55. Lazarus
My eyes snap open to the sound of my phone shrieking on the nightstand. The room is pitch-black, the air stale and cold, and for a disoriented heartbeat I’m still trapped in a dream where I’m tangled up in her.
Then the phone screams again, and I lunge for it, nearly knocking over the glass of water beside it. The screen blares a live security feed: motion detected, multiple points.
I’m already on my feet, bare soles slapping against the marble floor of the villa. I’m not thinking; I’m pure instinct, a raw nerve firing on all cylinders.
Leandra.
Leandra is in trouble.
I snatch my jeans from the chair and yank them on, my fingers fumbling with the button.
The phone is still in my hand, and I’m already dialling Devin as I stumble into the hallway.
The villa is silent, the kind of silence that feels far too fucking ominous.
The sconces along the walls are dim, casting long, trembling shadows that seem to reach for me as I run.
The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Then voicemail.
I hang up and call again, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Devin, pick up. Pick up, you bastard. He’s supposed to be there. He’s supposed to be watching over her. The line clicks to voicemail again, and a cold, slick dread slides down my spine.
I round the corner and nearly slam into the wall, my shoulder grazing the rough stone.
The villa is a labyrinth of narrow corridors and heavy wooden doors, and right now every single one of them feels like an obstacle designed to slow me down.
My mind is a hurricane of worst-case scenarios, Konstantine finding her, dragging her out, her eyes wide with terror.
I can’t breathe,
I can’t think.
I just have to move.
The door to Konstantine’s room is at the end of the east corridor. I left him there hours ago, slumped in a wingback chair by the fire.
But as I reach the door, I can see it’s ajar, just a crack, but it’s the first warning sign.
My hand hovers over the iron handle, and a voice in my head, cold, rational, tells me to be careful.
But the louder voice, the one that sounds like Leandra’s name repeated over and over, screams at me to move.
I shove the door open so hard it slams against the wall.
The room is dark. Not the soft, muted dark of a dying fire, but the absolute, suffocating dark of a tomb.
The hearth is a black mouth, no embers, no glow.
The air is frigid, carrying the faint, acrid scent of cold ash.
And the chair where I left Konstantine is empty.
The cushions are still indented from his weight, but he’s gone. He’s fucking gone.
A sound escapes me, something between a growl and a gasp. He’s out. He’s free, and Leandra’s location has been compromised. The two facts collide in my brain like a head-on crash, and for a moment I’m frozen, caught in the wreckage of my own failure.
“You wouldn’t listen.”
The voice comes from behind me, low and calm, with that infuriating note of paternal disappointment.
I whip around, my hand instinctively going to my hip, but I’m not wearing my holster.
I’m standing in my bare feet and jeans, unarmed, and Charles is leaning against the doorframe like he’s been there for hours, watching this entire thing play out.
His arms are crossed over his chest, his face half in shadow, but I can see the faint, smug curve of his mouth.
“What are you talking about?” The words tear out of me, a snarl so raw it scrapes my throat.
I’m already moving toward him, my hands curling into fists. My head is a siren, a relentless, piercing wail that drowns out everything except the need to get to Leandra.
She’s in danger.
She’s in danger and this man is standing here, blocking my path, speaking in God damn riddles.
“I warned you,” Charles says, and he doesn’t flinch as I advance. His voice is steady, almost gentle, which makes it a thousand times worse. “I told you not to commit the same mistakes he did, but you thought you knew better. You always do.”
He. Konstantine. The mistakes. The words are a match dropped into the gasoline of my rage.
I launch myself at him, my hands grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, slamming him back against the doorframe. The impact rattles the wall, but Charles barely reacts. His eyes, pale and unblinking, meet mine with an infuriating serenity.
“What the fuck have you done?” I’m shouting, my face inches from his. Spittle flies from my lips. I can smell coffee on his breath, the faint musk of his cologne. He’s calm. He’s so goddamn calm while my world is imploding. “Where is he? What did you do?”
Charles doesn’t struggle, he doesn’t push me away. He just looks at me, and that small, knowing smile spreads across his face like a crack in ice. “What you should have done,” he says. “I have taken control. I have sorted this mess out for you.”
The words don’t make sense at first. They’re too absurd, too monstrous.
I stare at him, my grip tightening until my knuckles ache, searching his face for some sign of deception, some flicker of the man I thought I knew.
But all I see is conviction. A terrible, unwavering certainty.
He let Konstantine go. He orchestrated this.
“You will thank me for it,” he adds, and his tone is so matter-of-fact, so utterly convinced of his own righteousness that something inside me snaps.
My fist connects with his jaw before I even register the decision to throw it.
The impact is a shockwave up my arm, a satisfying, sickening crunch of bone and cartilage.
Charles’s head snaps to the side, his body slumping against the doorframe, and for a split second that smug expression is wiped clean.
He staggers, one hand flying to his face but I’m already past him, already running for the door.
The car screeches to a halt on the gravel driveway, and I’m out before the engine dies, my boots hitting the ground hard. The mansion looms before me, its windows dark, its front door hanging open like a wound.
That’s when I see him.
Konstantine.
