by Amo Jones
He turns over his shoulder, his hoodie covering the outline of his face. “And you have Saint. But you also have a duty.”
I clench my fist as our driver continues to drive us closer to the border. I jolt in my seat when the tires roll over the train tracks, directing us to the east side of Riverside. The bright lights and opulence of the west slowly fades out as the modesty of the east bleeds in.
I lean my head against the back of the chair. “Nate. Put on ‘Day of the Dead’ from Hollywood Undead.”
“My man!” Nate cheers, flicking through his phone and pushing play on the song, cranking it all the way up. Nate is right. I have Saint, but I’ve always had her and it’s never stopped me before from what I do on a weekly basis. If anything, she’s safe. She’s surrounded by some of the most feared individuals in not only the United States, but other countries, too, but there’s a reason why I’ve wanted to take my revenge slow, and not rush through it. Maybe stripping Josiah Garcia from Elijah will be a good thing. I always planned to take Elijah last, so he can watch as his family suffers. I want him to know that he’s the final of the Garcia line and I’m about to fucking cut it.
The car pulls up to a stop outside a quiet suburban-style house. The front porchlight is on, curtains drawn.
“Aside from my shit,” I say, running the cushion of my thumb over my bottom lip. “We do this for all the other people their decisions have affected throughout the years. This is deeper than me.”
“Since when do you give a fuck about other people?” Nate jokes, turning the music down.
“You don’t have to give a fuck about someone to know what happened to them is wrong, you fucker. And besides, you didn’t see the shit I did.”
They both remain silent. Eli turns in his seat to look over Hunter’s shoulder as the other G-Wagon pulls up behind us with the headlights cut. “Got to say, good to have the whole crew back.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Yeah, true. Even if only for one night.” In the Bugatti behind is Jase, Cash, Ace, Saint—the King Saint—and Chase. The whole fucking crew we started with. It feels good.
“Execution style, Brantley,” Bishop repeats beside me.
The corner of my mouth tips up in a smile.
“I mean it.”
I tap his leg. “Oh, I know you do.”
Swinging open my door, I slide out and make my way to the front of the house, pulling out my Glock from the back of my jeans.
“Bran!” Bishop snaps from behind me. I’m over the talking. Josiah Garcia isn’t who I want. Elijah is. I turn over my shoulder as footsteps thud from behind me.
I pull my hoodie over my head. “What?”
Bishop grinds his teeth. “He’s not here. Get back in the fucking car.” He turns to walk back to the SUV. “Fucking drive-by it is.”
I make my way back, cursing that his kill is going to be something easy and clean. I had every intention of carving my initials over his forehead, despite Bishop’s wishes.
Slamming the door once I’m back inside, I glare at Bishop. “How do you know?”
Nate flips his photo to my face. “Spotted by one of our eagles.” The eagles in The Kings are how we know the exact location of everyone. Yeah, technology is good, but it’s still not as reliable as the human eye.
“That’s on our side. What the fuck is he doing there?” I ask as the driver pulls us back out on the road and the Wagon behind us follows.
“Don’t know, but he won’t be there for long.”
It takes us fifteen minutes to get back on the west side, and as every second passes, I find myself more and more restless. Nate switches the song as Bishop throws his hoodie over his head and loads up his AK.
I crack my neck, my fingers tapping the door handle. This will for sure be the start of a fucking war, but I’m good with it. I’d kill and be killed before anything touched Saint.
“No witnesses.” I flick my gat around my fingers.
“Agreed,” Bishop murmurs as the car slows.
There are about five people standing in a parking lot, two cars parked on the curb. No doubt whatever they’re doing is shady as all fuck. About as shady as us rolling up to murder them all. “Wait and Bleed” by Slipknot spills from the speakers as my window rolls down. My mind moves in slow motion, as if it doesn’t want to miss a single fucking detail.
