by V. F. Mason
There should be a greater mission that sends the right message to the masses.
“Then handle it.” What the fuck is wrong with him? Protégés can play and learn all they want three days a week while he keeps an eye on them. I usually participate when I’m showing them something or there is an extreme situation. The rest of the training happens in the special apartment block in Brooklyn, only because Arson insisted he would handle it.
Speaking of Arson. “Arson is there to train his new student, right?” One of the reasons I can sit here and search for a fucking needle in the hay.
The answer is so close I can almost physically feel it in my heart, but it’s still invisible.
Speeding up the process seems like the best course of action. I grab my phone and quickly type a message to Jaxon regarding a new finding, when Levi clears his throat again. I motion for him to continue then get the hell out so I can focus on the situation at hand. He timidly speaks up and my insides freeze.
“Valencia is there.”
Valencia
Stepping back, I glance around for an escape route, because this freaking blonde is coated in blood! But she just huffs, rolling her eyes. “Honey, don’t get scared. It’s not mine.” She thinks that’s what scares me? She leans closer, whispering through the corner of her mouth, “You should see the other guy. He is drowning in it after I cut open his artery. Perfect cut on the first try.”
She puffs her chest while I just blink, faintly replying, “You don’t say.” I need to get the hell out of here. Who is this person? Does he have a school for the people here, or are they a gang?
“Yes. I’m talented.” She pins her blonde locks higher on her head, and the gesture emphasizes the fullness of her breasts. “Torture is an art form.”
This is so surreal I have no idea how to describe it, but at the same time, her words play on repeat in my head. I used to say that everything is an art form, depending who looks at it. But how can one be artistic about killing and be breezy about it? Are people just devices for them, like for a painter his brushes, or for a dancer the stage?
Art usually gives solace to a person in a way that he or she can bury their pain, at least in my experience. Does torture bring serial killers the same? Temporary escape from the demons that haunt them, even if they became said demons?
“Doll, you’re all pale. Haven’t killed before?” she asks worriedly and pats me on the back with her freaking blood-smeared hand, exhaling heavily. “It’s only hard the first time. After that, it’s a safe ride,” she says to me and looks around. “Which one is your room?”
I finally find my voice. “I’m new. How many are there here?” Playing along seems like the best bet in this situation; maybe at least I will get some explanation.
So far, it has been nothing but a mess that each new truth confuses me and sends me down the rabbit hole.
“Ten.” She points at the nametag of the room behind her. “This one is number two, belongs to Arson. I’m not familiar much with what happens in the others though.” She pouts, and that’s when a guy emerges from the room, and I have to do a double take, because he is huge.
I crane my neck to study him better and to see various tattoos gracing his skin as he stands in jeans, boots, and elastic gloves while his blue hair is neatly put together in a tight man bun. He flips a lighter through his fingers while scanning me and then addresses the blonde. “Mina, get back inside.”
Mina? As in the one who killed Max? A gasp escapes me, but she just waves it off. “No worries, doll. No sex is happening here. I probably forgot to cut off his freaking—” Whatever she continues to say is lost on me as Arson pushes her inside and then, with one last glance at me, shuts the door behind them.
Okay then.
Clearly the guy is unfazed with my presence.
Taking a deep breath, I decide to push back all normal emotions and reactions to the situation, because panicking or acting like an idiot—I’ve done enough of that already—will bring nothing but losses.
I can lose my shit once all this is over.
I pass by different doors, and through most of them, I hear groans and moans. Somewhere there is drilling and then screams.
Filled with nothing but agony and torment.
Pressing my palms against my ears, I reach room number one and it says Lachlan, and there is a security code pad next to it.
With shaking fingers, I tap his date of birth into the keypad, even though it’s a very far-fetched idea, but that’s the only information I can work with. Isn’t the password always something easy that no one expects?
Red light and enter the right password. Did I truly think he would put such an easy code?
“What do you think can destroy a powerful person?” I ask, munching on ice cream as we stroll down the road on the sunny Monday after yet another trip where they spoke about various renaissance leaders.
“Weaknesses.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you possess something they hold dear to their heart… a powerful person will snap. It’s just a matter of time.”
Can I be, despite all odds, his weakness?
I type my date of birth, and it opens with my surprised gasp, and once I’m behind it, the door automatically closes.
And while I should be worried about it and think about repercussions, I can’t.
Because the picture that greets me leaves me speechless.
One single table with pins and staples and a chair sit right in the middle of the room. Three walls surround it; each one of them acts like a bulletin board.
The one on the left from me has numerous pictures of young people either smiling into a camera or laughing while posing for the picture during some kind of camp.
Along with every happy picture, there is the same pic of them at the same age, but there is nothing but sadness. Gloomy teenagers mostly wearing black, or having pain along with anger flashing in their eyes.
And finally the third pictures have them, I assume, all grown up and with lethal expressions. It’s as if they are all different people, but I can see traces of their pasts in them.
