Page 74 of The Villains of Winter

Elliott was going to be found on Knox Pearson’s property.

Terror stabbed his heart. He needed to act quickly before it was too late.

James raced to the campaign conference gorged with news correspondents, flooded with journalists. For the special election debates, there would be hundreds of thousands of Pittman supporters in attendance in tiered rows of the indoor arena. Millions would be watching at home when it aired on The American Patriot Report on Patriot News. Pittman was a socialist garnering a rapid rise of attention and fame. The special election was announced after the former governor of Montana resigned. James bounded up the stage. He opened his mouth. “I have a confession to make.” Primal panic surged through him.

The columnists swarmed over to him in masses, like scavengers plaguing carrion. “Are you a Pittman staffer, sir?”

“Congratulations. The ‘new-age liberation of the people’ slogan from college canvassers has helped Pittman take the lead!”

James ignored how it felt to be in front of professional newscasters and pressmen. Constituents. Citizens. Voters. Everything he wanted all his life. None of it mattered anymore.

Undeterred, James leaned into the horde of microphones. “On December 22nd of last year, I acted alone as I–”

A camera flashed in his eyes. “Is he the speech writer?”

A committee staffer hissed at him. “James, what are you doing! Step down from the stage!”

James started again, light bulbs exploding in his vision, his earth destabilized. “On the hibernal ceremony of December 22nd, there was a murder–”

“Isn’t there always a murder at the hibernal?” A broadcaster asked in a hush of confusion to someone else behind him. “That’s sort of the entire point in the pagan towns, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, those Connecticutioner pagan towns creep me out. I speed right past the mountains.”

“Right? The Connecticunt pagan towns make the Mormon cults appear normal in comparison.”

“No one is willingly a Crucian pagan these days anymore, that’s why.”

James shook his discomposed head clear. He grasped the esteemed, polished teak of the rostrum. “In the Eisenhower Woods of Æscwulf College–”

“Wilde, get down from there!” The deputy chief of staff ordered him quietly in a hiss. The congressman was due to make an entrance at any moment.

Overlapping voices strained through his ears. James couldn’t register their words. A journalist questioned him. “Are you going to enter into politics one day?”

“No, I’m not. I am a killer–”

“A killer at speeches, for sure. I can’t take credit.” James felt large, burly hands land on his shoulders. The hairs on the knuckles were latticed with scars. There was a thick gold ring from his days in the Crucian League. “Of course, he’ll need to run against me if he ever wants to be a federal congressional delegate from Montana.”

Congressman Pittman practically suffocated James with his arm swung around him.

“Congressman Pittman, describe what you’re feeling right now for us at MTN 7.”

“Empowered. Montana has been republican for a long time, and I was honored to be one of the first socialists elected to congress from our great state in decades. Lionized by all of you, I am prepared to become the first socialist governor of Montana.”

He patted James’s sternum. Hard.

“The governor of Michigan wants to steal him from my staff. Not on my watch.”

James’s brain short-circuited as a man with a headset approached him with a firm handshake.

“Governor Hollins will take photographs with you shortly. He’d like a word with you as well; your slogan strategy was highly publicized. Welcome to the political pit, son.” The Chief of Staff for Hollins smiled at him, however, the Chief of Staff for Pittman pulled James close. His harsh, rancid breath landed on James’s nose as he seethed, “If you ever attempt a derailment again without the archon’s orders, I will execute you with my bare fucking hands behind the alcove. Do you understand?”

​​ CHAPTER FORTY

JAMES BOLTED INSIDE OF HIS penthouse suite, hurling clothes in his suitcase. He left his shaving kit behind. He abandoned his legislative paperwork. He shoved money in his pocket. He booked a direct flight to Kodiak. He barely remained still throughout the eight-hour debates. He wasn’t planning to strategize the special election victory with the rest of the new political aides; he needed to be on the first plane to Arkansas.

James Wilde was officially a political aide for Congressman Pittman, what he’d dreamt of his entire collegiate life, but he didn’t even take his own office badge with him. He discarded it in a heap of delicate suite service dishes. He didn’t care that the polemarch had telephoned the penthouse. He didn’t care that the archon eponymous of Connecticut sent a bellman to his room number with an indiscreet statue of Íkaros disguised as a congratulatory gift.

He would scorch the surface of the sun, tarring his skin alive, plummeting from the sky, melting the wax of his ascent to power, if it meant Elliott wouldn’t be found. He would blaze a fall for the police to follow, if it meant Elliott’s trail went cold.