by Rina Kent
I crane my head to take a better look. It is Aunt Victoria, Father’s best friend wife.
Father only brought unknown women before. What is Aunt Victoria doing here?
She shakes her head, eyes frantic and wide.
Father broadens his stance and twirls the knife between his relaxed fingers. His shoulders push forward, blocking my vision. “I thought so.”
She screams, her skin glistening with sweat and blood. The red spreads from the carpet to the hard wood floor with compelling grace. Too red. Too bright. Too... real.
It’s beautiful.
Not like the beauty of Mother’s smile or the little stupid things my cousins Tristan and Thia find beautiful. More like the beauty of the scars in Aunt Ariel’s wrists.
Whatever Father is doing to Victoria is beyond beautiful. It’s mesmerising. I can’t look away.
The blood flows red and vibrant, like the colour of the flowers in Grandmother’s garden while in full bloom.
Is Father perhaps like me? Is it hard for him to find things beautiful, too?
Father turns around. My body jerks back to blend with the wall. My hands fly to block the sound of my breathing. Instead, another warm palm covers my mouth.
My eyes widen, hands clenching into fists.
“Shh.” Aunt Ariel faces me, a forefinger on her dark-painted, thin lips. She readjusts a shotgun on her bare shoulder. “Come with me.”
I shake my head. Mother doesn’t like me getting close with Aunt Ariel. She said Aunt is a bad influence and wants to ruin my relationship with Mother.
Aunt Ariel glares at me. “Either come with me or bear Arthur’s punishment.”
Father’s punishment is trouble. Despite liking darkness, a night in the dungeons isn’t my idea of fun.
“Okay,” I murmur.
Aunt Ariel’s blacker-than-the-night eyes glint as she takes my hand in hers. The firearm is tall enough to reach her knees. Although I’m eight, I’m on her shoulder level.
“Are we going to hunt?” I ask, following her hasty steps through the hallway, back to the sleeping chambers.
“No, my dearest nephew.” She throws me a grin over her shoulder, her voice as haunting as the mewling still coming from Victoria. “This will be a lot better.”
We slip into her room, and her hand finally releases my clammy one. She turns to adjust a vase of purple anemone flowers, the only break of colour in the otherwise white marbled and decorated room. Aunt hums a tune of stormy nights and snowy days. It floats in the air and reaches me in the form of a shiver down my back. The room smells like the far end of the estate, our ancestors’ hall, and winter. Barren. Lifeless. Dead.
Aunt Ariel’s pale hands arrange the flowers with undivided attention. Due to the lights, her wrist scars are angry, a lot redder than they usually are. Beautiful. Enchanting. Freezing.
Aunt never wears long sleeves in the quarters. She always shows us her cuts with a proud glint in her eyes. Us, includes me and her pet jaguar. My cousins and Dylan aren’t allowed near her.
Mother disallows me to spend time with her, too, but Father makes me.
I like the beautiful cuts on Aunt’s wrists, but I don’t want to disappoint Mother.
With silent steps, I inch to the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Her stare, colder than a winter night, pins me down.
My hand drops from the doorknob. “Nowhere.”
Aunt smiles, coldness persistent in her features. “Listen carefully, Aaron. Tonight, you and I will save this estate.” She unleashes the shotgun from her shoulders, sits on her favourite white leathered chair, and motions toward the one facing her. “Sit down.”
I walk with heavy steps. The icy blackness of Aunt Ariel’s eyes sends a current of pulses in my ear. Where’s Mother? Didn’t she say she would always be there for me?
The squeak of the leather breaks the imposing silence.
Aunt Ariel leans forward, taking my eyes captive with her relentless ones, her voice monotonic. “Everything is spiralling out of control. Your mother and Alexander are doing their best to turn our heritage into a disgusting happy cliche. Of course, your father and I won’t permit that, will we? Only your father seems to have caught the ‘Eva’ disease. He refuses to kill your mother. No matter how much I tried to convince him. That’s why he allows you around me, I can mould you in any way I like as long as I don’t hurt your snake of a mother.”
“Don’t call Mother a snake.” I glare, ignoring her scowl.
“Don’t defend her!” Her skin reddens but she soon cools down, her voice soft. “She’s a normal boring human, Aaron. Just like your uncle Alexander and his stupid family. Arthur and I aren’t. You’re like us, dearest nephew. Special.”
My mouth dries, but words still roll out from my lips. “How are we special?”
Aunt Ariel grins, her dark red lips reveal a perfect set of white teeth. “Unlike them, we have no weaknesses. Little emotions don’t get in our way. When they do, we crush them.” Her grin gets impossibly wide like a Cheshire cat’s. “We’re a powerful, beautiful chaos.” Her features morph back into neutral, ice in the depth of her gaze. “I thought hard about how to ensure the continuation of our line. How can I remind Arthur of who he is? How do I subjugate both Alexander and Eva into an unredeemable loss? How can I do all that and trigger you to transform into what you truly are?” She pauses, a small smile escaping her. “It seems that a sacrifice needs to be made.” Aunt clutches the shotgun with both her small hands. “I look forward to seeing our future through your eyes, Aaron.”
