by Keri Lake
For a moment, I wonder if she’s lucid right now, because she has never once acknowledged that her grandson was missing, or dead. What she’s suggesting is that her daughter-in-law essentially murdered her grandson by leaving pills where he could reach them.
Warm, wrinkled hands grab hold of my arm, and she lifts her head off the pillow. “Promise me you won’t leave the pills out, the way she did.”
“I promise I won’t.”
“Good. You’ll make a much better mother to my Lucian’s children than she ever was.”
I clear my throat, the embarrassment of her words heating my cheeks.
“I’m going to sleep now, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, of course.” I exit the room with Nell in tow, my mind spinning with questions.
Nell closes the door behind us and blows out a breath. “Way too much excitement for one night.”
The humiliation still coursing through me on Laura’s behalf swells to anger. “Why would you do that? Why would you leave her alone like that?” Perhaps what I’m feeling is irrational, but I don’t care. Tonight wasn’t fair to Laura. Stepping away for a smoke isn’t a good enough excuse for what this poor woman just went through.
Face screwing up into a frown, she gives me a onceover. “Don’t you fucking judge me. Not when you had her son’s face between your thighs.” Her words hit my conscience like a punch to the gut.
“You saw us? You were watching us?” My momentary shock and embarrassment twists into disgust. “That’s why you didn’t hear her get out of bed. Why you didn’t see her get undressed, or leave the room. You were too busy spying on us?”
“Kinda hard to miss when you guys were out in the open.”
We weren’t, though. She’d have had to look for us, in order to see where we were, hidden in the shadows. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that must’ve been for her? All those fucking people seeing her like that? And Lucian! My God, if he can even look those people in the eye after this--”
“Oh, poor Lucian. Let me tell you something about your little Romeo. He didn’t want kids. He didn’t want Roark. And I’m guessing he didn’t want the baby Amelia was pregnant with when she killed herself. In fact, I’d bet that’s why she killed herself.”
“How the hell do you know she was pregnant?”
“One of her labs was accidentally entered in Laura’s medical chart. At first, I thought it was Laura’s, until I looked up the medical record attached to it. Amelia Blackthorne. HCG positive two weeks before she committed suicide.”
“Laura said--”
“I don’t give a shit what Laura said. The woman just walked into a crowded room naked. You think she knows what the hell is going on with her family? Aside from her precious Lucian …”
“You’re jealous.”
“Jealous of what? You and the Devil of Bonesalt? You can have your murdering piece of shit. And if you don’t believe me? Ask Giulia. Amelia never left those pills where Roark could reach them. Never. Roark was afraid to come into her room because of those fucking dolls.”
Giulia told me the same thing the first night I stayed in that room. She said that Roark refused to come into the room, that he was terrified of the doll on the nightstand. Still, that doesn’t implicate Lucian in any murder—Amelia, or Roark’s. Assuming Roark is, in fact, dead.
“You’re making assumptions about him without proof. You don’t even know that Roark is dead, and you’re willing to accuse Lucian?”
“You don’t know anything about him. He’s got his ugly face so far up your dress, you’re blind to everything around you. I’ve seen men show up at the house. Sometimes? They don’t leave. Did you know this castle is built on a big pile of bones?”
The unbidden memory of the man being escorted by Makaio and Rand into the elevator flashes behind my eyes. The one I’m certain was Franco. The horrific look on his face when the elevator doors closed, as if he suddenly realized something. I didn’t recall having seen him leave.
The first tendrils of doubt crawl over the back of my neck. “Why are you still here, then?”
“It doesn’t matter. And whether you believe me, or not, I don’t give a shit. But my advice? Pay closer attention.”
Chapter 38
Lucian
Seven years ago …
Hunched over paperwork strewn across my desk, I cup my face in my hands, mentally trying to block out the screams of my month-old son, Roark, two rooms down. The minutes of the last investors’ meeting are my only prep for the report I’m supposed to present to my father later today, and I’m suddenly wishing I’d made the drive to Gloucester, for the peace and quiet of my office there.
The high-pitched squeal is more than I can take, and I slam my pen onto the desk and push up from my chair. Whatever the hell nanny my mother hired when he was first born must be deaf not to hear those goddamn screams.
“Anna!” I growl, stepping out into the hallway.
A minute later, she still hasn’t appeared, or answered me.
“Anna!”
Still nothing but the incessant wailing from his nursery that, I have no doubt, was intentionally set up in the same hallway, just to piss me off.
I storm down the corridor to the door where the screaming is loudest, and slam through. “Anna!”
Instead of the nanny, I find Amelia sitting in a rocking chair, staring off with her head tipped to the side. She doesn’t make any effort to calm the baby, doesn’t bother to acknowledge me when I enter the room, either.
No sign of the nanny we’ve assuredly paid handsomely to keep this kid quiet. “Where’s Anna?”
At first, I don’t think my voice can reach her over the sound of Roark’s crying, but Amelia lifts her eyes to mine. How much she’s changed over the last few weeks. The bright young girl, once vibrant and witty, now wears the dark circles of depression and misery. Something I refuse to take credit for. “She didn’t come in today. Had some … errand to run.” Every word arrives as if she’s out of breath and weak, hardly audible over those wretched screams.
