by Logan Fox
Rube
When I squeeze into our lair the first thing I see is Apollo on his armchair with a washcloth pressed to the back of his head, wincing as he stares at nothing. Cass comes out of the bedroom like he heard me struggling to get in but for once he isn’t wearing a look like he’s about to tell you the punch line of a joke. He looks grim and serious and it scares the living shit out of me.
“Tell me everything.”
But it doesn’t help when they do, because they don’t know all that much. Apollo got knocked out before Trinity said anything useful.
“And Zach?” I ask, still standing near the exit, barely moving.
Cass drops his gaze. “No answer.”
“What if he got him?” Apollo says, and from the frown that flashes over Cass’s face, he’s only stating what we’re all thinking. “He was supposed to keep tabs on Gabriel’s room. He could be—”
“Cass, go check.”
“Should we really be splitting up right now?” he asks.
I’m about to tell him to go check anyway, but he’s right. Even though we have a huge school to search, splitting up will leave us vulnerable and exposed.
The trick is working out where Gabriel will go. We have to get into his head and figure out his plan.
The fact that Trin had been lying there, waiting for Gabriel to come back…that makes me think she surprised him. Perhaps they fought over something. That room is so far out of the way—maybe that’s where they’d been meeting all this time.
The thought makes my heart calcify.
We’d trusted her.
But Apollo said she was injured. So things must have soured between her and her father. Now he’s taking her away, but where to? Where in Saint Amos could he—
“He’s leaving,” I say, already turning on my heel. “We have to get to the road, try and stop him.”
“How? We’ll never make it!” Cass calls after me, but I’m already sprinting down the library’s main aisle.
They’ll either follow me or go look for Zach. We shouldn’t split up, but I know deep down Gabriel’s leaving. We’d only be at risk if we tried to stop him. I can take him on my own, unless he has a gun. But if he had one, he’d have used it on Apollo.
Not every criminal runs around wearing a pistol on his belt. Not like in the movies. I’ve known plenty of bad people in my life, and not a single one of them would even know how to fire a weapon.
I do. We all do. But we don’t keep guns on us because we know there’s a chance one of them might go off. And who the fuck knows who’d be at the receiving end of that bullet?
Guns are too easy to use, and too difficult to keep hidden. Especially around a bunch of boys still struggling with the fact that they’re men.
The exertion of the sprint hits me when I’m halfway across the lawn. I circle around the side of the dormitory, heading straight for the road.
We don’t know how long Apollo was unconscious for, but the sun’s barely warming up the land yet. It feels like everything’s just happened.
I can’t bear to let her slip away. Not a second time.
When my legs and lungs start burning, I push harder.
And I’m rewarded for my effort. Despite my heart clanging like a race horse’s in my chest, despite the fact that I’m breathing fire, I make it in time.
I turn the corner.
I see the car.
Gabriel’s car.
I’m in exactly the right place to watch him drive off, a shadow slumped beside him in the passenger seat.
He doesn’t notice me because I’m yards away. If he did, I doubt he’d care.
Because I’m too late.
I ran too slow.
I didn’t give it my all.
My legs collapse. My teeth clack together as I go down.
I’m still there, staring at the last place I saw them, when Cass runs up to me. He’s out of breath, muttering something about stairs and smoking, and then his hand is on my shoulder.
I slap it away. I’d stand and face him, but I can’t.
Muscle failure is a bitch.
“Gone?” he asks, but it’s more a statement than a question.
Fucking gone.
And I was so close. If I’d pushed a little harder, if I’d thought just a little faster…
Cass helps me up. The ground feels spongy as we head back to the library. Something catches my eye.
I turn.
Zachary’s standing on the front steps of Saint Amos. The big doors are open wide—Gabriel must have left that way. Zachary turns and disappears into the blackness without a word.
And then it all comes together.
I’d be mad, but I’ve got nothing left. I burned up everything in the useless sprint over here. It’ll take time for my tank to refill.