Bishop rests the AK on the windowsill and pulls the trigger. Bullet casings spray behind him, but not before I flick my hoodie off my head to expose my face, raise my gun up and point it right between the eyes of Elijah Garcia who stands right beside his father. Running my tongue over my teeth, I flash him a smirk, blowing him a kiss as my finger squeezes the trigger. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Blood explodes from his forehead as his body drops to the ground.
“Go! Drive!” Bishop moves back into his seat as our driver speeds off with the rest of The Kings behind us. “Fuck, you got Elijah?”
“Yeah.” I rest my gun on my lap. “By the way, not how I wanted to do this.”
“I fucking know,” Bishop says to me. “Which is precisely why we had to do it like this. Too messy and not enough time.”
“You guys are forgetting that we killed the Dux of The Gentlemen and his beta. Not their whole crew.”
I sit on his words as we drive toward the next phase. “Well aware, but still felt fucking good.” I’m not going to pretend we know a lot about The Gentlemen, because we don’t. We don’t know how much they’ve expanded over the years, and although Elijah’s murder wasn’t exactly how I had it planned, I still relish in the fact he saw my face as he took his last breath.
“Well, fuck. Phase two come the fuck at me,” Bishop says smugly.
The cemetery is no different than others, only a little edgier. The sites are aged, yet maintained, but there are more tombstones than there are gravestones with most of the families choosing to display than to bury. We’re all standing in the middle of the Hayes tomb when Hector and the rest of The Fathers walk in, Hector’s jaw tight.
“I take it that was all of you?”
Max, Raguel, and Johan stand beside Hector, as Gabriel hovers toward the back.
“You boys have sure not made my life easy,” Gabriel mutters from behind, shaking his head. Gabriel, Nate’s father, is the Peacemaker of The Kings. It’s almost comical to picture Nate filling that role of his family; it makes more sense to have him on the school board instead.
“Boys, I said one kill. You all took out five, and they’re not men you wanted heat with.”
Bishop leans forward, resting his hands on the large boulder that sits in the center of the space. A small fire burns in the middle, flames licking the darkness and offering a smudge of orange light. “Who were they?”
Hector sighs, pinching his eyes with his fingers. “We will talk about that later. For now, let’s just continue with the phases.” Hector moves through the speech, speaking in Latin, and I watch as everyone slices themselves on their finger to drop their blood inside an old rusted bowl. Truthfully, I find the rust shady as fuck more than the blood. Hector continues speaking the six commandments as we all take a sip of the whiskey spoiled blood. See what I did there.
Saint—the guy Saint—is the final one to take a hit before placing it on top of the boulder.
“As you know, you’ve all come to fulfill your duty and placement in the Kings’ world. You all contribute to how we remain strong in the universe, unbroken. For generations, this has never cracked. I will be going a separate way next year, which will furthermore make our line strong.” He pauses, and my eyes find Bishop, who looks between Nate and me. What the fuck is he talking about, going a separate way? Hector continues. “Where I am going will be extremely beneficial to our world and will be opening even more doors. Hunter will be coming with me.” I still. “Who will serve as my right hand. You will know. More details soon, but for now and always” —Hector smiles at his son, lifting the rusted bowl and bringing it to his mouth—“we reign.”
Saint
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nbsp; There has to be fifty or so people floating around the room, as soft classical music fills the space. Waiters are passing around small finger foods and alcoholic drinks, and every now and then I find people staring at me. Of course, I don’t see what they look like behind the face paint, but there’s no mistaking their openly glaring at yours truly. I find myself drifting in and out of focus. I haven’t heard from Brantley or Bishop at all. My anxiety is rolled into a nice little package in the apex of my gut, and no matter how much I sip on this champagne, it doesn’t seem to settle.
“Hey.” Tate slides up beside me. “Have you seen Tillie? I think she’s still upset with me.” Her eyes are swinging around the room as she taps her French-manicured fingernail against her martini glass.
I sip on my champagne. “She’ll come around. Just give her time.”