“Are you going to quiet him, or let him scream all hours of the day and night? I have an important meeting I’m trying to prepare for.”
Her gaze slides toward the cradle, where Roark still hasn’t quieted. Tears fill her eyes as she shakes her head, her bottom lip quivering. “I can’t.”
My mother says it’s post-partum depression, but I can’t stand it, just the same. She does nothing for him. Won’t even hold him. Why she didn’t arrange to have a backup nanny is beyond me.
A screech echoes through the nursery, and Roark almost sounds in pain, his wail shaky and tormented.
Groaning with frustration, I cross the room to his cradle, and find him lying in a pile of blankets, wearing nothing but a diaper. His naked body is red from crying, his face scrunched with agony, as he trembles like he’s been hit with a stun gun.
I’ve not held him once since his birth, mostly because I’m not experienced in holding babies and they tend to make me uncomfortable. But also because a part of me can’t help but think this child was the scheming of both my mother and Amelia. A means of roping me into a relationship with a woman I didn’t love.
Rubbing my hand over my head, I screw my eyes closed, the sound of his screams innervating some part of my brain that makes me want to throttle something. Breathing hard through my nose to calm the rage, I look down at his tiny hand, which shakes with his cries. Before I can stop myself, I reach out to touch it, drawing back my hand on finding him ice cold.
Jesus.
I pull the blanket up around him, covering his hand that remains propped beneath it, and with his shivering, the blanket covers his face. Seconds tick by as I stare down, his cries hysterical now, his small form squirming beneath the blanket. For the briefest moment, I wonder if it’s better to spare this child from a life of parents who didn’t want him. To let him suffocate now, rather than watch him suffer a lifetime of slow and painful asphyxiation.
Instead, I tuc
k the blanket under his chin, and exhale a breath as I slide my hands beneath his little body. I lift him from the cradle, and the hysterics heighten midair, until I pull him to my chest. As I awkwardly try to wrap him up, he slips a little from my grasp, and a gasp flies out of me before I catch him. Fucking hell. My heart slams against my chest at the near miss, and I curl him into the crook of my arm.
His cries die down to whimpers.
Whimpers die down to thumb sucking.
And then his eyes meet mine.
Blue, like Amelia’s, and brimming with curiosity as he stares up at me, going to town on his tiny thumb. What hits me most of all, though, is the trust swirling in them. Does he even know who I am to him? Is that why he stopped crying?
I scan my gaze over the length of him, noticing his miniature feet sticking out of the blanket, and I cover them one-handedly.
When my gaze returns to his, his eyes are still riveted, like the kid can’t get enough of staring at me.
“How dare you look me in the eye like that,” I say, watching the bold little shit stop sucking his thumb for a second, as if he’s trying to study my voice instead. “Do you know who I am?” Only pausing a second, I lift him a little higher. “I’m your father. And you’re really fucking up my concentration with all that crying.”
The awe sketched across his face as he continues to stare up at me leaves a strange feeling in my chest. I can’t explain it. It isn’t pain, or anger. Bitterness, or apathy.
Warm tingles crawl beneath my skin and congregate inside my chest. Everything around me seems to slow down, like I’m floating underwater, just me and him. There’s the apprehension of not having taken in enough breath, but at the same time … contentment. Perhaps even slight euphoria.
My son.
The words echo inside my head while I watch his eyes grow heavy with sleep. A glance back at Amelia shows her sitting in her chair, staring off once more, as if oblivious to us.
When I turn my attention back on Roark, his eyes are closed, his small mouth gaping, chest rising and falling with sleep. The red tone fades to baby white skin, and I dip my head just enough to breathe in the scent of him.
I don’t take my eyes off Roark’s sleeping face as I exit the nursery and make my way back down to my office. Rounding the desk of scattered papers, I take my seat on the leather chair and lay Roark against my chest, where my shirt is partially unbuttoned. Kicking my feet up on the desk, I hold him against me, focusing on the breaths that flutter in and out of him.
My son. Each time the words chime in my head, a rush of tingles follows.
This small, trusting little bundle is mine. Truly mine. Annoying as hell, but mine. Perhaps the only thing that will ever really belong to me, for as long as I live. The thought of such a thing stirs something inside of me. A sensation pulled from the depths of me, because it’s surely one I’ve never felt before.
I think about him lying in that crib moments ago, screaming and cold, with his mother only a few feet away, and my lip peels back in disgust. Petting his back, I take in his tiny size against my chest. So small and fragile, and suddenly, I want to protect him.
My son.
For the first time, I understand my father’s words all those years ago.
And I would kill for what’s mine.
Chapter 39
Lucian
Present day ...
I lead the group of men through the long and winding tunnels of the catacombs. A cold chill skates over my skin as we pass the sarcophagus I had carved for Amelia, as well as the much smaller one for my son. Even now, years later, after the many times I sat down here alone with my thoughts, an ache still blooms inside my chest at the sight of my son’s memorial.
