He was wrong.
I suppose though, I should be grateful to him for the idea. Back then, he was trafficking people; the homeless, drug-addicts, undesirables of society. The concept itself was sound, even if his implementation was flawed. He kept his stock in cages, like animals. He kept them in conditions not conducive for healthy organs. Our facilities are far more humane.
Pearce is strapped into his seat. The nurse sits beside him, her eyes fixed on a monitor that beeps with a steady, reassuring rhythm. His chest rises and falls evenly under the thin thermal blanket. He looks peaceful now, all that delicious fight washed away by the chemical tide in his veins. His face is slack, the lines of anger and fear smoothed into an expression of empty serenity. It’s a lie, of course. The storm is still in there, trapped behind a wall of drugs, screaming in a silent room.
I find my thoughts drifting to his sister, to Paitlyn’s mother. Right now she too is drugged and immobile, locked in my basement, her life on pause until I am able to return and continue her torture. I wonder how she will weep when she hears of her dear brother’s fate. Perhaps I should ask for a video of his heart being removed from his chest, it would make a nice little keepsake for her to watch over and over again.
A smile touches my lips. The poetry of it is brutal and perfect. It’s these little touches, these intricate folds of fate that elevate mere power to true artistry.
The flight is smooth. I close my eyes, not to sleep, but to plan. The next steps are critical. The surgery is a delicate thing, even for the talents we employ. There can be no mistakes when all our lives depend on success.
The change in the rotor’s pitch signals our descent. I open my eyes to see the sprawling, illuminated campus of the private hospital coming into view.
We touch down with a gentle bump on the designated helipad. Before the rotors have even begun to slow, the rooftop access door flies open. Two orderlies, their faces grimly efficient, push a waiting gurney out into the whipping wind generated by the blades.
I unbuckle and slide the door open, the noise becoming a deafening roar. I have to shout to be heard over it, gesturing at Pearce’s prone form. The orderlies nod, working in tandem with my guard and the nurse to transfer him. It is done with practiced, seamless speed and within seconds, he is being wheeled away.
As soon as I’m through the doors, the surgeon steps forward, his brow furrowed. “Antonio, the preliminary data you sent is promising, but we must run our own full panel. The HLA typing, the cross-match, we cannot proceed on your word alone, the risk of hyperacute rejection is…”
I don’t let him finish. I raise a single finger, bringing it to my lips. The gesture is absurdly simple, yet it silences him instantly. His mouth closes with a snap. He is a master of his world, a god in the operating theatre, but he knows the hierarchy. He knows who provides the miracles he performs.
“He’s a match,” I say, my voice flat and final, cutting through the hospital quiet like a scalpel. It brooks no argument. It is a statement of fact. “Run your tests if it makes your conscience feel better, but do not waste time. Our Grand Master does not have time.”
I brush past him, following the direction the gurney went. The orderlies are already transferring Pearce onto a surgical bed in a prep room. Tubes are being inserted, lines are being connected. He is becoming a component in a machine, and something about that feels reassuring. Like the unworthy becoming worthy again.
The adrenaline that has been fuelling me for the last eighteen hours is beginning to recede, leaving a profound, leaden exhaustion in its wake. The weightof it presses down on my shoulders. I can feel the gritty dryness in my eyes, and the dull ache in my temples.
I find a sleek, minimalist chair in the waiting room and sink into it. The leather is cool through the fabric of my trousers. The silence is absolute, pressed down by the weight of the life-and-death decisions happening behind the closed doors around me.
A young woman in scrubs approaches tentatively. “Mr Macrae? Can I get you anything?”
I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes. “Coffee,” I say, the word coming out louder than I intended, a command that echoes in the hushed hall. “Black, and strong enough to wake the dead.”
Because I cannot sleep.
Not yet. God’s work is not done.
I will sit in this sterile, silent purgatory for as long as it takes. I will drink their bitter coffee, and I will wait for the word from the operating theatre. I need to hear that Konstantine’s new heart is beating strong and true in his chest.
I need to know that the man I serve is out of danger. Only then, when the last piece of this particular game is securely in place, will I allow myself to rest.
The air in the chamber is thick with the coppery perfume of old blood and the pungent, sour reek of a body that has long since surrendered its dignity. I breathe it in deeply, letting it settle in my lungs. To me, it smells like progress. Like vindication.
The concrete walls, slick with a persistent, cold dampness throw back the hiss of the gas lantern I’ve set on a metal stool. Its flame dances, casting long, grotesque shadows that writhe like tormented spirits across the floor. In the centre of it all, anchored in a pool of flickering light, is Vera.
She is a sculpture of ruin, tied to a heavy wooden chair. Her head is locked in a heavy iron brace, the cruel mechanics of it forcing her chin up, denying her even the small mercy of hiding her face. Her eyes, those once-sharp, commanding eyes that used to look down on everyone from the lofty heights of the British Chapter are now permanently fixed ahead, glassy with pain and exhaustion. She can’t look away. She has no choice but to see me, to absorb every word, every gesture.
Months of this have carved away at her spirit, and what’s left is raw meat and shattered pride. Her hands, resting on her lap, are the most telling testament to my work. The skin has been flayed from them, a meticulous, inch-by-inch process that has left them a horrifying landscape of raw, weeping crimson and shreds of parchment-white tissue.
They look like something that has been dragged behind a carriage for miles.
She has soiled herself. The stench is potent, a humiliating banner of her utter defeat. I don’t have her cleaned. The filth is part of the lesson. It’s a constant, degrading reminder of what she’s become.
I circle her slowly, the soft click of my Italian leather loafers a sharp counterpoint to her ragged breathing.
“Do you remember the soirée at the Guildhall, Vera?” I ask, my voice conversational, almost gentle. “It must have been, what, fifteen years ago? You wore that terrible burgundy gown. It did nothing for your complexion.”
She doesn’t respond. A thin line of saliva drips from the corner of her mouth, tracing a path through the grime on her chin.