Tate exhales, before turning to face me. “Do you know Tillie? That bitch holds on to a grudge harder than Nate’s initial commitment issues.” Liquid shoots up my throat when I stifle a laugh, swiping the excess from my lips. She continues, her tone softer. “I just wanted us to be okay for Madison.”
I squeeze her arm. “I promise. It’ll be fine.” We’ve been here for three hours, and The Kings are still not back. I catch people looking at their watches and phones to check the time, and every now and then, Scarlet and Elena pass worried looks between each other, so I guess it usually never takes this long. The lights dim and people stop talking. Scarlet is beside me in a flash.
“Saint, the piano is yours now.”
“Oh.” I hand her my champagne flute. “Thank you.”
The room remains silent as I sashay across the floor, making my way back to the small stage I spent an hour at tonight without burning out my voice.
I clear my throat slightly, adjusting the mic. I assume the boys are back, since everyone is eerily silent. So my fingers float over the keys to the intro of “Familiar Taste of Poison” by Halestorm. I’m so lost in the lyrics and hypnotic tune of the song that I don’t realize when the song is almost finished. I slowly open my eyes mid-chorus and catch Bishop staring from across the room, his mouth snapped shut. I don’t need to be near him to know I’ve struck a nerve.
Good. Well done, Madison.
I pelt out the rest of the song, keeping my eyes on him as I sing through every lyric. I feel Madison’s pain as I drag each note out, but I can’t acknowledge her pain without being consumed by his. When the song is finished, I watch as he remains frozen to the spot. Nate, Eli, Cash, and Hunter are behind him, with Brantley slightly beside.
I take a sip of water, stretch my neck and fingers, before I slowly begin the final song.
The song I chose.
This time, my eyes are not on my broken brother, but rather on my dark King.
I allow the beginning of the song to drag out a little longer, playing the keys effortlessly as I find my breath and the notes I need to hit in order to do this song justice. Miley Cyrus is an underrated artist, with people too busy focusing on her life and her mistakes, forgetting about her talent. I’ve always had a soft spot for “Look at You,” and aside from the fact it was one of the first songs I played on the piano, the lyrics, as of late, have become increasingly relevant to me, my life, and my feelings where Brantley is concerned. My mouth opens as I start the song, no longer wanting to watch him. He’s in a dark button-up, unbuttoned at the top, jeans that are destroyed at the knees in the name of vanity, and black Jordans. His hair is messy, his face paint immaculately haunting, but his eyes… his eyes are wild. Untamed for his beast.
I sing through the song, hitting the chorus and notes perfectly while surprising myself. I go through the whole song without allowing myself to catch his attention. It’s not until I’m close to the end that I snap and allow our eyes to connect. My world tilts at the venomous connection, and if I wasn’t seated, my knees would give way. A small smile pulls on the edge of my mouth as I belt out the rest of the song.
I finish the final line when the light above me completely cuts out. There’s a pause of awkward silence before clapping breaks through. I thought they were silent because of The Kings, but that wasn’t the case.
It was because of me.
And then I remember the face paint I’m wearing. Half-Vitiosis, half-Hayes.
Hands are on my stomach, pulling me into a hard chest before I can even make it across the room.
Brantley’s mouth is on my neck, his teeth across the thin skin that stretches over it. “Miss me?”
“A little,” I say truthfully, turning in his grip. We’re standing near the table when Scarlet takes the stage with Hector. “How was tonight?” The lighting remains low, everyone seated silently.
“You don’t want to know…” he growls, his fingers flexing on my belly. I look down at his hands, at the ring that’s now on his finger.
I trace it with the tip of my finger. “I would want to know.”
He hardens against me, and I take it as he understood my double-edged answer. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
I suck in a deep breath and lean to the side so I can look up at him. “Brantley, I would want to know. You think I’m weak.” I pause, pinching his chin with my thumb and forefinger to bring his face lower to mine. “As if you forget who raised me.”
His eyes come to mine, searching them lazily. If only I knew what was going on inside his head.