It happens in a slow motion but still feels all too fast. Aunt aims the hole of the shotgun under her chin. A loud bang echoes in the otherwise silent night, deafening me. Blood splatters on the white chair and onto me. The warmth of it is soothing. It’s nothing like Victoria’s. This blood is filthy. Fragments of tiny bones swim inside it. A rosy organ’s pieces mingle with it. Strands of black hair are tinted red. The place where Aunt’s head used to be looks like the red chaotic painting in Father’s office.
It’s a masterpiece.
Someone is clutching my shoulders. Crying my name. Trying to steal my attention from the beauty Aunt Ariel left behind.
Two arms crush me in their hold, bruising me with lavender. Mother. She smells like spring, flowers, and horses. A warmth that came too late. I don’t want it anymore.
I’m dragged away from the room. My limbs don’t move as I’m snatched from winter’s coldness and thrown into spring’s embrace.
I want to go back.
No, I have to go.
‘Don’t worry, Aaron. I’ll always be with you.’
Frost seeps into my chest, freezing it to stone. I look over Mother’s shoulder to where my headless Aunt sits. I frown when she doesn’t move.
‘I’m not there, dearest nephew.’ Aunt Ariel’s ice-cold voice whispers inside my head. ‘I’m over here.’
. . . . .
Present,
My eyes pop open.
Cold moisture covers my skin like a blanket. My heart pumps blood harshly as my breaths come out in a frenzied mess. I attempt to get up, but the heavy weight on my chest prevents me.
I throw my head back on the bed, the soft sheets absorb the dampness off my skin.
Fucking hell.
The dream was too visceral. Too real. As if that memory happened today instead of twenty-two years ago.
Why in the gates of hell am I dreaming about my childhood?
My subconscious is playing a dirty trick on me. I dreamt those memories because they’re lethal reminders of mistakes. Choices.
First, I allowed another human being to get under my skin. Then, I couldn’t stop at watching, which led me to the second mistake; I took Mae without a prior plan of what to do with her.
One thing’s for sure: Mae’s not allowed to leave.
Not alive, anyway.
This is one of the few times I have acted upon an impulse. I don’t like it. Impulses lead to mistakes. Mistakes are the source of losing control. My haunted dream is the best judge of that.
This situation is in desperate need for a fix.
I glance at the clock. Four in the morning.
“Get off me, Knight.” I push at the warm, heavy body on top of my torso.
His eyes sparkle, differing from the same black-coloured fur. His gaze fixates me as two large paws pin my shoulder blades to the mattress. His claws emerge by an inch, readying to rip my chest.
“Let me go, Knight. I’m not joking.”
He nuzzles his nose in my shirt and purrs, inviting me to play.
“I have things to take care of. If you release me, I’ll come back to play with you and let you stay the rest of the night.” My hands plunge in my black jaguar’s fur, caressing it. “If you don’t, I’ll throw you back with your friends. Do you want that?”
He licks my face, his sharp teeth grazing my skin in a gentle bite. His sandpaper tongue leaves a scratching trail in its wake.
I twist my head to the side and lift my hand. “Up, Knight.”
My jaguar follows his training and gets up. I roll from underneath and leave him on the bed, his strong black body occupying half of it.
I take a quick shower and throw on a shirt and trousers.
When I come out of my walk-in wardrobe, Knight looks at me with eager shiny eyes, expecting me to play with him. Instead, I lift my hand then slowly bring it down. “Sit.”
Knight follows my command.
“Good boy. I won’t be long.” I pat him before leaving my quarters and securing it with a pass code.
Knight and his peers were trained by Tristan and me and thus, only the two of us can command them. They don’t deal well with strangers. Especially when we aren’t around. One of the guards got bit once. I suppose it wasn’t a pleasant experience.
Chilling air greets me as soon as I step outside the estate’s western wing. My boots don’t make a sound in the cut grass that expands beyond sight. Beside the lit passages out of each wing, the vast property slumps in silent darkness.
My guards should be here somewhere. They hide well, I’ll give them that.
Rustles tickle my ears. I turn when Kane comes out of the shadows. He’s dressed in a full black combat suit. Only his blond hair stands out.
He likes to think he’s a ninja.
“Is there something I can help you with, Sir?”
“Let’s take this somewhere private.” I walk ahead of him.
Once we’re inside the weapons’ storage vault, I re-enter the code, locking us both between metallic walls of multiple firearms.
Kane stands in front of the rifles’ wall, seeming unaffected.
I stroll to the semiautomatic section. I pick a random 1911, remove the magazine, and load the bullets. One after the other. No hurry whatsoever. “Tell me, Kane. Do you know why I don’t prefer guns?” I push the magazine back in its stash. With my right hand, I pull back the slide and release it. At the sound of a bullet clicking into the chamber, I aim the 1911 at Kane’s head.
He doesn’t flinch. His loyalty and professionalism are unquestionable. According to the Rhodes’ custom, each family member has a team solely assigned to them. Their ancestors served mine, and therefore, they’re loyal to the bone. They live and train in the estate’s southern wing for multiple generations. Their official title is guards, but they serve us in any way we want.
