He places one enormous hand on Malachi's shoulder, the other on his wrist. “Let me show you what I learned.”
The sound of Malachi's shoulder dislocating is a wet pop that makes even Cole wince. Malachi's scream reaches a new pitch, his body convulsing in the chair.
“Thank you,” Jonah says quietly, “for teaching me what not to become.”
Cole practically bounces as he takes his turn, knife dancing between his fingers. “Oh, this is going to be fun. Remember how you used to make us kneel on rice while you lectured us about purity?”
He produces a handful of rice from his pocket—where the hell did he get rice?—and scatters it beneath Malachi's feet. Then he cuts the zip ties holding his ankles.
“Kneel,” Cole commands, pressing the knife tip to Malachi's throat.
“I can't, my shoulder?—”
“I said kneel.” The blade draws a thin line of blood.
Malachi slides off the chair onto his knees, his dislocated shoulder likely making the movement agony. The rice grinds into his kneecaps as Cole forces him to stay upright.
“How long was our longest punishment session?” Cole asks, crouching to meet Malachi's eyes. “Six hours? Seven?”
“Cole,” I warn. We can't keep him alive that long—too risky.
“Fine, fine. The abbreviated version then.” He stands, knife spinning faster. “This is for making us compete for your approval. For turning us against each other.”
The knife stops spinning and flies, embedding itself in Malachi's right hand, pinning it to the floor of the trailer. Malachi's shriek is barely human.
Marek drifts forward like smoke. Of all of us, he's been the quietest about his trauma, but I see decades of rage in his expression as he kneels beside Malachi.
“Do you remember our mother?” Marek asks softly. My stomach lurches at the thought of the woman who gave birth to us. I barely remember her. “You killed her when I was six.”
Malachi's breathing is ragged, his face gray with pain and blood loss. “She... she questioned the teachings?—”
“She tried to take us away from you.” Marek's voice remains eerily calm. “She saw what you were doing to us and tried to save her sons.”
He reaches into his coat and produces a silk cord. “You strangled her while we watched. Do you remember what you told me?”
“Marek—”
“You said her death was my fault. That if I'd been a better son, more obedient, she'd still be alive.” The cord wraps around Malachi's neck, not tight enough to kill but enough to restrict his breathing. “You made me carry that guilt for thirty years.”
I wipe the tear sliding down my cheek as Malachi claws at the cord with his good hand, his face turning purple.
“This is for her,” Marek whispers, tightening the silk. “And for every night I dreamed of saving her.”
He releases the cord just before Malachi loses consciousness, stepping back as he gasps and chokes.
Elias and I exchange a look. It's time.
“My turn,” Elias says, approaching with his garrote—piano wire stretched between leather handles. The same weapon Malachi used to execute those who displeased him. “Do you know what this is?”
Malachi's eyes fix on the wire, terror replacing pain in his expression.
“This is what you used to kill Harry when he tried to escape,” Elias continues. “And Marek and Silas’s mother. And at least a dozen others over the years.”
He loops the wire around Malachi's throat, not tightening it yet. “You made me watch every execution. Said I needed to learn about consequences.”
“Elias, please?—”
The wire draws taut. Malachi's eyes bulge.
