And then, like an oasis in the middle of a sun-bleached desert, I’d seen the rope ladder leading upward.
I’d had no idea where it led, but since going back the way I’d come wasn’t an option with the Butchers in the tunnels, I’d taken a chance and emerged in a shallow cave in the woods. I would have been lost if it hadn’t been for the castle burning half a mile to the east.
After that there had been a trek to the nearest road, a hitched ride with a farmer heading into town to sell a truck full of turnips, and then the phone call to Dimitri, who (was it my imagination?) didn’t sound as happy to hear from me as he usually did.
I guessed even friends could become unwelcome guests if they appeared on your doorstep one too many times.
I stopped at a traffic light and waited for it to turn, then crossed the street. I’d hoped to hear from Anton, or even Nick, but neither had reached out in the twenty-four hours since I’d arrived in Prague, which could only mean one thing: they were dead.
The Butchers had found them, killed them.
The loss of Nick meant nothing. He was just another acolyte, another terminally online kid who’d needed male guidance. There were a million more where he came from.
But Anton had been different. Sure, he’d been a pain in the ass over the last year with his tiring body and bad leg, but he was the closest thing I’d had to a friend. Now I was really alone, except for Dimitri, and Dimitri had limited patience for my many adventures.
It made me hate the Butchers all the more. They’d driven me from the States, had smoked me — literally — out of the castle. They’d killed Anton, set me on the run.
And they’d done it all for a woman.
What a bunch of losers.
You’re the one on the run.
I tried to ignore the voice in my head but it was like an itch I couldn’t scratch.
Were they losers when they stole Maeve Haver from you? When they destroyed your hiding place?
“Shut up.” I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until an older woman scowled and hurried away from me.
I hunched into my coat and kept walking. I was grateful for Dimitri’s luxury apartment in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the city, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching me too closely, like a nervous mother waiting for her toddler to take an inevitable fall.
Cold as it was, the fresh air helped to clear my head, and I pushed aside thoughts of Maeve Haver and the Butchers.
There would be other opportunities to show them who was really boss.
It was almost a new year, and I had plenty to look forward to. My offshore organization was humming along nicely, overseen by a handful of managers who kept the girls in line when I was traveling. Money practically fell from the sky, an endless snowfall padding the bank accounts I’d set up in various tax havens, places to which I could flee if things got too hot.
And normally I’d be looking forward to the Apex conference next month, but that probably wasn’t in the cards this time around.
Not if I wanted to throw the Butchers off my trail.
It was too bad. Apex was a highlight of every year, and I relished the chance to participate in the debate portion of theconference, to shut up the sanctimonious audience members who bought tickets just for the chance to take me down.
Of course, my team made a point to cut the ones who won from the video footage posted on the Ethan Todd channel. But the ones who didn’t — which were most of them — were highlighted all over my socials, proof that it was easy to dismantle the arguments of feminists and social justice warriors.
Apex was a form of intellectual combat, and intellectual combat was my shit.
I practically salivated at the thought, then felt the weight of disappointment. After the blow of losing Maeve Haver to the Butchers and the humiliation of running to Dimitri for asylum, the adoration of my fans at Apex was just what the doctor ordered: a reminder.
I was Ethan fucking Todd. Thousands of men — and a handful of women — bought tickets to Apex just for the chance to see me speak. They’d cheer for me, ask for my autograph.
There would be protests too — there always were when I attended — but even that was a compliment. I’d pushed enough of society’s collective buttons to get people off their asses, to make them angry.
They’d noticed me, and that meant I was somebody.
The Butchers? They were nobody outside Blackwell Falls.
Except I was the one in exile, the one who was stuck in Prague instead of planning my next round of takedowns at Apex where I belonged.
