The sound is deafening in the enclosed space; a single, definitive crack that swallows all other sound. His body slumps forward, a sack of meat and bone now that his struggle has ended. Blood pools out quickly, filling the space around him and I take a step do he can’t ruin the leather of my boots.
A scream cuts the silence behind me. High-pitched, raw with shock. Grace.
The sound grates on my nerves, an unwelcome dissonance in my symphony of control.
I turn my head slowly and look at her over my shoulder. My expression is not one of anger, but of cold, utter finality. It is a look that has frozen the blood of men far harder than her. It is a command more potent than any shout.
You’d think she’d be more than comfortable with death after yesterday’s fun, but apparently not.
The scream dies in her throat, choked off into a sob. She clamps a hand over her mouth, her entire body shaking violently, tears streaming down her face. She understands the look immediately, hears my words even though I don’t speak them. Silence.
I turn back to my men, handing the pistol back. The lesson for Grace is administered. The cleanup begins.
“Package the women,” I order, my voice returning to its normal, dispassionate tone. I gesture to the two kneeling figures. The aunt is catatonic, staring at the body beside her. The younger one is weeping hysterically into her gag. “Sedate them. Prepare them for transport. I want them in the car in five minutes.”
I don’t wait to see my orders carried out. I am done in this damp, bloody hole. I turn on my heel and walk back to Grace. She flinches as I approach, but she doesn’t run. There is nowhere to run. I don’t touch her, I simply walk past her towards the stairs, expecting her to follow like the good little dog she is.
I hear her ragged breathing, the sound of her feet on the concrete as she scrambles to obey, to get away from the horror on the floor. We ascend the stairs, leaving the basement and its consequences behind. We walk back through the clinical kitchen, through the gallery of glass cells with their silent, watching inhabitants, through the steel door, and out into the shock of the grey afternoon light.
The cool air feels like a baptism. I inhale deeply, the scent of the countryside washing away the stench of blood, fear, and piss.
Finally, finally I have some good news for Konstantine. Finally, I can give him a little gift to sate his anger.
The SUV is waiting, its engine still running with the back door open.
“Get in,” I say, my voice flat.
She looks at me and for a fraction of a second, I see it in her eyes; a spark of something beyond fear. Defiance. A deep, fundamental horror that wants to rebel, to refuse to get back into the car with me, to somehow deny the reality of what just happened.
Her jaw tightens, and her hands clench at her sides. She looks like she is gathering the tattered remnants of her courage to say something, to do something.
I simply look back at her, because I don’t need to speak. My gaze holds the echo of the gunshot. It holds the image of the women in the cells, it holds the absolute certainty of my will.
I can pinpoint the exact moment the spark in her eyes dies. Extinguished by the overwhelming weight of her powerlessness.
Her shoulders slump. The fight, what little there was of it, drains out of her. She lowers her head, and climbs into the car without a word.
She has never looked more defeated. She has never looked more mine.
I slide in beside her, pulling the door shut. The interior is silent, tomb-like. The partition between us and the driver is up, granting us a privacy she undoubtedly wishes she didn’t have.
Then we hear it.
The heavy, solid thump from the rear of the vehicle. Then another. The sound of weight being loaded into the boot. A deadweight. And then, lighter, more careful thuds. Packages. Living, breathing packages, sedated and wrapped for transport.
We hand the bodies over to Magnus. I say ‘we’, but I mean ‘he’. He does it. He gets out, hand extended for a shake, leaving me to cower in the car.
But I can hear them talking, hear them exchange pleasantries, hear Magnus make some joke about how he thought his reaping days were over now that he’s become Chapter Lord. Antonio says something back that I don’t catch, and then the boot opens and the weight of the car shifts enough for me to notice.
I clench my fists, burying my nails into my palms, wondering what the fuck I’m doing here. Would it not be easier to goad Antonio into killing me and just be done with it? It’s clear I’m so far in over my head, and I’m not even pretending to tread water – I’m drowning.
The door opens, Antonio gets back in but he’s slow enough about it that Magnus sees me. And that cold, deadly look he gives me is enough to make me wish that gun Antonio used barely an hour ago really was pressed against my head.
The door shuts, Antonio says something I don’t catch and we drive off. We drive back to that same private airfield, onto the same private jet and I sit beside Antonio, trying to avoid the unimpressed look from his brother who travelled with us from his castle and yet remained on board.
“Is it done?” He asks Antonio as soon as the seat belt light goes off and the pretty lady gets to her feet to start making drinks.
“It’s done, but it’s not the end.” Antonio says, massaging his temples.