He’s walking out. With blood on his hands, literal blood dripping from his fingers, staining the cuffs of his shirt. His clothes are dishevelled, his shirt untucked, his collar torn. There’s something on his face, smeared across his cheek, and it takes me a moment to realise it’s more blood.
He’s done something. Something horrific.
I can see it in the way he moves, that shuffling, unsteady gait, like a man who has just crawled out of hell and doesn’t quite remember how to walk among the living.
“Konstantine!” My voice tears from my throat, raw and primal.
I lunge toward him, my vision tunnelling, my hands reaching for his throat. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to wrap my fingers around his neck and squeeze until the life drains from his eyes, until he pays for whatever he’s done, until…
Arms catch me. Strong arms, pulling me back.
“Lazarus, stop!”
Charles. It’s fucking Charles. Clearly, he followed me from the villa.
“Let me go!” I snarl, thrashing against him. “Let me fucking go.”
“You cannot kill him. Not here. Not now.” Charles says, his voice unnervingly calm.
“Watch me.”
“If you do this,” Charles says, his grip tightening, his mouth so close to my ear I can feel his breath, “You will never be Grand Master. Everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve sacrificed, all these years, it will all be for nothing. Do you understand me? You kill him now, it is all over.”
I’m still straining against him, my muscles screaming, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth. But his words are sinking in, burrowing into my brain like maggots.
“This is how it was meant to be,” Charles continues, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. “This is all part of the plan. God’s plan. Do you hear me, Lazarus? This is God’s plan.”
I stop struggling.
I stare at my brother.
Konstantine hasn’t moved. He’s just standing there, swaying slightly, his eyes fixed on something I can’t see.
His hands are trembling.
His whole body is trembling.
And he’s twitching, a horrible, spasmodic movement that ripples through his shoulders, his neck, his face. It makes him look like a puppet with half its strings cut. It makes him look insane.
He’s muttering something. Over and over, the same words, spilling from his lips like a prayer or a curse.
“It happened again. It happened again. It happened again.”
The words send ice down my spine. I don’t know what he means, not exactly, but I can guess. I can see the evidence painted on his skin, the blood, the ruin. Something terrible has happened inside that house.
Charles releases me slowly, cautiously, like I’m a wild animal that might still bite. I don’t move. I just watch as he steps past me, his posture shifting, his expression smoothing into something gentle, something almost kind.
He approaches Konstantine the way you’d approach a frightened horse, slow and deliberate, his hands visible, his voice soft.
“Konstantine,” he says, and my brother flinches like he’s been struck. “It’s me. It’s Charles. I’m here to help you.”
Konstantine stares at him. His eyes are wide, glassy, unfocused. He looks at Charles like he’s seeing a ghost, like he can’t quite believe he’s real.
“Charles?” His voice is small, childlike. Lost.
“Yes,” Charles says, taking Konstantine’s arm. My brother doesn’t resist. He just stands there, trembling as Charles’s fingers close around his elbow. “It’s me. I’m here now. Everything is going to be alright.”
“It has happened again,” Konstantine whispers, and there’s something in his voice, something that might be horror or might be wonder. “Just like before. Just like Ines. It has happened again.”
“I know,” Charles says, and his voice is so gentle, so full of understanding. “I know it has but it’s time now, Konstantine. It’s time to go.”
Konstantine blinks. “Time? Time for what?”
Charles glances at me. Just a flicker of his eyes, just a moment, but I see it. I see the calculation there, the cold, hard purpose beneath the gentle mask.
“The ritual,” he says, turning back to my brother. “You remember? You are Grand Master. You are needed. Everyone is waiting for you.”
“The ritual,” Konstantine repeats. The words come out hollow, empty, like he’s speaking a language he no longer understands. His brow furrows, and for a moment, he looks almost lucid. Almost like the brother I used to know. “I don’t... I don’t...”
“That’s right,” Charles says, nodding enthusiastically, his voice bright and encouraging. “The ritual. It’s time. Let’s get you in a car, let’s get you ready. There are so many people waiting, so many Brethren all gathered to witness your ascension. They need you, Konstantine. The Order needs you.”
“The Brethren,” Konstantine murmurs, and something shifts in his expression. Some flicker of recognition, of memory. “Yes. The Brethren. They’re waiting.”
“They’re waiting,” Charles confirms. He’s already guiding Konstantine toward one of the cars, his hand firm on his arm, his voice a steady, soothing stream of words.
“We’ll get you cleaned up. Washed, anointed, dressed in your finest robes.
You’ll look magnificent. Everyone will be in awe.
And then we’ll fly to the cathedral, and you’ll take your rightful place.
Everything you’ve ever wanted, Konstantine. It’s all waiting for you.”
My brother nods, a jerky, mechanical movement. He’s still twitching, still muttering under his breath but he’s moving now, letting Charles lead him away. He looks broken, he looks hollowed out.
He looks like a man who has already died and just hasn’t realised it yet.
I watch them go. I watch Charles help my brother into the back of the car, and then him get in after. He nods at me as he shuts the door as if we’re in this together, me and him. Buddies, or some such bullshit.
I don’t wait for the car to go, instead I’m running, sprinting, my legs carry me forward, up the steps, through the open door.
And the moment I cross the threshold, the smell hits me.
Blood. Smoke. Death.