t sit there and use it as a fucking excuse.
I don’t interrupt, not needing to see the faraway look in his eyes to know he’s trapped in the past, one that’s held him captive for longer than anyone’s known. At least I’m finally getting some answers, but it doesn’t give me the relief I was hoping for.
His is the sort of suffering that only revenge will slake. I know firsthand that all-consuming grief and rage, used it as the driving force to kill Atlas’ father so many years ago. I’d like to say it taught me that revenge solves nothing, that it won’t bring anyone back. And it won’t, I know that.
But it sure felt like justice.
If nothing else, it helped me put my pain in a place I could live beside for the rest of my life. And that’s exactly why I know I won’t be walking away from here, none of us will. He wants me to suffer like he does, to experience the same loss. So he’ll kill them all, one by one, until I’m broken beyond repair and begging for death. With as twisted as he is, I doubt it will come any time soon, either. He’ll want me to live with their loss, drown in my grief, and drag it out as long as possible.
The three of them will die, but I won’t; not unless Cambria’s murder drags me down with her. Death would be a mercy, and the last thing Victor is, is merciful.
“So when I found a scribbled address without a name, I knew,” he continues. “I memorized it, and then burned it to give them a shot. And still, he found her. Beat her to death, but there was no baby with her. She took that secret to her grave, and it wasn’t until years later that I tracked him down.” He swallows, the sound loud so close to my face.
“I watched the both of you for years. Envied you, really. But I could at least sleep at night knowing my brother was safe and my monster of a father would never find him.”
The air charges with tension, and I brace myself for the anger I know I’m about to be assaulted with. “But then I find out he’s dead, and I can’t even pay my respects, because you decided he wasn’t worth a funeral.”
“He didn’t want one.” It might be stupid to argue, but at this point I’ve accepted there’s no bargaining our way out of here. “We discussed it when Dad died and he made his disdain clear at the prospect of being chucked in a cold hole to be forgotten. He wanted his ashes scattered on the ocean.” Swallowing, I whisper, “So he could explore the world even in death.”
When the next hit comes, I welcome it. The memories are painful to dredge up, of everything the two of us wanted out of life but couldn’t have because of needing to keep our father in check. There were good moments, don’t get me wrong, but too few of them. And I feel so much more than I’m used to.
It hurt then, but it’s agonizing now.
“You were supposed to keep him safe!” he screams, raining blow after blow on me, years of pent up aggression finally having an outlet. And each I take like it’s my due without a word of protest, because he isn’t wrong.
He was my little brother, and I couldn’t save him. Just like I can’t protect Atlas, Dorian, or Cambria. Being loved by me is a death sentence. I’m toxic, but I just can’t seem to stop.
Maybe I could blame it on growing up emotionally stunted, like Atlas phrased it. But then I wouldn’t be any better than the man in front of me. No, it’s just me. I’m a plague, and I damn anyone I care about to a fate of nothing but misery. My fault, always my fault.
But accepting the blame doesn’t make anything better. Self-revelations don’t make any magical solutions form. My prison of silence is replaced with anguished screams and enough blood to baptize a sinner. And still, the regrets refuse to be washed away.
When the knife sinks into my stomach, a shuddering sigh of relief rushes out of me upon impact. There’s so much agony being hurled at me from every direction, but at least now there’s an end in sight.
I choke on my own blood, coughing and instinctively trying to hunch over, but my bindings prevent it. He realizes his slip in control too late, ripping the knife out and cursing.
“God damn it!” His screams bounce around the room, but he doesn’t try to stop the bleeding.
Another hit comes, so hard that the chair rocks, but it settles back without falling. I can barely feel my face at this point, but I’ve no doubt it’s a swollen, bruised mess. The searing pain in my stomach takes all of my attention, my body begging for help where it needs it the most.
I cough, feeling the blood trickling down my chin as my head swims. “You’re wrong, you know.” Without waiting for him to interrupt, I force the words out, feeling on the verge of blacking out. “As much as you claimed this wasn’t a game, you still ended up losing.”
“Fuck you, Lucien,” he spits. “Which one of us is strapped to the chair bleeding out right now?”
Chuckling, I pant, trying to suck down shallow gasps of air, but unable to catch my breath. “It was never about me having everything you didn’t, Victor. It was about knowing how to appreciate things before they were gone.”
I turn to the side, heaving up everything in my stomach before I can get another word out. Shuddering, I’m torn between freezing and my flesh feeling fevered.
“You lost everything chasing after what was never yours to begin with.”
Chapter 13
Atlas
Lying on the cement floor of the room they tossed me in, Cambria’s screams echo down the hall. They dislocated my shoulder while beating the shit out of me, and I still feel on the verge of puking, but it’s finally a point in my favor.
Carefully, I start working my arms down and under my legs, bringing my handcuffed wrists to the front of my body. I take a few steadying breaths and yank off my blindfold before biting the bullet and using the wall as leverage to pop my shoulder back in place.
