Prologue
Blood. The price of betrayal and redemption. A life lesson passed down from my father, Luther Calthorpe. He was a legend, a god of his own making, and a redeemer. People shuddered at the sound of his name, yet they bowed at his feet. Luther was the father of organized crime. The man was ruthless and unapologetic. He could crush a man’s skull, gouge out his eyes with his bare hands, and not blink an eye. People whispered about him, told stories about the men he’d butchered. But to me, he was just Father. The patriarch of the Calthorpe family, and a man I looked up to. I wanted to instill that kind of fear in people.
My family was one of the oldest, most affluent, and most feared families in New Orleans, where our roots ran deep. We practically owned the city, controlling energy, transportation, and mining to name a few. These were just a few of our endeavours and by the seventies, we'd almost monopolized New Orleans. Nothing happened without us knowing about it. Having that much power also meant that we were untouchable.
I grew up understanding that I was to uphold the dynasty at all costs. That no life was worth risking the family name for. It was no secret that the Calthorpes had more enemies than friends, but our influence was our security, my father said, and that would always be our advantage. A smart man kept his friends close and his enemies even closer, with a gun to their backs, just in case.
By my eighth birthday, Luther had already taught me how to fire a gun and use a knife for its true purpose. Instead of the toy pistols other children my age were playing with, I was gifted my first Walther, a replica of the one used by Adolf Hitler.
“The world is not a playground, Arthur, it’s a battlefield.” My father told me.
I remember the feel of the cold metal when he placed it in my palms, the excitement I felt that he’d trusted me enough to hand me my first weapon. I aimed it at a 3D, rubber silhouette target dummy in our back garden and pulled the trigger without hesitation. Fear and excitement coursed through my veins at the knowledge that it’d been a loaded weapon. Pride filled me when I looked at the dummy, my bullet lodged dead center in its head. My hand trembled slightly, the beat of my heart pounded in my ears, and I smiled up at my father, who nodded in approval.
His approbation was all I sought, even at that young age. It was not to my mother’s bosom to which I ran when I was hurt, but to him where he’d tell me to toughen up, and be a man. A man did not cry over small cuts and bruises. I’d gain many more before my life was done, so I’d best get used to them.
I would stand tall, and suddenly a bruised knee or split lip wouldn’t matter much anymore. Luther was my hero, and I wanted nothing more than to be just like him.
I had my first real kill at the age of eleven. Before that, I’d hunted with my father, but it was not the same as taking a human life. A merchant made the mistake of crossing my father, consorting with a sworn enemy of the Calthorpes. He’d risked his life for five hundred thousand dollars which lay beside him on the ground. One of my father's men, Marco Carvalho, intercepted the merchant on his way home with the cash in his hands. He’d fit in the crowd, just a regular businessman, until Marco sunk his metal claws into his forearm. He literally had metal inserted into his hands in place of fingernails. There’d been no fight between the two men; the merchant simply allowed himself to be led. He knew the price for disloyalty.
We stood in the woods that formed the backdrop of our estate in New Orleans. Cherrybark oak trees towered above us, the sound of the small stream that trickled through our property bringing a sense of calm that was in contrast to what was about to happen.
These woods were where my father and I hunted during deer season. The image of Luther dragging a carcass he’d shot with a strongbow came to mind, and I wondered if Marcus would drag this man away in much the same way. The furnace in the basement was already awake; the dragon I called it. It would engulf this man soon enough.
The man kneeled on the ground, his shoulder-length black hair, which had been in a ponytail when he arrived, now hung in clumps over his face. Sweat dripped from his brows, and his body quivered. Blood oozed from the spot where Marcus’s claws had gripped him, tainting his white shirt. Large brown eyes pleaded up at my father who stood straight-backed watching him with disinterest.
“He’s yours, Arthur.” My father said. The man looked me right in the eye, begging me silently, praying to the god he served for another chance. But the Calthorpes don’t do second chances, and around here, there was no god but us.
“Look him in the eye when you do it.” Luther’s voice was sturdy, sure, as he stood beside me, his steady hand placed with casual ease on my shoulder. When I felt my hand tremble as it wrapped around the revolver, he leaned down, and I will never forget what he whispered in my ear. “Today you choose, Arthur. Conquer or yield?”
I watched the tears stream down the man’s face, and as I pulled the trigger, aiming for his forehead, I chose my destiny. His body slumped to the ground,his brains spread out like a crimson pillow on the ground beneath his head. I stepped closer, wanting a better view. It felt anticlimactic for some reason, so looking down at him, I smiled and shot him once more through the heart because it felt right. I felt invincible. Like I could lead an army to war like in the movies I watched.
“You enjoy this too much.” My father cheered in the background. His partner and best friend, Stephen Castello, clapped him on the back and cast a wink my way. Stephen’s son, my best friend, Daniel, shivered beside his father. His eyes were wide with horror at the sight before him. He’d always been a weak one. I grinned at him, calling for him to come and get a closer look. He shied away, glancing from the gun in my hands to my face.
“Come,” I commanded, and our fathers looked on in amusement. “Come see what I’ve done, Danny.”
He stepped forward slowly, his feet crushing the dry autumn leaves beneath his feet. He stood beside me, his body vibrating. I could smell it. Fear, the scent strong and heady. He looked everywhere but at the body that lay at our feet.
“The day will come when you will have to make the same choice. I only hope you’ll make the right one,” I whispered.
I looked down at the still body. There was still blood coursing through those veins and arteries. Then I shot the man's leg, the one closest to Danny’s feet, even our fathers shook at the sound, then laughed. Danny covered his ears, and when the blood began to pour out on his shoe, he bent at the waist and started to vomit all over the man’s body. I finally stepped away, washing my hands in a dish of water one of my father’s men had brought. I wiped my gun, slipping it into the holster.
“That boy is a king,” Stephen told my father, and when I saw the pride in Luther’s eyes, I believed I truly was. I was a king. I would kill and maim and destroy.
I never knew the name of the man I’d killed or the names of several others who followed in the years after him, but I remember all their eyes. I remember the smell of their fear and the ecstasy of seeing their lives seep slowly from them.
I feared nothing, even death itself, until Guinevere Tudor.
