I jog for a short distance into the woods before pausing to smear dirt on my face, arms, and body, so I’m harder to spot.
Then I strip off my shoes and glide through the forest, walking the way my father taught me when I was a child—completely silent, intensely aware of my surroundings, ears straining for any noise. I’m fortunate that I copied my father’s habit of keeping the soles of my feet tough by walking barefoot across beds of sharp gravel on a regular basis. I’ve always loved that; it makes me feel connected to the Earth, as if I can draw its power up through my feet and into my blood.
He also taught me how to move swiftly but carefully, without leaving a trail. It doesn’t take me long to locate what I’m looking for. About fifteen minutes later, I hear the sounds of a fight. Grunting, thrashing, swearing.
Fierce joy flares inside me. I race toward the noises. With any luck, they’ll be distracted enough that I can slip in and take out two opponents at the same time.
Peering through branches, I see two men wrestling. Both are bleeding. One of them has his back to me, and he’s in the act of strangling Benedict, who’s dropped his knife. This man has done the same thing I did—smeared dirt all over himself.
When I burst through the underbrush and barrel toward them, I raise my knife to plunge into his back, but now that I’ve got a good look at him, I pause. This man’s head is buzzed close to his scalp, and I don’t know who it is. It’s not Paxton, or Augustus, or Solomon.
Alarm bells ring in my head, and I instinctively step back without stabbing. I circle around as Benedict’s eyes roll back in his head and his body goes limp. And a wave of shock hits me like a blast of Arctic air. The man strangling Benedict is my father.
I spit out a curse as he drops Benedict’s limp body.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I demand.
He turns to face me, eyes snapping with impatience. “Keep your damn voice down. Have I taught you nothing? I let my guard down and I was kidnapped. You?”
“I volunteered.” I shake my head in bewilderment, but I follow his instructions and speak more quietly. He bends down to pick up his knife from the ground. He also picks up a large rock and a strip of cloth. He’s made a slingshot from some of the cloth on his boxer shorts. The rock is bloodied; he must have used it to stun Benedict before moving in for the kill. Damn, he’s good.
He gestures at me and points at the tree line, and we melt back into the forest. My mind is racing. My father is here. My fucking father. The man who paid doctors to break my face apart—the man who’s been lying to me my entire life.
“What about my brothers?” I say in a low voice.
“No, they’re not here. They were both on the estate when I was taken. I was in town, and it had been so long since I faced any kind of threat that I got sloppy. Let that be a lesson to you. Men like us must always be on the alert.” He’s not looking at me as he speaks, his eyes sweeping his surroundings. I follow suit. We’re searching for crushed grass, footprints, snapped branches…anything that would show where the other challengers are.
“Men like us?” My voice is a low, furious snarl. “What kind of men are we exactly, Father?”
He pauses and briefly glances my way. “We’re monsters. And I’m sorry, Bastien. I failed you when you were younger. There were a lot of things I should have told you, things that would have made life easier for you.” Then his watchful gaze returns to the forest around us.
“Yes, why didn’t you?” I snap as we move through the underbrush.
“Because I didn’t want you to turn out like me, with my fucked-up compulsions. I hoped that my sickness came from my upbringing, which was brutal and evil. I was praying you could be cured. Living the way I do is dangerous and puts me and everyone I love at risk. This is a burden, Bastien, and I hate that I passed it on to you.”
“You fucked up my life and drove me away. You let me think I was somehow deformed from the inside out.” Heat courses through my body, and I clench my knife tighter.
“I know. I did what I thought was right for the family, and I hurt you instead. And it’s eaten away at me, and it’s hurt your mother, which is much worse. I am sorry. I am very, very sorry.” His voice is rough with a regret I’ve never heard before, and I spare him a quick glance. Pain twists his face, deepening the lines and making him look much older.
There’s a crack running through the walls that encircled my heart. I’ve needed to hear those words for so long. I never admitted to myself how much I needed to be able to love my parents. Perhaps I’m more human than I thought.