By the pain still present in them.
I read aloud the few nametags. “Shon, Sociopath, Arson, Jaxon, Isabella, Amalia.” Are they his students? Does he teach something?
And then I move my gaze to the wall in the middle that has different men scattered all over it with arrows to their social circle, financial situation, family name. Their whereabouts and their weaknesses. There are around fifteen of them, and each of the pictures has a red X on it, indicating that they were dealt with. The last one is Max.
As if he eliminated everyone on his list.
I cover my mouth with my palm as I see the pictures of them all dead, torture inflicted on their body; some are burned, other have knives, and even… snakes?
What have they done to Lachlan that he shows this much cruelty to them? No one harbors this much anger for nothing, and the crimes are not done impulsively.
No, he clearly hunted them to deliver the blow they didn’t expect.
On a loud exhale, I shift my attention to the right wall, which has no one but me.
My whole life spread in one horizontal line starting from my early childhood, spanning pictures of my first ballet trophy and then Jason.
Next to Jason is a photo of his daughter and girlfriend, and they seem like a happy family. I’m glad he found that with someone; his soul needed it. We never would have been a good couple, or rather, I would never have been able to give him what he sought.
But since all the arrows point at me, there is another picture, but with a question mark, right above me, connecting me to that mysterious person that has nothing but P written above it.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think that having me as his prisoner was not his plan all along, but simply a way to get to the question mark.
My knees wobble and I sit down on the chair, rest my elbows on my knees, and gulp deep breaths, analyzing it all.
&
nbsp; Successful businessman, a bad boy who chases an adrenaline high. How freaking ironic!
What a great mask to hide all that is living within him. Based on those people and what he showed me with Max, he has here an academy for serial killers.
He teaches them all this while in his spare time killing all the people who did him wrong; he is too attached to them to think otherwise.
The door buzzes, and I don’t have to look up to know it’s Lachlan. At this point, I won’t be surprised if he injects some kind of chip in me to know my whereabouts. “Who are you, Lachlan?” I ask, and he walks to the table, leaning against it as he speaks.
“A man.”
“That much is clear. You’ve spied on me since I was a kid?”
He chuckles, apparently finding it fucking hilarious. “Our age difference is ten years, Valencia. This is an informative board, but I gathered the information before the hunt.”
“That’s what it all was then? A hunt. What a liar you are.” I look at him, and he shrugs, although I don’t miss the dangerous flash of his eyes.
“I’m the devil—that’s true. I’m not a liar though. Everything I told you is true.” He leans toward me and locks my chin with his fingers. “My desire to have you was one thing I didn’t consider.”
I slap his hand away, ignoring the tingling in my hand from the contact. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Make up your mind, Valencia. You either want honest answers or you don’t.”
As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. I feel like I’m so close to discovering the truth. Even though I’m not sure how long I’ve been here… it feels like forever. I need clarity on the situation.
The constant state of confusion just kills me.
“Who are these people?” I point at the left wall, wanting a clear answer.
“My protégés.”
I blink several times, clearing my throat. “Protégés?”
“I personally picked them to teach them torture. I consider them mine if they will kill under my instructions. Because then they know how to do it right. Except Shon. Sociopath handled him.” He beams, rubbing his chin. “Each one of them became masters of their craft. I’m proud.”
“Proud that you made them serial killers?”
He tsks. “I can’t say that. The circumstances of their lives have done it. I just helped them to concentrate on something specific and not kill everyone they see fit.” As in focus on specific victims? “Trust me, you don’t have to feel sorry for the people they kill.” But then he wiggles his index finger. “Although I’m not sure about Amalia. She has her moments, but what a talent.”
“It’s sick.” Licking my dry lips, I continue, “You had all the resources to help them, but instead you’ve created killing machines.”
He grabs me by my elbow, dragging me to the wall, and holds my shoulders as he points at the black-haired girl called Isabella. “I found her on the streets of New York. She lived there for about a year. You know what she did during the night? Killed men. And you know why? Because her uncle dearest raped her all the fucking time at home, so she got out. But she saw him in every other man.” He doesn’t stop at my horrified gasp. “I gave her resources to channel it to the right people, to kill those who inflict the same damage. Not every single random guy who tries to play grab-ass.”
“They are all victims. They needed psychological help.”
“Yeah, well, it was too late for that.”
He lets go of me and I turn to him, shaking my head. “So what? You run a hero organization killing those bad people in the name of the greater good?”
I expect him to agree, but I’m taken aback as he laughs, and oddly enough, this time amusement laces his tone. “Greater good? There is no such thing for serial killers. Everything comes from selfish desires.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Every time they kill their victims, they are doing it for themselves. For a brief moment defeating the demons that haunt them. Until the next time. Yes, they cover it up with these people who are assholes, but the truth is they are doing it for themselves. That’s human nature. We are selfish creatures.”
“So everyone gets a pass to your school?”
