28. Thatcher
28
THATCHER
I spit blood out the window. The wad hits the wall of air rushing by before it flings backward in an almost cartoonish manner.
The roof of my mouth hasn’t stopped bleeding since Sagan yanked out the shard of glass that had somehow shoved itself up there. It hadn’t gone very deep, thankfully, but I wish it would stop bleeding. I find that I’m not particularly keen on tasting my own blood. Between that and the burns, cuts, and bruises that cover my body, I’m certainly not physically feeling my best.
“You alright, sir?” the driver of the Oldsmobile asks nervously. He’s a kid, no older than sixteen and probably in high school if I’m going off the backpack in the footwell of the passenger seat.
“Just fucking peachy,” I mutter.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the teenager shooting me a worried glance. He’s been doing this for the past thirty-odd minutes. I don’t blame him. Picking up two blood-covered hitchhikers probably isn’t the smartest decision he’s ever made. I’d prove that to him under different circumstances. But killing him isn’t in the cards. My blade rests in its sheath against my back beneath my shirt. I could reach back to grab it, and then when the kid pulls over to drop us off, I could shove it into his chest. It would probably make me feel a smidge better… for about a minute.
Then I’d drop back into the murderous, boiling rage filling every crevice of my body.
I thought Sagan would always be the most important person to me. Not because we shared a womb but because of the bloodlust that makes us an unstoppable force. I liked the power we wielded over others. I enjoy the screams of terror that only the threat of death can bring. The tears that fall due to pain are like gifts that only someone like me deserves. Sagan understands that. He understands death and how exciting it is to be the one with the power to deliver it. We are gods among sheep. There were only the two of us, and it was us against the world. And I was sure I was fine with that. I never had the need or longing for love like most people do. I had my brother, and I had death. I thought there was nothing else I could possibly need more than those two things.
But I was wrong. Oh, so very wrong.
Accepting Knox into our life had been easy. He was like carbon monoxide poisoning, dangerous, unsuspecting, and by the time I realized how deep he’d sunk into me, it was too late. He was there to stay. And I loved that about him. The way he thrived in the dark with us was proof he was meant to be ours. My toxic, insidious, Pretty Boy. He’d corrupted my heart in ways I didn’t realize were possible.
And Beatrix? She was like a brain aneurysm. A sudden, violent shock to our family nuclei that had us all taken aback. Knox may be a little bit crazy, but my stepsister? She was very much sane, which made her even more dangerous. She was quiet, cunning, and while she may not search it out, she was quite willing to be Death if the occasion arose. There’s no fear in Beatrix’s heart for the bloody games we like to play.
Knox and Beatrix have become a part of me so fully that as I sit in this passenger seat, I have to constantly look down to remind myself that I haven’t been physically amputated. Where the fuck are they? Who has them? Can it really be Angel Eyes? Or is this a copycat killer? The thought of them being at the hands of someone as capable as we are when it comes to pain and death causes my insides to freeze. My heart keeps skipping beats. How could I have lost them so easily in a game we play constantly?
Sagan and I have been playing our games for over two decades. Killing and stalking have been our life. We should’ve seen this coming. Sure, there were clues, but we didn’t take them seriously. Why would we? There are four of us—we should’ve been able to beat any adversary out there.
And yet, here Sagan and I sit in some stranger’s car, battered and bleeding, while the two others of our family are in the wind. My hands clench into fists on my lap. I ignore the pain in my knuckles. I’m pretty sure my middle finger on my left hand is broken in two different places. My thumb on my right hand is probably sprained. All the pain that covers my body—the dull, sharp, and throbbing—isn’t important. Getting Knox and Beatrix back and killing the fucker who came after us consumes my thoughts.
I spit out the window again.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stop at the emergency room?” the kid asks.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Usually, small talk and manners are my thing, but at the moment I’m trying my best just to hold on to a single shred of my sanity. If this kid asks me one more time about stopping anywhere other than the border of Briar Glen, where he said was the furthest he could go without his mom questioning the mileage, I was going to gut him.
“I’m sure,” I growl out between clenched teeth.
We had to leave Knox’s car behind. It, along with the car that hit us, was completely totaled. But calling for a tow service or the cops wasn’t possible. One, because both our phones shattered in the wreck. Calling anybody was out of the question. And two, since it was a stolen vehicle with fake plates and a VIN number that belongs to a separate car, I figured it was better if we just cut and run. We can get Knox a new car once we get him back.
Too bad our version of running was really more of a gimped walk. It had taken us until the early hours of the morning, when the sunlight just started to creep over the trees, to make it to a main road. Another two hours before this kid picked us up. Now, time is creeping by at a snail’s pace because he can barely go above the speed limit.
All this time, wasted. We need to be doing everything we can to find Knox and Beatrix. Yet here we are, sitting in tense silence, going a measly three and a half miles over the speed limit.