The tunnels open up into a wide cavern, where tables line the perimeter of an enormous floor medallion made up of black, gray and brown pewabic tiles I had imported from Detroit. The center of the medallion carries the likeness of the moth with its skull on the thorax.
Patrick Boyd is led into the circle of tables, blindfolded as every member in the room once stood. Each of the men takes a seat, all of them still wearing their masks from the party.
Following the fiasco with my mother, I had all the women leave at once, along with anyone else not a member of our collective, and I’m looking forward to the end of this inquiry so I can seek out distraction for my humiliation in Isa.
Seeing Patrick’s hands on her triggered a potent rage inside of me, an uncontrollable desire to break every one of his fingers. The sooner I get him out of my sight, the better.
Friedrich Voigt, whom I’ve come to have a completely different relationship with since my time spent at the institute, takes his seat at the head of the table.
I take my seat directly beside him.
Standing before the members, Friedrich clears his throat, a sound that echoes in the cavernous room. “Gentlemen, we are here today based on an inquiry into our collective. It’s come to my attention that Patrick Boyd--”
“Former mayor,” Patrick interrupts, and I mentally groan. If he’s granted membership, he’ll learn very quickly that Dr. Voigt isn’t one who appreciates interruptions. Particularly the rude and unnecessary variety.
“Has come to us in search of knowledge and a deeper understanding of the human psyche,” Friedrich goes on, ignoring Patrick’s ignorance. “For decades, our group has studied behavioral epigenetics of sadism. And now I ask you, Patrick Boyd, what contributions do you feel you would make to our collective?”
Fingers entwined, Patrick swirls his thumbs around each other, a nervous habit, as he stands quiet, seeming to contemplate the question. He shifts on his feet and clears his throat. “Well, I’m not a doctor, or scientist on the subject, but I am a former teacher, and I have encountered a number of personalities throughout the course of my political career that make me question if there may be a link between politicians and this psychopathic behavior that you’re studying.”
“Sadism, specifically. And we already know there is a link between politics and psychopathy. Organizational psychopaths tend to be naturally drawn to leadership roles, which allow them to control a large number of people. While your curiosities are interesting, I’m afraid they’re nothing new.” The boredom in Friedrich’s tone is telling, and I suspect he’s already made up his mind about Patrick’s inquiry.
A long pause follows, and Patrick lowers his head, perhaps feeling defeated. I already knew, from my conversation with him, that his motivations weren’t aligned with our group.
“I actually have a twin. Identical. He’s serving a life sentence in prison for a … very brutal murder.” His confession skates down my spine, and I look back at him, wishing I could rip off that blindfold to see his eyes, to know that he’s bullshitting the group for the sole purpose of gaining entry. “We didn’t grow up together. I was adopted by a good family. He, on the other hand, grew up in a very poor community. I don’t talk about this because … well, why would I? But I would like to understand. To know if whatever he endured was based on genetics that might affect me. Or if his environment contributed to his violence.”
Friedrich sits forward, and the intrigue on his face sends a sinking feeling to the pit of my stomach. It seems Patrick isn’t as stupid as I thought. Seems he’s done his homework.
The entire foundation of this group is rooted in the study of twins, specifically identical, as their genetics represents the best model for study. Of course Friedrich would find this compelling. “Interesting.” Tapping his fingers together, Friedrich scans the group. “We’ll take a brief moment to discuss this as a group. I’ll ask that you leave the room, Patrick.”
One of the members escorts Patrick out of the cavern and down the hall. Once he’s out of sight, Friedrich exhales a sharp breath. “Well, that was certainly a turn of events there.”
There’s no way I’m going to let the bomb Patrick dropped blow up in my face. “One worth investigating. He may be lying.”
“Certainly. And we will need to d
etermine that. However, if it’s true, he may be the perfect specimen for our study.” Friedrich sighs, leaning back in his chair. “If only your son were here today. We’d have a third generation sampling to see if those genetic markers are present in him, as well.”
“My son was not a sampling. He was a child.” I have to be careful with the man. One wave of his hand, and I could instantly become an enemy to this group.
“I meant no disrespect, Lucian. As you know, I value and respect your place in this collective. Your great-grandfather was one of the progenitors of this study. Of this group! If you feel he’s not right for what we’re trying to achieve, know that your vote holds weight.”
“I feel Patrick’s interest is selfish. All around this table sit wealthy and very powerful individuals.” I glance around at all of them, successful business owners and politicians, physicians and high-ranking military officials. All with one thing in common: they find pleasure in hurting others. It’s practically a favor to Patrick, convincing this group to deny him.
And if he is denied, he’ll be watched. If he so much as whispers one word about the collective, he’ll vanish into thin air, never to be seen again, because that’s how strongly they would protect their anonymity. Surveillance is already in place, and when Patrick leaves this party tonight, someone will be following him home.
“I fear this myself. We’ve managed to keep the motivations of this collective pure, but I must say, this new information threw me. However, we will need to look into the validity of it.”
“We’ve not yet had a twin for the study.” The older man beside me, perhaps in his late sixties, is the owner of a chain of home improvement stores, his face the logo for the company. His mask sits on the table in front of him, while he sits rubbing his jaw. “It is a curiosity, to me, anyway.”