I pause for a moment, listening intently, but all I hear is the sounds of the forest—the wind whispering through the trees, the bright musical notes of birdsong.
I return my attention to my father. “That’s not our greatest concern at the moment,” I say as we continue our swift, silent creep. “The family charter says only one of us is allowed to walk out of here alive.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” my father says. “This is what we’re going to do. We work as a team until the end. Then you do what you have to do. Take care of your mother and the family for me. Live to keep them safe. Promise me that.”
Kill my own father? I’ve been so angry with him, many times, that I thought I wanted to kill him, but presented with the opportunity, everything inside me rebels. He fucked up my life for the last ten years, he stole my face, and his simple apology isn’t enough to make up for that. But he’s my father. He created me, and he loves me, and he is telling me now that he’d die for me.
I won’t let him.
“We’ll appeal to the council,” I growl. “They eat, breathe, and shit the charter. You didn’t volunteer.”
My father grabs my upper arm with an impressively strong grip. “Promise me,” he repeats, his eyes blazing.
“Fine, you son of a bitch,” I snap at him. But I’m lying. I won’t kill my father. I’ll find a way to save him, and myself, and Camille, and…
Fuck. Fuck the charter, fuck these stupid rules, fuck the challenge. Frustration boils up inside me, but instantly I wrap it up in cotton wool and store it for later. Just as my father would want me to. He taught me that. Don’t let your emotions control you. They’re your emotions, you own them, you have the power to use them in the way that is most advantageous at the moment.
So I maintain my crystalline focus and keep moving and scanning our surroundings.
We come to a running stream, and kneel and drink, the ice-cold water running down our parched throats. Then I grab some mud to smear on myself, because I’ve sweated off some of my camouflage dirt, and my father follows suit.
“Did you know about this branch of the family?” I murmur to my father.
“No. It was a complete surprise. I had no idea they existed. It explains a lot about my own father, though. And even in my brief time here I can see the common traits we all share.”
“Did you really kidnap my mother and murder a bunch of women?”
He shoots me a look. “The history between your mother and myself is private, and all you need to know is that I love her more than anything in the world, and she loves me, and we have had a glorious twenty-eight years together. Also, I do not murder women. I have a personal code. I only kill people who are physically worthy opponents, and who have committed truly evil acts. I’ve never come across a woman who fits both requirements.”
I am dying to know more, but there’s no point in pushing it. Nobody can make my father talk if he doesn’t want to. “What do you do, then? You used to disappear on a lot of business trips. When I think back on it, Mother always seemed a little worried when you were gone. More so than she should have been if you were traveling for business.”
He heaves a sigh. “I have a compulsion to kill, Bastien. It’s like a drug addiction—it takes over my mind and crowds out all rational thought. If I don’t kill, I start to go insane, consumed by rage, until I’m dangerous to everyone around me. But I only kill very bad people. Your mother helps me s
elect them, and I hunt them. Just like we’re hunting men today.”
My mother? Who are these people who raised me? I shake my head in disbelief.
“How many people have you killed?”
“I’ve honestly lost count. Less than a hundred.”
My mind can’t even process that. Not the morality of it—the fact that the same people who read me bedtime stories also were among the most prolific serial killers in modern history. Because even if my mother didn’t join in, she is complicit in all of it. I’m not angry or repulsed, I’m just astounded at how successfully they wore the mask of sanity.
We start moving again, melting into the underbrush. “Did Augustus show you the charter?”
“Yes, he read it to me last night while I was being held at gunpoint in a cabin somewhere in the woods near here. One thing he didn’t mention, though, was this challenge only involving volunteers. He said that the family council voted on the most powerful men in the family.”
I’m baffled. Why did he lie to him? Why go through all the trouble and risk of bringing my father here?
Then my father holds his hand up for silence. There’s a noise off in the distance. Someone’s making sounds of distress.