Sagan, sitting in silence in the backseat, is death incarnate. His need for blood outweighs all else. I can feel his wrath, deadly energy pulsating through our bond. But even if we didn’t have this unique connection, I’d still be able to feel his crackling energy. It’s almost tangible as it hangs in the air of the car. When I suck in a deep breath, I can taste the fire and brimstone as if he’s risen from hell to collect souls. I’m pretty sure the only reason our driver is still alive is purely due to spite for our enemy. Sagan won’t allow for any setbacks getting to Knox and Beatrix. So as much as he wishes to gut someone, he knows not to kill the kid.
We just need to get home. There we can clean up and figure out our next steps.
I spit another glob of blood out the window and hope this driver gets us home before our sanity snaps.
It’s sunset by the time we trudge up the wide steps built into the hill that lead up to the house.
The trek from the edge of Briar Glen to here had been brutal. With slivers of glass in our boots, our feet are bloody messes. Sleet started to fall about an hour into the walk, and it turned to hard snow. I suppose that was the universe giving us the big, fat middle finger. As if the last twenty-four hours hadn’t been hard enough. Our jackets were warm, but battered and bruised as we were? It made the journey miserable. At least it had stopped about two hours ago and was completely melted away by the time the house had come into view.
Sagan limped the entire journey. Not once did he complain. I’m inclined to believe he probably didn’t notice the pain after a while. His quiet seething wasn’t all that silent though. I could feel his rage, like a roiling energy gathered around him. It fed into mine and made the dark thoughts in my head all that much louder. And worse yet, neither one of us had Knox to distract us. While we constantly bemoan his incessant chatter, none of us truly mind it.
My heart squeezes in my chest. Knox can survive anything. That little fucker could swan dive into hell and drag himself back up with a smile on his face. He’ll be ok. I know it. Beatrix on the other hand… I shake my head, refusing to think of my soft-spoken, slow-to-smile, sweet-natured stepsister in the hands of some sadistic motherfucker.
We make it to the top steps and I shove the front door open. The eerie silence that greets us is too loud. I grimace as Sagan slams the door shut behind us.
“Get cleaned up then meet me in the kitchen,” I snap, already heading for the stairs.
“Tell me you thought of a plan,” Sagan demands, following me.
My teeth gnash together as my nostrils flare wide. “Knox has the tracker. We’ll find them.”
“There’s no fucking way that thing has juice. We put it in his ass as a joke after?—”
I whirl around to face my brother as we get to the top of the stairs. Leaning into his face, I snarl, “It’ll work, and we will figure out where the fuck they are, brother.”
Sagan glares at me, his doubt loud and clear despite not having said a word. I can also see how exhausted he is. After the last twenty-four hours we’ve had, we’re not in a state to argue about this.
“Just go clean up. We’ll figure the rest out, alright?” I tell him. Rather than waste anymore words on the matter, I leave him standing there.
My shower is thorough but short. When I’m done, I assess the damage. I have a gaping cut across my chest that is bleeding profusely and one across the back of my right calf. I find a small first aid kit under the sink. It’s clear that it’s been used over and over, re-supplied and used up again. The broken plastic hinges and the off-brand bandages are a dead giveaway. I push away the thought of Beatrix slipping in here, hiding while she tended to the wounds my father gave her.
He’s dead. Patrick can’t hurt her anymore.
But she might be dead too if I don’t get fucking moving. Luckily, there’s super glue in the first aid kit. I clean the glass out of both wounds and glue my skin together before throwing a gauze over them. I set my broken finger and wrap that up, too. There’s nothing I can do about the gash in my mouth but it’s finally stopped bleeding, so I should be fine. When that’s done, I dress and head back downstairs. I grab the laptop in the office and bring it out into the kitchen. Taking a seat at the table, I open it and get to work.
By the time Sagan joins me, collapsing in the chair beside me, I’m smiling.
“Tell me something good,” Sagan orders, glaring at my face.
I flip the laptop around to show him the screen. “I have Knox’s location. It’s a house about three miles away from where those fucking asshats pulled guns on us the night we went out dancing.”
I tap a button and show him the satellite image of the street. Sagan leans forward, his pupils narrowing on the screen.
“Better yet,” I tap the mouse a few times until a pdf of a background check pulls up, “I know who lives there. Ronald Reed, age sixty-six, retired Chicago cop that, up until recently, had a part-time gig teaching people how to fucking whittle .”
“People still do that?” Sagan asks, studying the information carefully.
I shrug. “It’s not a hobby I plan to pick up.”
“He doesn’t live there alone. His wife, Shannon Ladory, lives there with him. She’s twenty-three, a stay-at-home wife, and they’ve been married for about seven years now.”
Sagan’s gaze flickers to me and he raises an eyebrow. I shrug. “Don’t look at me, I didn’t officiate the damn thing.”
“Do you think we need to worry about her? Is she a threat?” he asks.
“I would find it unlikely given how quiet he’s been all these years. I doubt he’d stop killing just to let his wife get some stabs in.”