This time I can’t fight the wave of nausea, falling to my hands and knees and start heaving up the bile left in my stomach above the drain in the center of the floor. My palms burn as they’re scraped open, but compared to the rest of my wounds, it’s hardly worth mentioning.
As her shouts start to fade, I smack my shackled hands on the ground, screaming in frustration. The room is basically an empty cell, one made to easily hose down after being put to use. The only other thing is the solid door, and I’m not stupid enough to hope it’s unlocked.
My skin crawls and I start retching again, burning agony replacing every other thought. Sweat coats my fevered flesh and my vision blurs as the energy drains from my body, leaving me on the verge of passing out. My shouts taper off as I cough, stomach and throat revolting the abuse.
Sucking down lungfuls of air, I push down the temptation to just roll over and pass out, to pretend none of this is happening and buy myself an escape from the agony, if only for a little while. Denial; what I wouldn’t give to be able to embrace it right now.
Another wave of pain leaves me shaking, but I push past it. I’m under no delusions that if I go to sleep in this place, I’m either not going to wake up, or pray that I never do. I can’t allow myself that break, will lose precious time and energy if I indulge in the desire. My hands tremble as I start to fo
rce myself upright, but I freeze when my fingers brush across something soft.
Blinking a few times as my head swims, I look down at the tiny flowers and mushrooms arcing out in a path in front of me. There’s no charred ring, and the tiny blooms look different, but there’s no denying what it is.
Our ticket out of here.
“Of fucking course I’d get the hippie powers.” Mumbling to myself, I stand on shaky legs, stifling a groan. “Couldn’t get goddamn fireballs or something cool. No, I get to leave construction behind to become a florist. Fuck you, irony, or karma; whoever the hell gets their sick kicks out of screwing with people.”
The door handle starts to turn and adrenaline floods my system, helping me push past my exhaustion. It’s been about a year since Lucien asked me to take care of anything like this for him, the sort of issues he wants kept off the books, but muscle memory kicks in.
Stepping to the side of the door, I wait for the man to show his face before throwing my arms over his head and drawing back, using the chain on the handcuffs to cut off his air supply. He slams backwards and I hook my foot on the door, forcing it shut, and grunt as my head collides with the steel.
He claws at his throat, panicking and trying to pry the chain away. When he realizes the effort’s futile, he fumbles for the gun on his hip. Kicking the back of his knee, I shove forward, sending him into the cement. Catching himself before bashing his face, he’s forced to stop trying for his gun.
He flails his hand back at me, but there isn’t much force behind it. His wheezing gasps are coming fewer and farther between as his face turns a reddish purple. I yank harder and he finally stops struggling. Still, I don’t let go, know better than to risk it. I couldn’t even tell you how long I kneel on his back, keeping his makeshift noose drawn tight to make sure I won’t be blindsided by him playing possum.
“Fuck,” I huff, heart hammering a mile a minute.
Gradually, I lessen my death grip on his throat, hypervigilant of his form for any twitch of muscle. Nothing happens over the course of several minutes, and I have to shift his head to get my hands back. Quickly, I take his gun and tuck it in the pocket of my jeans, making sure it’s out of reach as I start patting him down for a set of keys.
The one for the handcuffs is so much smaller compared to the rest that it’s easy to find, though tricky to contort my hands enough to unlock them. Rather than just tossing them to the side, I crouch above the corpse and bind his wrists behind his back. Call me a paranoid bastard if you will, but there’s a small enough chance of getting us out of here as it is, that I’m not about to sabotage myself by being sloppy.
I check the clip in the gun to ensure it’s mostly full before attempting trying the keys in the door. The tenth one finally yields results, and I take a deep breath to steady my nerves, knowing things are going to get a hell of a lot worse before they get better, if they even do.
Keeping my head down, I step from the room and shut the door behind me. The door to my left has a deadbolt engaged, and I waste no time flipping it and slipping into the room. With as coated in blood as I am and the fact everyone in this place likely got an eyeful, I have no hope of passing off as a nameless guard. I only counted ten stranger’s voices, so they would all recognize one another.
Dorian’s unconscious, the concrete around him stained with blood. “Shit.” Crossing the room quickly, I free his hands and rip the blindfold off, gently smacking his cheek hastily. “Come on, D. No time for a nap.” Reluctantly, I smack him harder, because we just don’t have the time to waste.
He groans, blinking a few times as he struggles awake, eyes bleary and dazed. He’s in worse shape than I am, his back a tattered, bloody mess, but he’ll live. If we can get out of here without being shot, that is.
“Atlas?” He groans, shutting his eyes as he starts to sit up too quickly.
“I have a plan, but I can’t pull it off without you,” I jump right in, no time to play catch up. “You’ve got to get up though.”
He hisses in a sharp breath, but uses the wall as leverage to get to his feet. “Shit,” he manages between pants, looking pale.
“I know. But fingers crossed as soon as the adrenaline kicks in, you’ll feel steadier.” He nods, and I withdraw my stolen gun, fitting the key in the lock, but not opening the door yet.
