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Being Victor’s personal hitman isn't something I broadcast. Not even my brothers, who think they know all my secrets, are aware of this particular role I play.
I rub the back of my neck, feeling the tension knotting there. Victor complicates everything. When I was a child, he and my uncle made sure I knew what Hell felt like. I managed to get my revenge on my uncle, but Victor... he's another story. There's a part of me, dark and twisted, that wants to end him. But then there’s this other part, equally dark yet different—it craves the violence, the release that comes with each hit. Victor fuels that part, gives it what it needs to survive.
Victor rises and claps his hands, sending clods of earth scattering to the ground. His movements are deliberate, almost theatrical. He knows I'm watching every motion, calculating, always calculating. He's aware of the thread that tethers my loyalty to him—a thread worn thin by the years of manipulation and pain he orchestrated. Yet, here he stands, seemingly at ease in the twilight of this garden, discussing history as if we were mere acquaintances discussing the weather.
He points toward a corner of the garden where two trees stand intertwined. One, gnarled and ancient, seems almost protective of the younger, healthier one embracing it. The symbolism isn't lost on me; it's Victor's way of storytelling, always layered with meaning, always a lesson.
"Three hundred years ago," he begins, his voice steady and clear, "a priest by the name of Giolla na Naomh planted that tree in remembrance of the martyrdom of his mentor, Laoiseac of the Eventide. Laoiseach was not made a saint, mind you. He sacrificed his life with no real purpose or vision. His death meant nothing to anyone but his student. That tree has been growing in that corner since Giolla na Naomh became the priest of this parish. If it wasn’t for my own interest in historical records, no one living would know who planted that tree."
He pauses, his eyes locking onto mine as he turns his hand slightly, his fingers directed at the younger tree. His gaze is probing, as if he's using the tale of the trees to gauge my reaction, to see if I understand the lesson he’s imparting.
"The day I became the keeper of this garden, I planted that tree right against Giolla na Noamh’s tree," Victor continues, his voice almost reflective as he gazes at the entwined trees. "Now, after all these years, the older tree is failing as the younger tree is competing for its resources."
He turns to face me, those cold, unfeeling eyes locking onto mine—eyes that haven't changed since I was just a boy under his heavy hand. I remember the way the candlelight flickered across his face during those endless nights in the chapel, casting shadows that seemed to devour any hint of warmth or kindness. The light never did reach the dark recesses of his eyes, places where no warmth could possibly dwell.
Memories surge, unbidden. The searing pain as my tiny hand was forced against the flame, the cruel snap of the whip across my back whenever I dared to pull away. Each memory is a blade, each moment a lingering echo of pain. But outwardly, I remain unchanged, a mask of calm connectedness firmly in place. Victor molded me into this—into someone who could endure, who could suppress, and survive.
"I expected the new tree to push aside the old." Victor's voice is a low murmur, barely stirring the air. The little wind that manages to slip into the courtyard seems to snatch his words, whisking them away before they can fully sink in. But I catch them, every syllable, even as they drift toward oblivion.
His gaze stays locked onto mine, hard and unyielding. The metaphor sheds its disguise, and the meaning behind his words crystallizes. He's no longer talking about trees—he's talking about me, Diarmuid, the young tree he carefully planted.
And Oisin, the older tree I had destroyed. The name alone conjures a storm within me: Oisin, the whisper in the dark, the ghost story for unruly children. Yet, to me, he was something else entirely—a protector, perhaps the only adult who never raised a hand against me. It’s a strange irony to be more cherished by a known killer than by your own flesh and blood.
But Victor had other plans. He sent Oisin after Niamh and Selene, a mission from which he never returned. And I, the dutiful instrument of Victor's will, ensured it.
Victor bends over, his hands busy in the soil, attending to a task. My gaze fixes on the vulnerable nape of his neck, and my hand twitches almost imperceptibly at my side. The old urge, the deep-seated need for action, flares up.
"He was of use to you," I say, my voice steady, masking the turmoil underneath.
"Until he wasn’t," Victor replies without looking up, his attention still on his gardening.
"You sent him," I push, needing him to acknowledge it, to voice the betrayal.
"And you stopped him," he returns simply, straightening up to look at me again. There's a flicker of something—approval, perhaps, or the acknowledgment of my role in his grand design. "If you were anything but a King, you wouldn’t be breathing right now, Diarmuid. I must respect your decisions as much as you respect mine. Lord knows we have a long history of disappointing each other." His voice is tinged with a cold formality, as if he’s merely discussing the weather rather than our tangled, violent history.
So that's how he sees it—disappointments. All those years of manipulation and torment, reduced to mere disappointments in his eyes.
"There is one thing that must be corrected, however." Victor’s voice pulls me back from the edge of my brooding thoughts. He sweeps his hand over the soil, uncovering a thick, gnarled root that snakes around the smaller, more fragile roots of the nearby tarp-covered flower bushes. He whistles sharply, a signal that brings others in the garden forward. They clutch tools and move toward the bushes with determined strides.
My muscles tense, every nerve on high alert. For a moment, I'm convinced this is it—this is where my story ends, in the very garden that bore witness to so many of Victor's twisted lessons. Instinctively, my hand drifts to my gun, but Victor's touch stops me. His fingers are light on my arm, almost reassuring, as he guides me away from the scene.
"Japanese knotweed. Very invasive," he explains, his tone now almost conversational. "All of my careful planning within these walls is being destroyed by the growth of something that does not belong."
Victor's voice drops to a murmur, laden with a dangerous edge, as he leans in close. His eyes harden, the threat manifesting in the intensity of his gaze, leaving no room for ambiguity.
"Your Brides infiltrated my Page’s office during the Harvest Moon ceremony. They have also been poking around places they should not be." His voice is a hiss, each word a pointed dagger aimed directly at me. "Control them, Diarmuid, or…"
He lets the sentence hang ominously in the air, turning his head slightly to gaze out at the garden workers. I follow his gaze, watching as they aggressively rip the invasive vine from the soil, their tools chopping and tearing it into pieces with ruthless efficiency.
".. your garden will be weeded," Victor concludes, his voice cold, a stark contrast to the violence of the scene unfolding in front of us. His message couldn't be clearer. The consequences of failing to rein in my Brides are spelled out in the fate of the unwanted vines—cut down, torn apart, utterly destroyed.
Victor claps me on the shoulder, a gesture that feels more like a warning than a reassurance. He then turns away, walking back toward the chaos of the vine removal, leaving me to digest the severity of his words.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Amira
I GRIP THE blade tightly, feeling its cool, unforgiving edge. As I draw it across the girl's belly, a perfect line of blood beads up in its wake—not too deep, not too shallow. The dim light catches the metallic sheen, and I carefully guide the weapon to a new spot along her skin, pressing just enough to maintain the delicate flow.