I don’t say anything to Cass, and I probably should. But sometimes it takes me a while to process things.
Like the fact that we were just betrayed by our brother.
Chapter Eight
Trinity
It was all a dream. Saint Amos, the Brotherhood, Ghosts and Keepers and Guardians. Nothing but a nightmare. Sure, it makes no sense, but how else do I explain waking up in my old room back in Redford with groggy memories of photos and men with knives and losing my virginity in a library with four psychopaths?
My core aches when I try to remember details of the dream though. How they used my body for their own pleasure until they were spent.
Until I was spent.
I’ve had sexy dreams before, but nothing like that. Nothing that intense, that...vivid.
I force myself to picture the Brotherhood’s faces.
Zachary with his intense green-eyed stare and that serpent tattoo on his chest. Apollo with his long, sandy-colored hair and light-brown eyes. Cass—mouthwateringly handsome, but those blue eyes so heartless. And Reuben. Black eyes and such a kind heart.
I sit up in bed, staring around blearily at my room as I scratch my tummy. Daisy wallpaper. French-pane windows. Pastel pink curtains.
My body is stiff, my muscles sore. The itch is what woke me, I think, but it’s hard to remember more than that.
I tug down the sheets and stare at myself. I’m still wearing the lacy white dress. There are a few spots of blood on it. More blood on the inside of my thighs—dried, smeared. My neck feels stiff. When I touch the back of my head, I find a bump on my skull. It should hurt, probably, but it doesn’t. Not really.
The aroma of onions trickles into the room, wiping out my own stink of sweat and dried blood. There’s a distant thump. Someone’s in the kitchen.
Mom? Dad?
Awesome. I should go say hi.
Somehow, I make it to the top of the stairs, even though it’s like I’m walking on clouds. From here I can only see a slice of the kitchen floor—I still don’t know who’s making the noise. The smell of cooking is intense now. I should be hungry, but instead I feel empty inside. Hollow, like a chocolate Easter egg. But in a good way.
I don’t know why, but everything’s good. And if it wasn’t, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t give a damn anyway.
I cling onto the railing as I make my way downstairs because my legs feel kind of unreliable. Cigarette smoke comes to me in between the breakfast smell.
Wait. That’s not right.
Dad’s not allowed to smoke inside the house. He didn’t even do it when Mom went to the shops.
Where is Mom?
She died in a car accident.
I falter halfway down the stairs.
Oh my God. They didn’t both die. All this time, Dad’s been living in our house in Redford while I was sent from pillar to post. While I had to bear the shame of being stranded in a school full of boys, an orphan girl who no one liked. No one except the Brotherhood.
Why would he do that to me? How could he?
The thought is visceral, but with no emotions attached. In fact, I don’t feel anything. Except for a sudden itch behind my neck.
“That you, child?�
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Dad called me that. Child. Like I was one of the kids in church. Maybe he got it from Gabriel.
I clear the stairs. I can see in the kitchen now.
There’s a man by the stove. He has his back to me. There’s a whole fog of smells now—bacon, onions, cigarettes, coffee, burned toast.
The man turns, smiling fondly when he spots me.
I’m convinced it’s Dad, even though I know he’s dead. So convinced that I see him there, right there. So convinced that, when my brain tries to interject, to correct me, I write it off as the fact that he’s got a big Band-aid over his nose, and his face is a little puffy, and that’s why he doesn’t look quite like Dad but just enough that it must be him.
Dad beckons me closer with a spatula as he turns and starts dishing up food onto the plates standing ready on the kitchen island.
“Is this a dream?” I ask him through numb lips. Might as well make sure, after all.
“Would you like that?” he asks. And it’s not Dad’s voice at all. It’s Gabriel’s.
“Dunno,” I say, but actually, I don’t care.
Unsteady legs take me deeper into the kitchen. I stand next to a stool, but I can’t even imagine how much effort it would take to get up.