We head that way, creeping slowly and quietly, crouch-walking our way through the woods. My father doesn’t seem stressed in the slightest; he’s intent, laser-focused. If anything, I think he’s enjoying himself—as I am. This is where we’re meant to be, in our natural element, fighting the primordial fight for survival. Not swaddled in silky fabrics and caged in by man-made walls.
We’re home.
We creep forward silently until we come to the source of the noises.
Augustus is standing over his son, Paxton, watching him die. And he’s got a gun in his hand—with a silencer on it. Where the hell did he get a gun? He must have smuggled it in here before the challenge. He’s got guards on his side, working for him—the same ones who helped keep my father prisoner and snuck him into the forest.
Paxton has been shot in the abdomen, and his face has gone waxy pale. He looks up at his father, sobbing. “Why, Dad?” he whimpers.
“Why? Because I’m not giving up my position for anyone!” he snarls. “And definitely not for a weak little bitch like you. Your cousin Solomon, he would have been worthy. It’s too bad he couldn’t just wait another twenty years or so. He was the son I wished I’d had. I’ll kill him quickly.”
Paxton cries harder, tears dribbling down his face. “Dad…the gun…why? The charter—”
“Fuck the charter,” Augustus says.
Paxton’s eyes go wide with shock.
“Want to know how I’ll get away with it? You know how I always carve up my kills? I’ll carve you up, hide the gunshot wound, and dispose of the bullet.”
And I think I understand now why Augustus brought my father here. If I’d died, my father would have found out, and sooner or later he would have come after Augustus. My brothers, they’re tough, they can be assholes, but my father is a crazed, unstoppable force of nature when he’s crossed. He’s like me, in other words.
But if Augustus had my father assassinated, that would have violated the family charter, and if the council ever found out, they would have killed him for it. He must have at least one other member of the family council working with him, because somebody had to recite all the family credo bullshit this morning before the hunt. But I’ll worry about that later.
Augustus kicks his son in the leg, and Paxton howls in pain. “You’re weak,” he snarls at him. “And I’m going to start over. It’s your mother’s fault. I see that now. She gave me weak sons, that treacherous bitch. Robert was my only hope, but he had too much stubborn pride. I’ll claim another bride, and this time I’ll pick a worthy woman who births real men, and one of them will claim the mantle of Patriarch when I’m good and ready to give it up.”
“Daddy…” Paxton’s gone infantile, weeping openly. His face is contorted with sorrow.
Augustus’ head suddenly swivels, and he’s facing in our general direction.
“I hear you in the woods there,” Augustus calls out to us. “You’re next!”
Abruptly, he turns and fires, peppering the thick brush with bullets. My father lets out a grunt, and I see that he’s been winged. He runs off noisily, shouting as he moves. He’s distracting Augustus, drawing his attention.
Augustus fires repeatedly into the bushes, following the thrashing branches. I quickly stand up and hurl the knife at Augustus. It lodges in his right arm, the arm he’s shooting with, and he lets out a strangled cry.
I run into the clearing and wrench the gun from his hand.
Paxton wheezes pathetically. “Please save me,” he snivels. “Please, please…” He looks at his father miserably. “Dad,” he sobs. “Daddy. The charter…”
I ignore him and punch Augustus in the nose, shattering it. He staggers back with a grunt of pain, gurgling and cursing. And Solomon bursts through the trees. He walks toward me, holding his hands up. He’s holding his knife in his left hand, and the superior smirk has vanished.
“Don’t kill him! Let me do it.” His face is flushed, his voice hoarse. “Before you kill me. You can do what he was going to do. You can shoot me then carve out the evidence. Or we can fight hand to hand if that’s your preference. But please, let me kill this motherfucker. I’ve been waiting all my life for the opportunity.”