“No. I choose carefully who enters the mansion, usually only my students, and I rarely pick new ones. But the club in Brooklyn is fair game. I only take interesting cases, and those happen rarely. Anyhow, Arson takes care of that. I have other things to deal with.”
I’m done with this conversation of his school or whatever the fuck this is! It’s insane and just confuses me with each explanation.
So, willing all my courage in my fists, I ask the only question that truly matters. “What did they do to you, Lachlan, that you need me to get to X person?”
Lachlan
Determination written all over her is a nice change from the victim-of-the-year mask she has been wearing for the last couple of hours, so a grin pulls at my lips, which she doesn’t welcome. “And these men… what have they done to you?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes! Please tell me the truth, so when I die, I’ll at least know why!” she screams into my face, and I wave it off.
“No need to be dramatic, Valencia.” I straddle the chair, pointing with my thumb behind me. “He is the guy I need to hurt. You are the key for that. Simple as that.”
She blinks and then swallows, but before she can comment, I continue, “These men destroyed my childhood, so they deserved it. The younger ones were the sons, and for the record, not all of them committed crimes. Some just stayed silent when they should have spoken up.” I watch her face as she dwells on something. I can practically see the thoughts swirling in her head.
Then she finally asks with a trembling voice, “Does this mean… does this mean… did they…” She takes a deep breath and forms a question. “Did they rape you?”
“No,” I reply, and she sighs in relief, but then freezes as I say, “Only Bill raped me. I was his favorite toy. And Uncle, but he died a long time ago, so he didn’t make it to the list.”
She slides down the wall and sits on her calves, tears forming in her eyes as she places her hand on her mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
I don’t say anything but wait. Wait for the words that will surely come.
“That’s why you are who you are and do what you do,” she concludes, and the way she looks at me changes. There is still fear, but also tenderness, although one might mistake it for pity.
“I am who I am because of my choices.”
Her shocked eyes travel up to me, and I go to her, kneeling in front of her while my hand laces in her hair to bring her closer. Her divine smell will be the death of me; the fucking lavender will be forever imprinted in my brain. “Don’t fall down the rabbit hole, pretty girl. There is never justification for what I do. I’m a bad man who does bad stuff.”
“You didn’t know any better.”
A hollow chuckle slips past my lips. “I’m not the first person to experience pain, Valencia. But not all people succumb to bad desires. There comes a time where you choose sides, and I choose this. But in no way does my past give me a free pass. A kill is a kill. A good man wouldn’t have done it. Remember that.”
She puts her hands on my chest, fisting my shirt as she trembles, probably with fury or desperation, or maybe both. “Why am I the key? Tell me, Lachlan. I’m begging you.” Tears slide down her cheeks. “If you explain, maybe I will understand.”
But this is the one thing I can’t tell her, not yet.
And no matter how much I want her…. my plan will come first, because I cannot allow this madness to continue.
As I said, I’m not a good man.
Chapter Seventeen
Lachlan, 12 years old
Anna lands on the seat next to me, excitement shining brightly from her eyes as she drums on my piano. “Play for me?”
“Sure.” Slowly, I finger the notes, starting the theme song
of Braveheart, putting my spin on it. She sighs in admiration while the music echoes between us, and I close my eyes, allowing euphoria to spread through me at the prospect of freedom.
Just two more months and I will be free of Pastor and his guests. We will finally be able to build a life and get the fuck out.
My fingers halt when I think about other kids going through the selection process, but no matter how much I agonize over it, there is nothing I can do right now.
But someday, I will; I just need to get out. I’m smart, or so some international results say, especially in science, and Pastor already told me that for my excellent behavior in the last two days, he might send me abroad once I turn fifteen.
He hopes I can help him run the community, as he calls it, since he doesn’t have an heir.
I hate him with all my guts, but for freedom, I have to pretend and use any weapon available in my arsenal. “Kids, wash your hands. Dinner is ready,” Aunt Jessica calls from the kitchen, and Anna’s eyes widen while she whispers dramatically to me, placing her hand on her chest. “Finish it!”
Laughing, I resume playing with one hand, while hugging her close to me, and she rests her head on my chest. This little munchkin is the one thing that gives me the drive to move forward. I’m a dirty sinner anyway.
But her? She is an angel who deserves to live in a bright world where evils of this world do not touch her. Thankfully, her father died of a stroke three years ago, and I didn’t have to worry about that asshole touching his own daughter when I was not around.
Enjoy heaven, you fucking asshole.
Life at home has been nothing but bliss, and I’m glad for all the useful stuff like a washing machine we have due to me being one of the selected ones. Aunt Jessie has already worked hard on the plantation, taking care of plants and leaves to use for medication. She didn’t need to worry about dishes and stuff.
I finish on the high note and Anna claps loudly, and that’s when I feel Aunt coming close to me and putting her hands on my shoulder. “Your talent becomes better and better with each year. You will do such great things. I’ll make sure of that.” She hiccups and tears roll down her cheeks, and my brows furrow at this.