My brother shakes his head. “Whatever. Let’s go pay Ronald and Shannon a visit and?—”
A sharp knock at the door interrupts him. Sagan’s mouth slams shut as we stare at one another. I glance at the time on my laptop. It’s nearly nine o’clock at night. If this was work related, a call would’ve come in. Then again, Bright Starr’s phone is routed to mine and Beatrix’s cell phones; both of which are no longer in use.
As I rise to my feet, I reach for the blade from beneath my shirt. Sagan stands too, pulling out his weapon and clutching it tight within his fist. Together we move toward the front door. As we get there, more loud banging starts up. Sagan steps to the side, just out of sight, as I fling it open. On the other side of the threshold is a young man, dressed in oversized jeans that sag, a bulky jacket that he’s layered over other clothes, and a backward ball cap.
The young guy smirks at me, as if he knows he’s not where he’s supposed to be and doesn’t care. As if I might be intimidated by his appearance.
“Hey, dawg. I got a super-special delivery for a Thatcher and Sagan Hunt,” he says as he sucks his teeth and jerks his head around as he talks. “You must be them. Angel Eyes said yous was twins.”
When I hold his gaze and say nothing, his smirk falters. He sucks his teeth again and rolls his eyes. He shoves his hand into his pocket and reaches for something. My body stiffens ever so slightly, but with my hand behind my back, I’m ready to strike if I need to.
Turns out, I don’t need to. The young man pulls out a small ring box. I frown as he shoves it toward me.
“For you, man.”
I take it but don't tear my eyes away from our guest.
“Thanks, man ,” I say, realizing that I’ve found the perfect outlet for my murderous rage. With a smile, I step back and halfway into the house. “Would you like to come in and grab a bite to eat while I open my gift?”
“Naw, I don’t want any part of that,” the young man says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Knowin’ him? That ain’t good. Have fun with that shit.”
My smile falls. It’s the cue my brother has been waiting for. Sagan moves swiftly. My brother steps out and grabs our guest by the front of his jacket. Caught off guard, the young thug doesn’t get a chance to fight back before Sagan drags him into the house.
Sagan’s knife goes to the man’s throat as I calmly shut the door behind them.
“Let’s go down to the basement. We just moved in and haven’t spent much time down there yet. Right now seems like a great time to get acquainted with the space,” he growls into the thug’s ear.
“Yo, man, you can’t be shooting the messenger!” the kid cries out as he thrashes about.
Neither of us responds while we head toward the basement door.
Made up of cement floors and cinder block walls, spiderwebs and dust are the only things that fill the basement. I consider the space and how Knox plans to turn this into a large hang out room with a pool table, bar, and a movie theater. None of that will happen if I don’t get him back.
“Have a seat, won’t you?” I offer.
“W-where?” the guy asks as Sagan shoves him in front of us.
As he whirls around to face us, he meets the end of my fist. The thug crumples to the ground with a cry. He reaches up to hold his nose.
“You can sit right there,” I tell him with a cold smile. “Now, let’s see what Angel Eyes so thoughtfully sent.”
My stomach clenches as I lift the box. What could fit inside here that he wanted hand delivered? Whatever it is, it won’t be good. I know that as certainly as I know my first name. Rather than open it right away, I glance over to Sagan. He’s staring at the box as if it’s a bomb he’s going to attempt to survive when it goes off. With a deep breath and a pounding heart, I lift the lid.
The world goes silent. My heart grinds to a halt. And the breath in my lungs is expelled sharply.
There, sitting in the box, is a blue eyeball. A familiar eyeball. I’d stared into the pair of these baby blues not all that long ago.
Fuck .
I start to shut the box as an icy rage grips my heart, but stop when something beneath the eye catches my attention. Reaching in, I pull out a small, thin, “Y” shaped piece of plastic. Blood stains it. I’m no doctor, but I know what this is and who it belongs to. Just as I know whose eyeball sits staring back at me. Thanks to Sagan’s intensive stalking before we consumed Beatrix’s life, I know about my sister’s preferred method of birth control. The fact that I’m holding it tells me this IUD is no longer a viable option. How it got from Beatrix’s uterus into my hands is an even bigger issue.
An eerie stillness settles over me. It’s heavy but welcomed as it numbs the fury and pain that tries to overwhelm. Calmly, I shut the box and pocket it.
“Well, what a thoughtful gift,” I say, my voice even and soft. I look down at our guest and smile.
Sagan says nothing.
Between us, our bond has never felt more solid. The dark stillness that is stretching to every corner of my body reaches for a similar one in him. When they merge, the thoughts and desires that well up inside me, inside us , would make even the devil quake.
I pull my knife out, and the man on the ground begins to scramble back. “It would be rude if we didn’t give him something special in return, wouldn’t it, Sagan?”
“It certainly would,” he agrees, his voice gravelly and low.
“Good thing I have just the surprise for him.”