Chapter 30
TEDDY
The sedative takes Malachi down hard. One moment he's standing at his kitchen island with a cup of chamomile tea, the next he's crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut.
Silas catches him before he hits the marble countertop, lowering him with surprising gentleness for someone about to commit patricide.
“Dose was good,” Jonah observes, checking Malachi's pulse. “He'll be out for hours.”
“Long enough,” Elias says, shouldering the old man's weight like he's carrying groceries.
We move through Malachi's house like shadows—seven brothers and me, now united in purpose. The security system went down twenty minutes ago, thanks to Silas's skills. The cameras loop empty footage while we work.
Even knowing what we're about to do, part of me marvels at their coordination. They flow through the space like water, each man knowing exactly where to go, what to carry. This isn't their first rodeo.
The drive back to the carnival passes in tense silence. Malachi slumps unconscious in the back of the van, his breathing steady and unlabored. He looks smaller like this. Frail. Just a sick old man instead of the monster who tortured children for decades.
I think about Nova's hands covered in Roman's blood, the satisfaction in her eyes as she watched her abuser die. Wonder if I'll feel the same satisfaction watching Malachi pay for his sins against Silas and his brothers.
Because these men deserve it, they hurt the two people I—
Oh, fuck. I'm in love with Nova and Silas. Both of them.
It's fast, it doesn't make sense, it's not sane, but damn it… It's true. I love them.
“Almost there,” Silas says from the driver's seat.
I stare at the back of his head. I'm in love with a man. And I'm having this earth-shattering realization while surrounded by his brothers and one of their abusers. Fantastic timing, Teddy. It’ll have to wait until after.
The now-familiar trailer sits at the edge of carnival property, hidden behind equipment storage and generator housing. From the outside, it looks like maintenance storage. Inside, they've recreated hell.
The walls are bare metal, painted institutional white. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows that make everything look sickly and wrong. In the center sits a single chair—metal, uncomfortable, designed to make its occupant feel small and vulnerable.
But it's the details that make my stomach clench.
The children's drawings taped to the walls—crayon stick figures and smiling suns that feel obscene in this context.
The small table set with plastic cups and plates, like a tea party setup.
The speakers in the corners that will play recordings that make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“This is it,” Elias says quietly. “The children's room. Exactly as in our commune.”
They've rebuilt their trauma chamber. Made Malachi's weapon into their tool.
Logan and Cole secure the unconscious man to the chair while Marek sets up the audio equipment. The speakers crackle to life, filling the trailer with the sound of children singing hymns.
“He'll wake up to this,” Silas explains, his voice clinical. “The same songs he made us sing. The same room where he broke us down.”
“How long?” I ask.
“Until he confesses everything. Until he begs for forgiveness. Until he understands what he put us all through.” Elias checks his watch. “However long it takes.”
Malachi stirs as the sedative wears off, his eyes fluttering open to harsh fluorescent light and the ghostly sound of children's voices. For a moment, confusion clouds his features. Then recognition hits, and his face goes gray.
“No.” The word comes out as a whisper. “This isn't—where am I?”
“Home,” Silas says, stepping into his line of sight. “Remember this place, Father? You spent so much time here with us.”
Malachi's gaze darts around the recreated room, taking in every horrible detail. “You can't do this. I'm dying. The cancer—”
“We know.” Elias moves to stand beside his brother. Both sons facing their father. “Poetic justice, don't you think? Dying slowly, piece by piece, just like you killed us?”
“I never killed anyone!”
“Our mothers would disagree. Zach would disagree,” Logan snarls, his scarred hands clenched into fists. “If he could still speak.”
The name visibly shakes Malachi. His mouth opens and closes, no sound emerging.
“Oh, you remember Zach,” Rowe says quietly. “Five years old. Sweet kid. Loved to draw pictures of birds.”
“The night we escaped,” Silas continues, “Zach didn't make it. Internal bleeding from what you and your Prophets did to him. Logan held him while he died.”
Tears begin streaming down Malachi's cheeks. “I never meant—the discipline was necessary—”
“Discipline?” Cole's knife appears in his hand, the blade catching the harsh light. “Is that what you called it when you raped children?”
“I never—that's not what—we were building God's kingdom—”
“You were building your sick fantasy.” Jonah's deep voice carries the weight of absolute judgment. “Using scripture to justify what you wanted to do anyway.”
I watch Malachi crumble as each accusation lands. This man terrorized dozens of children, created a system of abuse that lasted decades, destroyed countless lives. And now he sits here making excuses, trying to reframe his crimes as religious duty.
“The Bellmour Youth Initiative,” I say, speaking for the first time since he woke up. “How many children have disappeared from your programs?”
His head snaps toward me, eyes wide with new terror. “You're FBI. You have to—I have rights—”
“You have the right to suffer,” I reply calmly. “Same rights you gave those kids and their mothers.”
“Dr. Morrison sends her regards,” Elias adds with dark humor. “She's enjoying her new position as foundation director. Amazing what happens when someone competent takes over.”
The color drains from Malachi's face. “Rebecca? But she's—how did you—”
“She's one of us,” Silas explains. “A Sanctum survivor. Just another broken child from the Prophets' collection.”
“She remembers everything,” Marek says from the corner of the trailer. “The choosing ceremonies. The punishment rooms. The way Prophets made children complicit in each other's suffering.”
Malachi begins shaking his head frantically. “That was different. That was discipline. Structure. We were saving their souls—”
“You were destroying them!” Logan explodes, stepping forward with violence radiating from every line of his body. “You destroyed us! Murdered Zach! Scattered dozens of kids to the wind because you were sick!”
“I loved you,” Malachi whispers. “All of you. I was trying to prepare you for God's kingdom—”
The slap echoes through the trailer. Elias's palm connects with his father's cheek hard enough to snap his head sideways.
“Don't you dare talk about love.” Elias's voice carries enough ice to freeze blood. “You don't know what that word means.”
Malachi slumps in the chair, defeated. Blood trickles from his split lip as he stares at the floor.
Logan steps forward, lighter in hand. “I could burn this whole fucking place down with you in it.”
“Wait.” I move between them, an idea crystallizing. “He hasn't told us about the network yet. The other operations.”
Elias catches on immediately. “The complete list. Every Prophet, every compound.”
“I don't remember—”
“You remember.” My training kicks in, years of interrogation experience guiding my voice. “Names. Locations. Financial records. Everything.”
“They'll kill me if I talk.”
“We'll kill you if you don't,” Cole points out reasonably. “At least if you cooperate, it'll be quick.”
For the next hour, Malachi breaks completely. Names pour out of him—surviving Prophets scattered across the continent, politicians and businessmen who provided protection in exchange for access. A network of abuse that spans decades and reaches into the highest levels of power.
I record everything on my phone, knowing this information will destroy dozens of operations and save countless children. Whatever legal gray area I'm operating in, the intelligence is too valuable to lose.
“Is that everyone?” Silas asks when Malachi finally falls silent.
“Everyone I remember,” Malachi says weakly.
“Good.” Elias checks his watch. “Then we're done with this part of the night's entertainment.”
Malachi looks up, eyes wild. “You said you'd—”
Silas silences him by flashing a knife, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “We lied.”