Page 168

In my stupor, I watch her stir out of her drugged haze. Her eyes flutter open to a half-lidded gaze that slices to the side, where his arm comes around her neck, holding the blade loosely at her throat. Pressing her lips together, she breathes through flared nostrils, as if trying to keep from rousing Adolph’s attention.

When I raise my arm, the trembling of my left hand has me clenching my teeth in frustration. Their two heads become four, and I double blink to focus. The shock and blood loss from my bullet wounds must be settling over me. As if sensing my struggle, Adolph chuckles, and a long, almost serpentine tongue slips from between his lips and licks Céleste’s cheek.

Lips curled in disgust, she clamps her eyes, but when she opens them again, they’re wider than before, as if lucidity is settling over her. Through a blur, I watch as the realization dawns on her face.

“I have a joke for you,” I say, stumbling back a step, willing a steady hand.

The smile on the crafty prick’s face skates down my nerves, urging me to end him. Now.

“Shoot. Don’t even think. Just shoot,” my father’s voice echoes inside my head.

“I never told you,” he says, in a taunting voice. “Your mother tasted delicious, too. I think of that night fondly.”

Rage explodes inside of me. I aim my gun at his forehead. “What do you call a priest with a hole in his head?”

Not a breath later, Céleste weakly throws up her arms. She knocks the blade out of his hand, and falls to the side, tumbling over the edge of the table.

Without hesitation, I fire a bullet through his cheek. “A dead man,” I say, finishing the joke.

A hoarse moan echoes through the chamber, as I hobble toward him and drop to my knees at his side. Mouth gaping in shock, he holds a trembling hand to his cheek, where blood oozes from the hole I put there.

I slam my palm against his throat and squeeze. Hard. So hard, the pressure affects the blood in his cheek, spilling out in angry pulses.

He flails his limbs in a poor effort to fight me. Takes hold of my arm to push me away. It’s no use. All I see is red. Choking and gasping, he claws at my arm.

I draw back a fist and hammer a punch to his wounded cheek. Over and over. Blood coats my knuckles and splashes up onto my face. Punch after punch, all the rage inside of me goads every violent drive of my fist until his face swells.

He stills beneath me.

A flicker pulls my gaze toward a candle he must’ve knocked over on the way to the floor, its flame quickly catching on the book beside it and lighting the old parchment like kindling. The flame catches on other nearby books and the robe of the now dead priest.

I push off Adolph and reach for Céleste with my good arm, just now noticing the blood on her hands. A quick examination shows a small slice across her throat, where the blade must’ve slipped before he dropped it.

“It’s okay,” she says in a frail voice, pushing to her feet. “I think it’s just a cut.”

Perhaps still weak from the drugs, she sways on her feet as we stagger up the stairwell. Screams and stirring from behind must be the others climbing over the rubble, desperate for escape. Glancing over my shoulder, I catch sight of an unmasked member trailing behind.

Samuel Lawson. My fucking high school football coach.

“Thierry! Wait!” he shouts, scrambling up the winding stairwell after us.

I kick through the red door and, urging Céleste through first, slam it shut behind me. The door heaves against my weight, but I hold it shut and flick my fingers for the key still strung around Céleste’s neck. When she hands it over, I lock it, trapping all of them in with the flame.

The sound of pounding and muffled screams comes from the other side. “Thierry! Please! Open the door! Open the fucking door, Thierry!”

Instead, I back away, helping Céleste out of the house. After settling her in the front seat of my truck, I turn around to see the fire has already breached the small chamber, working its way through the rest of the house. By the time I climb into the driver’s seat, the entire place is engulfed in flames.

As I drive down the long dirt path, in the rearview mirror, I watch the raging fire lick the night sky.

49

Thierry

One week later …

Julio sits in the chair across from me, sipping tequila. His tongue sweeps over his lips as he holds up the glass. “Reposado.”

“You condemned me,” I say, setting my glass of half-sipped whiskey on his desk. “You manipulated me into a life I didn’t want.”