42. Lazarus
Ipause at the gates, my hands still stained with her, the scent of her skin clinging to my clothes, the memory of her brown eyes burning behind my lids every time I blink.
Except they aren’t brown anymore. They’re blue now.
A pale, watery blue that makes my stomach turn because I know whose eyes they’re meant to mimic.
Ines.
The thought of her name sends a spike of rage through my chest so violent I have to grip the iron gate to steady myself.
It’s not the exact same shade, thank God for small mercies, but close enough that anyone who didn’t know Ines intimately would be fooled.
Close enough that Konstantine can look at her and pretend.
Leandra’s eyes are different. Even now, even altered, there’s something in them that Ines never possessed. Something soft, something wounded. Something that calls to the broken parts of me that I’ve spent years trying to bury.
And now they’re gone. Those beautiful brown eyes that looked at me like I was something other than a monster. Gone, replaced by a pale imitation of a dead woman’s gaze.
Christ, I want to kill him.
The thought settles in my chest like a stone dropping into still water. I want to wrap my hands around my brother’s throat and squeeze until the madness leaves his body along with his final breath. I want to carve out his eyes the way he carved out hers. I want to…
Breathe.
I force my fingers to uncurl, force my lungs to expand, force the mask of the loyal brother back onto my face even though it fits less comfortably now than it ever has before.
Ezra is safe, that’s what matters. Zayn has him hidden away now. My son is safe.
I push through the gates and walk the long path to the villa’s main entrance.
The cypress trees lining the drive cast shadows that stretch toward me like grasping fingers and the fountain in the centre of the courtyard burbles peacefully, a sound that should be soothing but instead grates against my nerves like nails on slate.
The guards at the door recognize me and step aside without a word. They are my men. Every single one of them has been replaced. They are loyal to me. Loyal to the right brother, not the mad one.
It should have been you.
My father’s dying words echo in my skull as I step into the marble foyer.
The chandelier overhead throws prisms of light across the floor, and for a moment I’m transported back to that night; the taste of my father’s blood on my tongue, the weight of his body as he slumped over, the whisper that followed me out of the ceremony and has followed me every day since.
It should have been you.
I shake the memory away and head toward the west wing, where Konstantine’s private chambers are located.
The villa is quiet today. The usual bustle of servants, guards, and sycophants reduced to a hollow stillness that puts my teeth on edge.
Something is wrong. Something is always wrong in this place, but today the wrongness has a different texture. A different taste.
I’m halfway down the corridor when I hear voices.
I stop, pressing myself against the wall. Listening.
“…cannot continue at this rate.” That’s Victor.
I’d recognize his voice anywhere; the dry, papery quality of it like ancient parchment being unfolded.
He’s one of our Guardians. “The population has grown beyond sustainable levels. We’re looking at a crisis within the next decade if nothing is done. ”
“And what would you have me do?” Konstantine’s voice is lazy, almost bored, but I know my brother well enough to hear the edge beneath it. The hunger. “Cull the herd?”
“I would have you consider it.”
I hold my breath, not fully understanding what they are saying, who they are talking about. What herd?
“Go on,” Konstantine says.
“The Brethren has always understood that control requires sacrifice,” Victor continues.
“The masses breed like rabbits. They consume resources. They demand rights, freedoms, and all manner of things they haven’t earned.
We’ve managed them through economics, through politics, through carefully orchestrated conflicts but those methods are becoming less effective.
The internet has made them... restless.”
“Restless.” Konstantine laughs, and the sound makes my skin prickle. “You make them sound like cattle sensing the slaughterhouse.”
“Aren’t they?”
I can picture the smile spreading across my brother’s face. I’ve seen it a thousand times; the particular curve of his lips when someone presents him with an idea that appeals to his basest instincts.
“What are you proposing?” Konstantine asks.
“Something biblical.” Victor’s voice drops lower, and I have to strain to hear him. “Something that sends a message. Not just to them, but to everyone who might think to challenge us. The dissenters within our own ranks. Everyone.”
“A plague.”
