Everything is fucked.
The Brethren is not an organization; it is an organism, and Konstantine is its heart. I am the brain, the will, the fist. But without the heart, the body dies.
It doesn’t matter how much power I wield, how much control I have; Konstantine is the headpiece.
Without him the Esau will swarm, the ancient covenants will shatter, and the delicate, invisible architecture of control we have built over half a millennia will collapse into dust and chaos.
The sound of measured footsteps pulls me from the abyss. Devin Blake of all people approaches. I tilt my head, curious as to why the fuck he is here in America when he is meant to be in Eastern Europe hunting down leads.
His face is a neutral mask, giving me nothing but his eyes, his eyes are alive with a cold fire. There is no love lost between us, not that I can truly blame him. If I were him, I would not forgive the people who betrayed his wife Paitlyn either.
He stops a few feet away, giving a curt, almost insolent nod. “Antonio.”
“Blake,” I say, my voice gravelly from the long flight and suppressed rage. “Tell me everything.”
“It was a trap,” he says, his tone flat, factual, but I hear the subtle accusation buried within it. The accusation that this is, somehow, my fault. “A very simple, very effective one. The desecration was just the bait. They knew he would come running, and he did. Screaming her name. We could barely keep up.”
The image is a knife twist. Konstantine, reduced to a madman sprinting through his own gardens, utterly vulnerable. Christ, if anyone saw, if anyone knew…
“And your men?” I ask, the question a low growl. “Where were his guards? How did the Esau get in and out so easily?”
A muscle ticks in Blake’s jaw. “Apparently, he outran his detail in his rage. They were twenty seconds behind him. Twenty seconds was all it took. As for getting in, they had inside knowledge. They knew our weak points. They knew our blind spots. They got in easily enough.” He allows a thin, cruel smile to touch his lips. “But they didn’t get out so easily.”
I stop pacing and turn to face him fully. “Explain.”
“We caught four of them. They’re in the old stable block. Secure.” His eyes meet mine, a silent challenge. “They’re alive. For now.”
The implication hangs in the sterile air. Four prisoners, four sources of information. Four opportunities for retribution. It’s the first piece of good news, a single, solid stone in the shifting quicksand of this disaster.
Before I can respond, the operating room doors swing open. A surgeon emerges, pulling his cap off, his face etched with a fatigue that has nothing to do with sleep. He looks from me to Blake, instinctively understanding who holds the authority.
I step forward. “Well?”
“He’s stable. For now,” the surgeon says, his voice cautious. “We’ve stopped the bleeding, repaired what we can, but the damage is extensive. The bullet nicked the aortic valve. It’s shredded. If he’s to live, he needs a new heart. A transplant. Without it, he might last a week on the machines....”
The world tilts again. A week.
“If you had a heart,” I ask, my voice dangerously quiet. “What are the odds he would he survive the surgery?”
The surgeon blinks, thrown by the specificity. “His vitals are strong, considering. The trauma is localized. Yes, if we had a viable donor heart, I believe he would survive the procedure. The issue is finding one. The matching, the logistics, the timing, it’s a question of days, and we don’t have that kind of…”
“Prep him for surgery,” I interrupt, my tone leaving no room for debate. It is not a request; it is a decree. “Have him ready to go into the theatre. You will have a new heart by sundown. A perfect match.”
The surgeon stares at me, his mouth slightly agape, caught between professional protocol and the sheer, unquestionable authority in my voice. He simply nods dumbly, and retreats back through the doors.
I turn to Blake. His expression is unreadable, but I see the calculation in his eyes. He is wondering if I’m mad, or if I possess a power he hasn’t even imagined.
“You,” I say, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You will stay here. You will not leave this corridor, you will not let anyone near that operating theatre that you do not know personally. If he dies because you looked the other way, Blake, your death will make the Esau’s look merciful. Do you understand me?”
He nods with a look of utter contempt. “I understand, and I don’t need to be told how to do my fucking job.”
I don’t offer another word. I turn on my heel and stride down the corridor, pulling my phone from my pocket.
In my head, I run through a list of names, people whose existence is a secret. People who are a perfect biological match for Konstantine. One of them is about to have the privilege of making the ultimate contribution to our cause.
The hum is the first thing, the ever-present, low-frequency thrum of filtered air and cooling servers. It’s the sound of absolute control, a sterile white noise that fills the observation room and my own head. It’s the only sound, aside from the soft tap of my finger against my lower lip.
Before me, the wall is a mosaic of contained lives. Twenty-four high-definition screens, each a window into a room that is not a room. It’s a cell, though I’d never be so crude as to call it that. Each is identical: six by nine paces, smooth, seamless walls that glow with a soft, circadian-rhythm-adjusting light, a bed that folds into the wall, a toilet and sink unit that does the same. The air they breathe is precisely oxygenated, scrubbed of contaminants and laced with a mild, calming aerosol to prevent hysterics. Their diets are engineered by a nutritionist who once worked for Olympic athletes, precise macros, vitamins, minerals. All to keep the specimens in tiptop condition.