Gabriel puts the pan back on the stove, dusts his hands, and comes around the island. His damaged face should scare me, but instead it intrigues me. I feel like I should know how he was hurt, but I can’t seem to find the memory. He slips his fingers under my armpits and lifts me onto the stool like I’m a toddler.
“Morning, daughter,” he murmurs, close to my ear, before he walks around the island and takes his seat on the opposite side. “Sleep well?”
When he slides my plate over, I try and pick up the fork propped on top of a piece of blackened toast. My fingers can’t seem to get it right though.
Something is wrong.
With this setup.
With me.
“Hasn’t worn off yet,” Gabriel says, as if talking to himself. He takes a bite of his food and then points his fork at my plate. “You’re probably not hungry. Should I put it in the microwave?”
The fork drops from my fingers, and he chuckles at me as he comes around to my side again. He pushes away the plate and grasps my chin with his fingers, turning my head to face him.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, staring deep into my eyes.
“Not feeling anything.”
He smiles. “That’s good.” He drops his gaze, and it takes me a second to realize he might be staring at my body. I think I should care about that, but I don’t. Not even when he rubs his hands up and down my arms like he’s trying to warm me up. “You’re so dirty. We’ll have to get you cleaned up after breakfast.”
He cups my face in his hands, wiping a strand of hair from my cheeks with his thumb. “You look just like her. It’s uncanny.”
Is he talking about Mom? Where is she, anyway?
“Where’s Mom and Dad?” I should know the answer, but I don’t. Another memory that refuses to come when called.
His smile fades a little. “Don’t worry about them. We’ll get along just fine on our own.” He goes back to his side of the island.
I watch as he eats while my stomach grumbles quietly to itself. It probably means I’m hungry, but the thought of putting food in my mouth isn’t in the least appealing. There’s a soft pattering nearby, and I turn to look at the kitchen window. A gust of wind blows rain against the panes, smudging the world outside.
It’s difficult to tell the time of day with the sun hidden behind the clouds, but I’m sure it’s not breakfast time. Closer to midday, perhaps even past. And we’re all the way back in Redford, a trip that takes hours, but I don’t remember a single moment of it.
And then I do.
The bell tower. Gabriel has a needle. Apollo tries to stop him but he can’t. It hurts going in but then my fear, my resistance, it all melts away into warm, cotton candy nothingness.
After that, there’s only bits and pieces floating around in my head.
A long car drive tainted with the stink of cigarette smoke.
Stopping in front of my old house.
The overwhelming conviction that everything was right with the world, and I was exactly where I belonged.
“What did you give me?” I ask him. Not angry, not even scared.
Gabriel studies me over the brim of his coffee cup for a moment, and then takes a small sip before setting it down.
“Heroin,” he says. Then he gives me a small, secretive little smile. “You’ll love it. Your mother did.”
“You must be getting cold,” Gabriel says as he starts washing his breakfast plate in the sink. I’m still where he put me, and I have a feeling I’ll stay here until he decides to move me again.
“No,” I tell him, and quite truthfully. It feels like I’m wrapped in a thick, invisible cocoon. I don’t even feel air moving against my skin.
“Let me just finish up here, then we’ll go get you cleaned up and into something warm.”
He’s so nice. Always thinking of others.
“I loved them both, you know,” Gabriel says, turning to me as he flicks soapy water off his hands. “It probably sounds strange.” He smiles, laughs softly. “How can you possibly love two people?” Wiping his hands against his jeans, he deepens his smile as he comes closer. “But truly, I did.”
He holds out his hand.
I take it.
It’s still a little damp, but so warm. His grip is tight as he pulls at me, urging me to slip off the stool and follow him upstairs.
“We met at Saint Amos. Of course, back then, it was called Friends of Faith.” He clicks his tongue. “Horrible place. Horrible.” Sighs. “Better now, after the church took over. The new administration was a breath of fresh air.”
