57. Lazarus
Istand in the doorway, my shoulder pressed against the frame, watching the doctor as he works.
Leandra lies in the centre of my bed, swallowed by white sheets, her dark skin a stark contrast against the pillows.
Someone has cleaned the blood from her forehead, but the faint pink stain of the cross remains, a ghost mark that makes my jaw clench so hard my teeth ache.
They’ve dressed her in a silk robe, pale blue, the colour of a morning sky.
It’s too loose on her, making her look smaller than she should.
The bruises on her throat have darkened in the hours since I carried her out of that burning house.
They’re purple now, almost black at the edges, perfect impressions of fingers.
Of his fingers. My brother’s hands that marked her.
My brother’s hands that held her down and forced poison past those lips.
“Will she wake?” My voice comes out rougher than I intend, scraped raw from smoke and screaming.
The doctor doesn’t look up. “Her body has endured significant trauma. The poison, what I can identify of it, appears to be a compound of nightshade derivatives. Belladonna, perhaps. Henbane.” He pauses, pressing his stethoscope to her chest, listening.
“The fact that she vomited saved her life. Most of the toxin was expelled before it could enter her bloodstream fully. What remains is causing the unconsciousness. Her body is fighting.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He straightens, finally meeting my eyes. His are pale blue, watery with age, but sharp. They’ve seen too much, but then we all have.
“I believe she will wake,” he says carefully. “When, I cannot say. Hours. Perhaps a day. Her body needs rest. Her mind...” He trails off, glancing down at her still form. “Her mind may need longer.”
I understand what he’s not saying. The poison is only part of what was done to her. The rest; the assault, the violation, the terror, those wounds don’t show on any scan. They don’t flush out with saline. They burrow deep, into the foundations of who she is, and they stay there.
I know this because I carry my own collection of such wounds.
“Stay with her,” I command. “If she so much as twitches, if her breathing changes, if anything happens…”
“I will send for you immediately.”
I nod, pushing myself off the doorframe.
My body protests. I haven’t slept, haven’t eaten.
I haven’t done anything but sit beside this bed and watch the shallow rise and fall of her chest, counting each breath like a miser counts coins.
Each one is a fortune. Each one is proof that God has not abandoned me.
But now there are sounds in the hallway.
Footsteps. Voices murmuring in that particular tone people use when they’re trying not to disturb someone important.
It’s too early for Konstantine. The helicopter will still be in the air, carrying him toward the cathedral, toward his destiny. Toward my blade.
So who the fuck is this?
I step into the corridor and close the door softly behind me. The hallway is dim, lit only by sconces that cast long shadows across the marble floor. And there, standing near the top of the staircase like he has every right to be here, is Charles.
He’s dressed immaculately, as always. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, no tie.
His silver hair is slicked back. His posture is relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a leather portfolio.
He looks like a man who has just closed a successful business deal, not a man who should be fleeing for his life.
Because Charles is the reason she was there.
Charles is the reason Konstantine escaped.
Charles is the reason my miracle almost died on that floor, naked and broken and marked with her own blood.
The rage that floods through me is not hot.
It is cold. Arctic. It crystallizes in my veins, turning my blood to ice water, sharpening every edge of my perception.
I can smell his cologne, sandalwood and something else, something cloying underneath.
I can see the way his eyes flick to the bedroom door behind me, calculating, always calculating.
“Lazarus,” he says, and his voice is warm, fatherly, the voice of a man who has known me since I was a boy.
“Come with me.”
I don’t wait for his response. I turn and walk, my footsteps measured and deliberate on the marble. Behind me, I hear him hesitate for just a moment before following. Good. Let him wonder. Let him feel the first cold finger of doubt trace down his spine.
The library doors are heavy oak, carved with scenes from the Old Testament.
Abraham and Isaac. David and Goliath. The fall of Jericho.
I push them open and walk inside, not bothering to hold them for him.
He catches them, closes them behind us with a soft click that sounds far too final for a man who doesn’t yet know he’s dead.
I walk to the windows, clasping my hands behind my back and stare out, my reflection a dark ghost in the glass.
“Everything is in motion,” Charles says behind me. “Konstantine is on the helicopter. He’ll arrive at the cathedral within the hour. Antonio is in position. He’ll play his part perfectly, I’ve made sure of it.”