The word lands in my gut like a fist. Not because it surprises me-- I’ve heard whispers of this before, rumours of certain Guardians pushing for more aggressive population control measures-- but because of the way Konstantine says it, like he’s tasting something delicious.
Like the idea of mass death is a vintage wine he’s been waiting to uncork.
“A plague feels suitable,” he continues. “Something that spreads quickly. Something that creates fear before it creates corpses. Fear is the real goal, isn’t it? Dead bodies are just the proof that the fear was justified.”
“Precisely.” Victor’s approval is audible. “I’ve taken the liberty of consulting with certain... specialists. There are options. Engineered variants of existing pathogens. Something that targets specific demographics while leaving others relatively untouched. The optics would be…”
“Manageable,” Konstantine finishes. “The elderly, the compromised. The ones society already views as burdens. We’d be doing them a favour, really. Clearing out the dead weight.”
My blood runs cold. Not because I’m surprised by the cruelty, because of the casualness with which he discusses it.
“A plague?”
The new voice makes me stiffen. I know it immediately, though I can’t place why it’s here, in this room, in this conversation.
Jacob.
The owner of the Black Orchid. The man who runs one of the most exclusive clubs in the country, the place where Brethren elite can go to indulge their darker appetites.
I’ve been there dozens of times. I’ve drunk his whiskey, smiled at his jokes, and never once suspected he was connected to my brother at this level.
“Too biblical for your tastes?” Konstantine asks, and I can hear the amusement in his voice.
“Too messy.” Jacob’s tone is measured, careful in a way that suggests he’s used to navigating dangerous conversations.
“Plagues have a way of spreading beyond their intended targets. You release something into the wild, and suddenly it’s not just the masses dying.
It’s your servants. Your suppliers. Your whores.
The people who make your life comfortable. ”
“You have an alternative?”
“I have concerns. There’s a difference.”
“Then voice them.”
I hear the creak of leather as someone shifts in their chair.
“The Brethren has survived for centuries because we’ve been subtle,” Jacob says.
“We’ve pulled strings from the shadows, we’ve influenced rather than commanded.
A plague is the opposite of subtle. It’s a declaration of war against the entire world, and wars have a tendency to create heroes.
Martyrs. Resistance movements. You start killing people en masse, and eventually someone is going to start asking questions about who benefits. ”
“Let them ask,” Konstantine says. “By the time they have answers, they’ll be too busy burying their dead to do anything about it.”
“And if the plague mutates? If it jumps species barriers? If it comes back to bite the hand that released it?”
“Then we’ll have contingencies. Vaccines. Treatments. The Brethren always has contingencies.”
“Does it?” Jacob’s voice is soft, almost pitying.
“Because from where I’m standing, the Brethren is more fractured than it’s been in three hundred years.
You have Guardians who don’t trust you. Chapter Lords who are openly questioning your leadership.
The Esau nipping at your heels like wolves waiting for the stag to stumble.
And now you want to unleash a plague that could very well spiral out of control before you’ve finished consolidating your power? ”
The silence that follows is heavy. Dangerous. I have to admire Jacob for having the balls to say such things out loud.
“Careful,” Konstantine says, and his voice has lost all trace of amusement. “You’re speaking to your Grand Master.”
“I’m speaking to a man who needs to hear the truth,” Jacob replies. “That’s why you invited me here, isn’t it? Because I’m one of the few people who will give it to you straight instead of telling you what you want to hear?”
“I invited you here because you have resources I need. Don’t confuse utility with intimacy.”
“Then let me be useful. Let me tell you that a plague is a hammer when what you need is a scalpel. You want to reduce the population? Fine, but do it surgically. Do it in ways that can’t be traced back to us.
Engineered famines. Economic collapses. Wars in regions no one cares about.
You can kill just as many people without painting a target on your own back. ”
I press myself harder against the wall. This is worse than I thought. Far worse. It’s not just Konstantine and a few rogue Guardians entertaining dark fantasies. It’s a coordinated effort. A conspiracy within a conspiracy.
“We’ll discuss this further,” Konstantine says finally. “Victor, I want projections. Mortality rates. Spread patterns. I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with before I make any final decisions.”
“Of course, Grand Master.”