“Solomon!” Augustus whimpers. “No! I was like a father to you, don’t—”
“You killed my father,” he spits at him, face contorted with hatred. “You killed my brother. You raped my mother, again and again, all you sick perverts, until she hanged herself. She was studying to be a doctor when you kidnapped her. She used to talk to me when we were alone. She begged me to end you. I’ve lived for nothing but this moment, old man.” He looks at me, his eyes glittering with unshed tears. “After you kill me, tell them what he did. Tell them he cheated.”
“No!” Augustus screams, staggering backward. “No, let me die with honor! Don’t soil my memory! Please!”
“Honor is earned, you treacherous little pussy. I’m going to scream your cowardice from the rooftops,” I say icily. Augustus’ eyes are saucer-wide with panic, and blood dribbles down his face.
“By the way, I killed Robert,” Solomon sneers. “It wasn’t Troy or Benedict.”
“Noooo…” Tears dribble down Augustus’ face. “We can…we can work this out… We can find a way… I’m not ready to die! I don’t want to die!”
“That’ll be the inscription on your tombstone, you little bitch!” Solomon’s foot lashes out and connects with Augustus’ kneecap, and Augustus screams in pain.
My father comes stumbling out of the bushes. He falls to his knees, breathing heavily. He’s waxy-pale and bleeding heavily. “Make it count,” I say to Solomon, jogging over to tend to him. I strip out of my jeans and cut off strips to bandage him up as Solomon starts in on his uncle. Augustus screams like a little girl, and the screams last for a very long time.
Finally he falls silent. Paxton stares sightlessly up at the sky, his mouth slack, the misery of his final moments stamped on his face.
My father’s sitting silently, watching. His breathing is more stable, but he’s still alarmingly pale. Solomon looks as if he’s been dipped in a bucket of blood, and there’s a peacefulness to his expression now. He spits on Augustus’ body, then looks up at me and nods. “I’m ready. What do you choose? Are you going to shoot me, or are we going to fight this out?”
My father tenses, his hand closing around his knife. If Solomon goes for me, my father will back me up, even though it will cost him his life in his weakened condition.
This is love. My father loves me, from the depths of his dark soul. And I love him too, despite everything that he’s done to me.
An idea’s been formulating in my head, and I need Solomon for this to work. And although my lust for killing is unslaked, Solomon doesn’t fit my needs. He’s only a threat to me becaus
e the charter forced him to be, and he’s not an evil man at heart.
“No. Neither,” I say to Solomon, the gun hanging by my side, “I’m not going to kill you. We’re all walking out of here alive, and things are going to be different from now on. I’ve got a plan.”
Solomon cocks his head to the side, his eyes bright, his face flushed. “I’m listening.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Bastien
Six hours later…
We’ve showered, and my father’s wounds have been cleaned, stitched and bandaged. He’s getting IV fluids and resting. Solomon got us out of the forest by showing the guard Augustus’ gun and telling them what Augustus did. We were allowed to return to the main house, under guard, to wait for an emergency family council to be convened.
Fortunately, my father, Solomon and I were allowed to wait together in Solomon’s room, where he had a computer. I take the opportunity to reach Simon with new instructions. I still haven’t been allowed to see Camille, which fills me with rage, but I bottle it up to uncork at a time when it will be more useful.
And then, clean and dressed, we head to the meeting room. The room stinks of blood; I smell it even before we enter.
The three of us are led over to the table to face the family council. Solomon has been permitted to bring his laptop with him. My father, white as wax but upright and fearless, is pushing an IV pole.
Oswald Franklin, a council member, is kneeling on the far end of the table. Or should I say, former council member. He’s naked, hands behind his back, with a red ball gag in his mouth and an enormous dildo protruding from his ass. His face is bruised and bloodied and his head lolls. So he was the traitor who helped Augustus and who oversaw my father being ushered into the forest for the challenge. There are four decapitated heads on platters, facing us. Their expressions are distorted, mouths gaping, eyes reflecting the horror of their final moments. I assume those are the guards who worked with Augustus to help him cheat.
Camille, Claimed Page 20