“Guns are easy and don’t provide you with a challenge,” Kane says in his gruff voice.
I smile. “Correct.”
“Also.” His dull blue eyes meet mine. “You like it up close and personal.”
I lower the gun and stalk around until I’m toe-to-toe with him. “Are you loyal to my family, Tristan, or me?”
“Is this a test?” My team’s chief’s gaze remains unfazed. “You won’t believe me even if I answer you.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Now, why do you assume that?”
“You don’t trust people, Sir.”
“I trust their fears.”
“I won’t dare betray you, Sir.” Kane straightens further. “Unlike you, I have people to care for.”
“Lovely. Now that we’ve established that.” I put the gun back, reach into my pocket, and fetch a picture of Mae. She was laughing with her friends. Her light giggle had me click the shutter of my phone’s camera without prior thought. I hand it to Kane.
“Her name is Mae Wilson. I want a complete file about her. From primary school pictures to medical records.” I pause. “Everything.”
His eyes narrow, but he soon masks it. “The guest you brought earlier.”
Only she’s not a guest. Neither a target. Which should make her off the estate’s ground.
I edge closer. “Needless to say, no one but you knows about this or else, I won’t be funding your revenge anymore.”
“Noted.” Muscles flex in his bulky posture. “Are you... going to hurt her, Sir?”
“No.” At least not now. But Kane doesn’t need to know that. He can be sentimental as hell.
He turns to leave but, before he reaches the door, faces me again. “My team isn’t the only one monitoring your activities. Tristan and Dylan aren’t stupid.”
“Neither am I.” I point at him. “Or you for that matter. You better not screw this up, Kane.”
“I won’t, Sir.”
One thing’s settled.
When I return to my quarters, instead of ascending the stairs back to Knight, my feet lead me through the narrow sub-terrain corridors to my captive.
My mind wraps around the new concept. I don’t take captives. Unless abducting, torturing, then killing my targets counts.
Inviting a dilemma who can jeopardise my agreement with Tristan is a huge mishap.
The thing is, I didn’t plan to take Mae. I only meant to observe her up close. But that led to an uproar of the voices residing in my head.
‘Take her.’
‘Do it.’
‘Now.’
Monsters kept chanting every second of the minute, pounding on my resolve as if dragging nails over a chalkboard. Then there was the thing with Celeste. My mind was busy analysing perspectives when Mae slipped and fell unconscious at my feet. As if offering herself on a golden platter. All conditions set out too perfectly for me not to indulge.
One minute she was there, dancing and drinking with her friends. And the next, poof. Gone. Just like that. No one saw a thing. No one heard her desperate calls for help. No one could’ve saved her from my clutches.
Mae wouldn’t have fallen in my grasp if she hadn’t been in that dark alley the night I first met her. Another victim of the cliché of being in the wrong place at the very wrong time. I’d feel sorry for her if I knew how to pity people.
She’s asleep now, unaware of what has befallen upon her. I cleaned and bandaged her forehead wound when I carried her into the dungeons. A cube-like room with faint yellow light, controlled by a remote switch.
Her chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, drawing my attention to her delicate form. She’s so pale, it’s almost inhuman. I would probably bruise her if I touch her the wrong way
.
To my surprise, and utter confusion, that’s not what I want right now.
Do I even know what I want?
‘Sure you do. Kill the damn girl, Aaron.’
‘Her blood would look exotic against that skin.’
‘You still didn’t give us blood in case you have forgotten.’
‘Do it, Aaron. Snatch the life out of her. Cut the arteries of her neck, then—’
A soft moan interrupts the demons’ schemes. I sink back into the shadows of the dusty corner, thankful for the distraction.
Mae raises shaky hands to her forehead. Her fingertips brush against the bandage and she winces. Most likely due to a hangover, since her injury is a mere scratch.
She cracks her eyes open and uses her elbows to get up, but her body fails her. With an exaggerated groan, she closes her eyes and collapses back on the metallic bed with clean sheets.
Once again, the dungeon room is submerged in total silence. Only the faint sound of our breathing echoes.
Her eyes shoot open and she sits in bed, with ease this time. She looks down on herself and releases a puff of air. Then, she scans the dimly lit room with a haunted look, like she’s expecting a monster to pop out any second.
Placing one hand in my trousers’ pocket, I push out of the corner, granting her what she’s searching.
Mae’s movements freeze. Her mouth hangs open and her pupils dilate, decreasing their blueness. She swallows and stares at me for what seems like hours, assessing every inch of me. All the while, her fists clench the mattress’s material.
It’s visible. The realisation that she no longer has her princess-like life and bright entourage. That her dreams are substituted by a dungeon and me.
Typical reaction.
You see them struggle to make out the reality of things. Then, they resort to bargaining with their little heads, trying to draw a magical escape. When that doesn’t work, their world shatters to bloody pieces. Their beliefs scatter all around them and their minds bombard with ‘why me?’ and ‘who is he?’
It’s wonderful.
Their reactions make my heartbeat rush. My hand yearns to plunge a knife into their skin. Listen to the sound of steel infiltrating the fresh. Feel tendons rip under my grip. Watch blood pool around them as life leaves their eyes.