The lighting further darkens, and there’s a spotlight that’s pointed on all of The Kings who are on the stage.
Brantley releases me, bringing his lips to my head before ducking to my ear. “We’ll talk about this later.” Then he pushes off me and I watch as he makes his way onto the stage. He stands beside Bishop and Nate, with Eli on the other side of him and Cash and Hunter beside him. Hector stands beside Bishop, with the other older Kings beside him. Scarlet is behind Hector.
Hector opens his mouth, and I listen carefully as Latin fluidly falls from his mouth. “As I step down from my throne, my son will rise up. Blessed be the EKC.” Everyone chants beside him and I watch as a metal bowl is brought to the stage by a young boy in a cloak, with the attached hood over his head. Chills break over my flesh and I find myself searching the room. For what, I don’t know. I just know that something feels off. Like an entity inviting itself into a space where it is not welcome. I shift uncomfortably, standing visibly straighter. I find Tillie, who is smiling up at the stage. Go back to Hector, who is dipping his hand into the ancient style bowl and bringing his finger up to Bishop’s head. I then watch as all of the boys cut themselves, dropping blood into a goblet before taking a sip.
Unable to remain still, I begin pacing back and forth, searching for anything. Something. Why am I anxious? My stomach coils into thick knots, my throat burning like I swallowed acid as I attempt to contain the scream that wants to shred out of my organs.
Something is wrong.
I dive into my bra, pulling out the piece of paper. Something is not right. People are cheering, clapping, and yelling, but I’m making my way to the stage, needing to give this paper to him now.
Right now.
It’s burning against my flesh.
I’m at the stage by the time they all look down at me with a mixture of confusion. Their features range from perplexed, to shocked, to Bishop who is smiling, the metal gavel in his hand. The ceremony is over.
“Now they can all watch you die…”
That voice. So familiar. The taste of blood hits my mouth at the same time I hear shots pop off. My smile falls, my eyes on Bishop, and then to Brantley. They both rush forward, but I’m already falling to the ground and their movements are in slow motion. Boots, sticky liquid, my head pounding. Brantley is below me, holding my head on his lap. I can see his mouth moving, the veins in his neck popping out, and his hands flying everywhere, but I can’t hear. White noise fills my body. My arm drops to the side, into a puddle of something sticky—not from me—from someone else who was hit. Who else has been hit? My fingers sprawl out of my fist as Bis
hop falls to the ground, his gun in his hand. Don’t look at me! Look at my hand, damnit!
“Fuck!” he mouths, standing to his feet, raising his gun up, and I watch as bullet shells fly off behind him.
Finally, he comes back to the ground, and it happens.
His eyes land on my hand, his brows curve in, and I feel his palm graze mine as he takes the letter.
The letter that is going to mend what he needed to mend.
I smile softly, my heart lighter than the carnage that’s going on around me.
He shoves it into his pocket, screaming at someone behind him to get down here, and then Brantley’s body is gone from beneath me.
No! No! I need him. My vision is blurring now, like a static TV show long since expired from viewing. My head. Heat and pain reverberate over my skull, before traveling down my spine. There’s a stabbing pain that disappears every few seconds from my neck, but I feel the warm liquid slide down the arch of my back.
Hector is picking me up, his hands beneath my body, lifting me off the floor. My head falls backward over his arm, the room and chaos now upside down. With every blink, it stays dark for longer.
Brantley is standing in the middle of the room with that same boy who was in a robe kneeling in front of him. His hand is buried in the boy’s hair, fisting his head back. I watch as he directs the sharp end of his blade across his neck and blood spills out from the incision. He saws back and forth, until the torso falls to the ground, while Brantley continues to hold the boy’s head by his hair.
Black.
My body jolting with every step.
“Saint, come on, baby girl, stay with me.” Hector. Hector? What is he doing?
A car door opens. Gasping.
“This doesn’t look good!” A voice I don’t recognize.