He opens the bathroom door, pulls me through, and lowers me onto the closed toilet seat. I sit there and watch as he turns on the tub’s faucet.
“Bubbles?” he asks, holding out a bottle of purple liquid.
I shrug a little. “Sure.”
He tips some in and bubbles boil up and start spreading like a plague.
“You probably think I’m a hopeless romantic.” Gabriel toes off his shoes and goes onto his knees on the carpet in front of the bath. He sticks a hand in the water, agitating it so more bubbles form. “But truly, I was in love. I believe we all were.” He pauses. “That’s why we named you Trinity. Because you were our child. All three of us.”
I nod. Love is a wonderful thing.
He catches sight of the movement from the corner of his eye. “Have you ever been in love?”
“I am.”
He frowns a little at this. “Really? With who?”
“The Brotherhood.”
His frown deepens. He sits back on his heels, putting his head to one side. “I don’t follow.”
I shrug. “Weird. I know. But I am.” Talking is easy. Once I get going, I can’t seem to stop. “I’m not sure about Zach. He scares me. But I love Reuben. And Cass. And Apollo. Different, but the same, you know?”
Gabriel reaches over and turns off the faucet, his eyes not leaving mine. When he speaks, it’s slowly and carefully, like he wants to make sure I understand every word.
“You mean you like them. You were friends with them?”
“No. I slept with them. All of them.”
The slap comes out of nowhere. I don’t even realize it’s happened until after. Suddenly, I’m facing the wall by the bath, and there’s a fierce tingling ache on the side of my face. I turn back to face Gabriel, working a jaw that feels rusty.
White spots pop up on his cheeks. He turns back to the tub, twisting open the faucet so hard it squeaks.
“A whore,” he says quietly as if to himself. “Your father said this would happen. Said you’d take after your mother.”
I lift a hand to my cheek. I should be insulted, but it feels like I’m watching this all play out from the back of my mind. When my body moves, i
t’s like someone else is doing it. When I speak, I’m hearing those words for the first time. “But I love them.”
Gabriel swipes a hand through his hair, leaving a clump of bubbles on the side of his head. They start popping, and I swear it sounds like a hissing snake.
“She could have had her pick,” he says, shaking his head. “Any boy at that school would have been happy just to have her look in his direction.” He nods fiercely, whipping up more and more bubbles. “But she chose my Keith. Always wanted what she couldn’t have, your mother.”
His head snaps around. He looks me up and down, a disgusted sneer pulling at his mouth. “You’re filthy,” he says, in much the same tone of voice he’s been using the whole time. “I hate filth.”
“Is it because of the basement?” I’m dimly aware that I shouldn’t be saying this stuff. That I should be keeping quiet. But my mouth’s on automatic. Words spill out before I can filter them. “Because maybe if you’d cleaned the boys more, you wouldn’t hate filth. It’s psychological. Must be. You hate yourself for what you did. So you hate whatever reminds you of that place.”
Gabriel stops with the bubbles. He doesn’t look at me as he sits back on his heels, hands dangling over the side of the tub and dripping water and bubbles. Then he leans over and closes the faucet.
After the last drop falls, the bathroom is quiet but for the faint hiss of the bubbles.
He clears his throat, but it doesn’t make his voice any smoother. “What basement?”
“The one you kept the boys in.”
He whips his head to face me, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his words sound so hollow, I wonder why he bothers trying to lie.
“You kept them there for years. Four little boys. More, I think. But those four were special. You kept them the longest.”
Gabriel tries to stand, but there’s something wrong with his legs. They tangle, and he ends up sitting on the edge of the bath. The whites of his eyes gleam, his eyebrows almost at his hairline.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says again. Voice hoarse now, but still so rehearsed.
My fingertips start tingling. At first, I think it’s because I’m scared. Terrified even. At least, I should be, somewhere deep inside. It only makes sense.