Antonio.
I turn slowly, letting him see my face. Letting him see the emptiness there. “How do you know Antonio is involved?”
Charles shrugs. It’s casual. Too fucking casual. “He told me, of course. Antonio trusts me. We’ve been working together for months now, laying the groundwork for tonight. He understands the stakes. He knows what Konstantine is.”
It’s a lie, such an obvious fucking lie. Does he think me as na?ve and stupid as my brother is? Does he think I know Antonio so little?
“I see.”
I move to the desk, to the crystal decanter of whiskey that always sits there. Fifty-year-old Macallan, the colour of dark honey, smooth as silk and twice as expensive. I pour two glasses, my hands steady, my movements precise. The ice clinks against the crystal like a bell tolling.
“You should trust me too, Lazarus.” Charles accepts the glass I hold out to him, taking a sip like this is a normal conversation, like we’re two colleagues discussing business over drinks. “I have your best interests at heart. I always have.”
“Do you?”
“I know you don’t like what happened.” He swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the liquid cling to the sides.
“But that girl was poison, just like the rest of her family. It’s in their blood.
The whole lot of them are evil incarnate.
Her father, her brothers, her uncles, every single one of them has tried to destroy what your family has built. She was just the latest weapon.”
I take a sip of my whiskey. It tastes like nothing. Like water. Like ash.
“This is a temporary pain, a blip. Give it two months and you’ll be back at the Black Orchid, enjoying any one of their girls.
Hell, if you’re really set on settling down, then once all this bullshit dies down, we can find you a bride.
A suitable virgin from one of the elite.
I’m sure once you’ve got your dick wet again, you’ll realize how ridiculous this whole thing is. ”
“Ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous.” He says it again, emboldened by my neutral tone, mistaking my stillness for acceptance. “A cunt’s a cunt, you know that. Some might be prettier than others, but at the end of the day, you’re looking to stick your dick in it, not paint it.”
He laughs. He actually laughs, a wheezing chuckle that fills the library, bouncing off the leather-bound books and the ancient tapestries and the centuries of history that line these walls.
The sound of it breaks something in me.
The ice in my veins doesn’t melt. It shatters. It explodes outward in a shockwave of pure, incandescent fury that whites out my vision and roars in my ears like the voice of God.
My glass is in my hand, and then it isn’t. It’s in his face. The crystal connects with his cheekbone with a sound like a gunshot, shattering on impact, spraying whiskey, blood and shards of glass across his immaculate suit.
He stumbles backward, a cry tearing from his throat, his hands flying up to his ruined face.
“What…”
I don’t let him finish.
The dagger is in my hand before I consciously reach for it.
It’s a slender thing, elegant, the blade no longer than my palm.
It was a gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday.
He told me a man should always have a blade that can be concealed, that can be drawn in a moment, that can end a life before the victim even knows they’re dying.
I’ve carried it every day since.
“You’re lucky,” I say, and my voice is calm now, eerily calm, the calm of a sea after the storm has passed, “that I have to make this quick, that I have to make this quiet. Otherwise I would take my time with you, Charles. I would show you exactly what happens to men who betray me.”
He’s still stumbling, one hand pressed to his bleeding face, the other reaching out blindly for something to steady himself. His mouth is open, trying to form words, trying to bargain, explain, or beg. It doesn’t matter. Nothing he says matters anymore.
I step forward, into his space, and I drive the blade upward.
It slides in under his chin, through the soft flesh, through the muscle, through the artery that pulses there with the last frantic beats of his heart. The steel is so sharp I barely feel resistance. It’s like cutting silk, like sliding a key into a lock.
His eyes go wide. His mouth opens wider, but no sound comes out. Just a wet gurgle, a bubbling rush of blood that spills over his lower lip and down his chin, staining his white shirt crimson.
I step back.
He stands there for a moment, swaying, his hands now clutching at his throat as if he can somehow hold the life inside.
Then his knees buckle.
He goes down hard, collapsing sideways, his shoulder hitting the floor first, then his head. The impact makes a dull thud. His legs twitch once, twice, and then go still.
I stand over him, watching the light fade from his eyes, and I feel nothing.
No satisfaction.
No regret.
No anger anymore.
Just a vast, empty stillness where those emotions used to live.