“I’ll get you a gun, but you’re going to have to hold your own. You get Cambria and I’ll find Luce. Get back to the room to the right of this one and wait for me, alright?”
He nods, but I can see the fear and doubt in his eyes. “How are we getting out?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I mutter, opening the door with a false sense of confidence. “Wait here.”
Stepping out, I look down either side of the hallway, but it’s empty save for a man walking out of an open door a little ways to my right. He slams it shut behind him the same time he draws his weapon, but I’m already pulling the trigger. He crumples in a heap, blood spatter coating the door he was protecting.
Yanking the gun from his grip, I jog back to Dorian and pass it over. “If I’m right, it sounds like she’s being kept that way.” I gesture with the barrel of my gun in the direction opposite the dead guard.
“Why aren’t you getting her?” He double checks that the safety is off and tries to school his features to hide his self-deprecation.
It isn’t the first time he’s fired a gun, and with the way he kicked my ass in axe throwing, I have more confidence in him than he does. He can do this, he just needs to shake off the doubt. And we don’t have time to be second guessing ourselves when there’s so much on the line.
“Because if all of this has been a show for Lucien, I have no idea what I’ll be walking into. They’ll have made sure he isn’t going anywhere, and I’m not even sure if I’ll be able to get him out in one piece. But if I get killed trying and you have Cambria, the two of you can still make it out of here.”
I don’t bother explaining further, because we’ve wasted enough time as it is. Another couple of men are rounding the corner, drawn by the gunshot, and we fire in tandem. Dorian’s goes a bit wide, but he corrects himself quickly and the man falls on the second shot.
“I’m a little out of practice,” he defends, but I’m already heading for the door with a corpse guard.
“Pocket whatever weapons you can on the way if you get the chance.”
He nods, speed walking down the hall in the opposite direction and trying not to limp. I take a steadying breath before pushing open the door beside the corpse, not sure if I’m prepared for whatever’s on the other side.
I use the dead man’s foot to keep the door propped open since I sent the keys with Dorian, stepping into the room with my gun drawn. Ignoring the screaming as my shoulder protests, I do a quick sweep, but there’s only two other men in the room. Victor, red faced and chest heaving, and Lucien, strapped to a chair.
“How di-“ His words are cut off by my next shot, because honestly, I don’t give a fuck.
I’ve seen this movie before. The kidnapper monologues, someone gets caught up in a tragic story, and doesn’t hear the person sneaking up behind them until it’s too late. I couldn’t give two shits what comes out of Victor’s mouth on the best of days, and my screaming muscles have my patience at an all-time low.
Approaching Luce I nearly slip, glancing down to see a puddle of blood rapidly spreading beneath the chair. “No, no, no. Shit!” I crouch down in front of him, but I don’t slap him like I did to Dorian. His face is already a swollen, bloody mess and I don’t want to do more damage.
It takes only a few seconds to see his shirt matted to his stomach and I hurry over to Victor, patting him down until finding the knife he stabbed Luce with. Flicking the pocket knife open, the blade still coated in blood, I start hacking through all of his bindings.
Rapid shots fire out in the hallway and I saw faster, getting through the ropes before moving to the zip tie keeping his handcuffs tethered to a chain fastened to the f
loor.
Pressing two fingers to his neck, I’m relieved to feel a faint, but steady pulse. I send up a silent thanks to whatever fae voodoo is at work that’s keeping him alive right now, and just hope it’ll stay that way. Cursing, I scramble back to Victor’s body, stealing his keys. I fumble my way through freeing him, my fingers slick.
More shots and yelling ring out in the hallway and I waver, trying to think of the best way to do this. With as fucked up as my shoulder is, there’s no way I’ll be able to just toss him over one arm so that I can still have use of my weapon. And honestly, I’m not sure I would have been able to pull that off under the best of conditions. Battered and bruised, with adrenaline the only energy keeping me going? Hell no.
“God damn it, Luce.”
Tossing his arms over my shoulders, I crouch down in front of him. With one hand gripping his forearm for dear life, I use the other on his thigh to heft him onto my back, hoping the added pressure against his stomach will help staunch the bleeding at least a little.
He’s deadweight, and I nearly drop him. It takes some cursing and adjusting, but I finally get a firm enough hold on him that I can walk. Hunched over, I head back to the door, pausing to listen before sticking my head out there. I’m wide open like this, completely vulnerable and less likely to have solid aim, let alone fight, but I can’t think of another option.
There’s silence, and I bite my tongue, warring with myself. “Dorian?” I hiss, and then again louder when he doesn’t respond. The door to my cell creaks open and I could kiss the man, I’m so relieved. “How many did you take out after we separated?”
“Three,” he replies instantly, eyes widening with panic as he catches sight of Luce’s bloody, still form. “Is he,” he trails off, unable to voice the words.
“Alive,” I grunt, running through a quick mental tally. “That means there are still at least two guys around here somewhere, maybe more.” We don’t have a clue how big this place even is or how abandoned the area around it is either. “Cover me.”
