I shake my head in reply, my focus, my attention all on the top of the hill in the distance. If they get there before we do, if they get between us and the chopper all of this is over.
I imagine they’re already hiding out at the airstrip, waiting for me to be stupid enough to show up there. I doubt they know about this little escape route, but I won’t assume anything until I know for certain.
My heart pounds in my chest. Adrenaline makes my feel exhilarated. Death has always been something I’ve skirted, danced alongside. Afterall, how can you truly live if you don’t understand what dying is?
When we come to a stop I quickly open the door, and Mateus ushers Ezra out from one side while I yank Grace from the other, barely giving her time to get her seatbelt undone. She cries out and I shove my hand over her mouth, afraid the noise might carry.
Ezra is lifted into the chopper before Mateus runs to grab the bags. I push Grace in, and our driver follows after me. If he stays, they’ll kill him, we all know that.
The pilot murmurs something in greeting and I grunt back, wondering why the fuck we’re still here, on the ground. Ezra has been in enough helicopters to know how to put the belt on, but Grace doesn’t have a clue and I reach across, securing hers while she stares at me.
When we take off, that tension in my chest seems to ease. I stare down, seeing the forest, the castle, the cars too. It looks like they bought an army. The full spectacle of carnage is laid out below us like a detailed map.
My home. My castle. The place where I was born, where Mateus was born, where my mother was born and her mother before her, back through twenty generations. Flames lick at the old stables, and the courtyard is a chaotic swirl of battling ants.
I can see the main gate now; it’s been shattered, blown inward. It would have taken serious explosives to do such damage, and I must say I’m impressed.
A profound silence settles over me inside the thunderous roar of the helicopter. This is not a disaster, this is not a defeat. This is merely a turn of the board. The castle is a piece, a significant one rich with history and sentiment, but a piece nonetheless.
And sometimes, to win the game, you must sacrifice a piece.
Fate is spinning the roulette wheel again, and the ball has landed on black this time instead of red. The loss is aesthetic. The game itself is what matters.
My heart is thumping in a hard, steady, exhilarating drum against my ribs.
This is it.
This is the feeling I crave, the reason I play this game on such a grand, dangerous scale.
It is the proximity to absolute ruin, the brush of death’s cloak against my shoulder. Fear is not something to be conquered or avoided; it is a drug. It is the ultimate proof of life, the screaming evidence that my existence is not some mundane, trivial thing.
Grace gasps again, covering her mouth in shock and I narrow my eyes, seeing what she’s spotted.
Smoke.
I snort at the irony. Stupid fucks. They can burn down every house I have, and yet it won’t stop me.
As I glance back down, I can see people being dragged out. Guards, servants, all my people being executed one by one.
Grace gasps, covering her mouth in horror. She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand that these people are expendable, that their purpose in life is to fit my needs, whatever they are.
Something whizzes past the chopper. The pilot shouts out, swerving the thing and we climb rapidly while darting to the left at such an angle that we all slam into the side.
“They’re shooting at us.” Mateus says.
“Get us out of here.” I order. The Esau may be unaware of who is onboard, that there’s a life far more precious than mine, but I’ll be damned if I’m the reason it ends.
I look at Grace, and her entire body is rigid. A statue of pure, unadulterated panic. A small, soundless whimper escapes her lips. I find it utterly amusing. Adorable, even. Her fear is so simple, so visceral. She is afraid of dying. I am enthralled by the idea of it. We are, in this moment, living in two completely different universes, yet I hold the leash to both. I don’t say a word to her. There is no comfort to offer, and the sight of her terror is a private entertainment I wish to prolong.
The shooting stops as we soar higher, leaving the fire and the fury as a diminishing diorama far below. The castle becomes a child’s toy, then a sketch, then nothing at all, swallowed by the dark Mediterranean landscape.
I let out a long, slow breath. The immediate thrill recedes, leaving behind a crystal-clear, razor-sharp focus. I lean my head back against the rest and shut my eyes.
They were ahead of me this time. They found a weakness, a leak I clearly hadn’t plugged, and they moved with a coordination and force that is new for them. They have been the scrappy underdog for so long, nipping at my heels. Now, they’ve drawn blood.
I should be furious. I should be plotting immediate, overwhelming retaliation, but I’m not. I’m amused.
This makes it interesting. Their boldness is a gift, because boldness leads to arrogance. Arrogance leads to overextension, and overextension leads to fatal, beautiful mistakes that I can leverage to my advantage.
