Chapter 2 The Seventh Circle #2
Once the town dried up and most people fled, I sold a lot of the cattle we had to try and stay afloat, but the stress was getting to me.
I needed some kind of outlet, and we needed to make money, because I refused to dig my daddy up so that someone could buy our family home.
He’s buried out back near a patch of trees on the edge of the ranch.
Most people think he ran out on us and left with everyone else, and that’s the way I like to keep it.
So then, Raphael came to me with an idea.
He’s always liked to lurk in the darkest and most grimy corners of the internet.
I’m not really sure why, maybe it makes him feel morally superior, but he stumbled upon this group of people with a twisted vice and seemingly bottomless pockets.
He got himself connected with them, some of society's sickest, wealthiest motherfuckers, all who were willing to pay a shockingly good price for ‘exotic meats’.
And there it was, a business of our very own:
We bring them the flesh of sinners, and the clients make us rich.
I’m judge, jury, executioner, and the Devil himself.
When it comes to the business, Raphael’s more organized than I am, and a hell of a lot more meticulous.
He has some kind of complicated vetting process, makes sure that everyone involved isn’t going to cause any trouble down the line, but a lot of our clients are powerful people, at least powerful enough to have some skeletons in their closets.
One of them snitches and he’s got a nuclear option that blows all of us to smithereens— Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Mutually assured destruction does wonders for a relationship.
But me? I like the way we do things, and I have no interest in controlling his side of the business. After all, I’m just the beast he keeps on a leash.
I finish the rest of my meal, pour myself another drink, and start on the dishes while I wait for my brother, but it’s not long before Hades and Charon are barking at the sound of tires rolling on gravel.
I glance out the window in time to see him hop out of his truck, striding quickly toward the front door. He’s a few inches shorter than me, with dark blond hair that contrasts my own brown, but both of us have that Blackthorne jaw, square and slightly flared, just like our daddy’s.
I open the door, and the two of us begin loading boxes into the back of his truck without a word.
When we’re done he stuffs the envelope of cash into his pocket: ten thousand to be paid to our runner, who may have the most dangerous job of all despite the protection we can offer.
He transports the meat along with some race horses that Raph sells for legitimacy.
“Clients want another round of orders.”
He hands me a small note, folded up like he’s passing it to a crush in class.
It’s funny how something as consequential as a death sentence can be delivered on something so plain.
We never use anything that can be easily traced in regard to clients or orders, nothing electronic, no texts or e-mails, just in case the cops happen to intercept one of us for something unrelated, and confiscate our phones.
Or I fuckin’ lose track of mine, which I do more frequently than I’d care to admit.
When it comes to murder, and everything involved, I prefer analog.
As for the note, I only see two names scrawled down, all in slanted capital letters along with some key details.
Chad Brooks - Rape, domestic violence, drug trafficking.
William Lane - Four counts of child molestation.
The clients put in very specific orders. They like to know the crimes these people committed so they can feel some kind of justification for their own sins. Because you can’t be that rich and still be a good person, but they sure try their hardest to pretend.
That’s usually where Raph’s research comes in. He can dig up anything on anyone, he just needs a Red Bull and a couple of hours of peace and quiet. And as for these two? I don’t give a fuck about the drugs, but the other charges are enough motivation for me.
“I’ll need a few days.”
“Seems a little long for you to wait,” he scoffs. “Was that last one too much for you or something?”
I roll my eyes. While he first started researching our prey, I looked into what not to do when it comes to Serial Murder 101.
“A longer cooling off period is gonna make sure the cops don’t show up. You should know this stuff, Raph, try reading a fuckin’ book sometime.”
He flicks his head toward the house, completely ignoring my jab.
“Blue looks nice.”
I turn around, smiling at the new sky-blue trim that frames the windows. It was mama’s favorite color.
“Did it last week.”
It looks like he might have something more to say, but the ringing of his phone cuts things short.
“I gotta go. Have to meet a man about a horse.”
“That real, or do you just wanna leave?”
“Kinda both?”
He re-adjusts his baseball cap, shooting me a quick nod before hopping back into his truck and peeling down the driveway, leaving a big cloud of dust behind him.
I sigh as I watch him go, glancing up at the sky just in time to see it start to turn that gorgeous golden color I know so well, with a few streaks of pink strewn across it like paint. Nothin’ beats a sunset on the prairies.
I need a hot bath after a kill. It’s always nice to relax those aching muscles after a workout, but this kind of thing needs a little preparation. Hades and Charon are still battling over Josh’s femur in the hall as I make a beeline for the living room.
“You boys be good,” I call. “I don’t wanna hear any ruckus out here.”
I fix myself a glass of bourbon and thumb through my mama’s records, pulling out a Connie Francis album.
She loved Connie Francis, and every time I put one on, it’s like there’s a little bit of her in the house again. If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the chocolate chip cookies she used to bake on Sundays.
There’s not much that beats that warm and inviting sound you can only get from vinyl, and with Who’s Sorry Now crackling through the speakers, I make my way to the bathroom, leaving the door open just a crack.
I strip my clothes off, staring at myself in the mirror: all the muscle I’ve built over the years, all of my scar tissue cloaked in tattoos.
My favorite is the one on my throat. A giant African swallowtail butterfly.
They’re so poisonous that they have no natural predators. It seemed fitting for my line of work.
I’ve covered almost every inch of my body in ink, making sure it stretches all the way up my neck, hiding a lot of mostly self-inflicted damage.
Before I embraced what I am, I used to try and cut the evil out of myself.
I carved crosses and holy symbols into my skin as though God himself could protect me from my urges.
Now? I decide who lives, who dies, and whose sins are meant to be forgiven.
I may as well have become Him.