Chapter 17 #2
The weather was insane, although nothing like the past few days: a cold spring with a shower or two of freezing rain—the real snow normally happens in January. This night was a devastating phenomenon.
I was sitting in that room with Charlie, a low crackling fire to keep him warm. As the went on, he carried out full conversations with me—even though he couldn't see me.
Not the way Niven could.
He knew I was there for him from the moment he was born, even then as he was suffering from dementia, and most of the conversations were the same.
That night, he was remembering stories about his mother.
“All roses… pretty roses. Ring around the Rosie. Can I have a rose, Ollie?” He calls out to the empty room.
“Mother has one, may I have one too?” For old times’ sake, I obliged.
The ambient glow from the fireplace, as the flames pulsed and flickered, was the only light against the thick darkness that consumed the rest of the room. I got to my feet—standing in front of the chair adjacent to him, then make my way over to grab one of the many roses he kept on the mantle.
No sooner had my hand met the marble than the air began to shift.
Suddenly, chills ran down my spine—we were no longer alone, and I knew it.
Quickly attaining one of the roses, spinning on my heels, the tension lessening when I saw that he had fallen asleep—at least that is what I had hoped happened.
Moving over to him, I placed one hand between his shoulders, the other on his forehead, guiding him back to avoid the formation of a kink in his neck.
That’s when I saw it out of the corner of my eye, a figure darting and dodging—a failed attempt at staying out of what pinpoint light there was.
I stood there listening to some shuffling that sounded a few feet behind him.
My body was rock solid as I allowed my eyes to adjust. Slowly, rotating around his chair, still scanning for any sign of movement, my eyes met the gaze of the perpetrator.
I knew they couldn’t see me, so I glared at them—watching, as they made their way to stand where I just moved from, giving Charlie the once-over.
That’s when it happened. Charlie opened his eyes and threw himself at the trespasser.
It all happened so fast. “I knew one day you’d come for me, Theodore.
” A loud ‘shing’ presents itself, followed by a groan of pain.
The assailant’s arm thrusts in and out as they begin to sink their blade into him repeatedly.
I was overwhelmed by the sheer escalation of the events that transpired before me, I lost count as his body fell… lunging I tried to catch him—forgetting the obvious reality of my existence, I cried as he passed right through my arms.
A ripple of hope that there was still a chance he could be saved, caused me to run to the window, but Niven’s car was gone—surprisingly, so was the house nurse.
I stood there, stunned, while the intruder was already out the door—I couldn’t even recover from the tragedy I had just witnessed.
Once my mobility returned, I ran to the door, down the stairs, and was able to catch the make and model of his car.
As the memory comes back, it hits me like a freight train.
The way the car sped off that night was familiar.
Then it clicked, not only did this intruder kill Charlie—he was also the driver involved in the accident that had furthermore changed my Dove’s life.
My mind slips back into the memory of that night.
Rushing back to his side… doing all I could do.
.. cradling his old, fragile body in my arms—knowing that it was impossible…
unless. The time slipped by, and morning crept ever nearer, I held him and cried—his dementia was too advanced for his soul to have any unfinished business.
I am no stranger to the deep sense of loss.
Words cannot begin to describe how much I suffered through my subsistence—he was my tether after his mother passed…
the prodigal son, and my oath to her was to stay and protect him.
He had always been a comforting constant in the labyrinth of my existence.
The memories of that night will remain etched in my mind—a haunted image…
an indelible mental scar reminding me of the fragility of life and the ruthlessness of fate.
If it weren't for that night, Emory wouldn't be here today, because staying here with Charlie was the reason I was late.
His death would be the first time I ever failed her and the last. Each day after felt like a tribute to his enduring spirit and the legacy he left behind—a legacy that shaped who he was and, in turn, who we are.
The echoes of his stories, his laughter, and his unwavering bravery lingered in the air—a silent testament to a life well-lived. And now, as the shadows of the past weave into the fabric of the present, we must confront the darkness that seeks to engulf us.
As I shake myself from the memories that haunt me, Brennan and Niven are breaking from a much-needed embrace.
“You give him hell for me and your grandfather.” I’ve never heard her so spiteful…
so angry. As Brennan turns to go into his grandfather's room, Niven glares at me.
Already aware of what the stare means, I listen as she speaks anyway.
“You make sure that bastard gets more than what he deserves.”
“I can't stay long, I have to meet Emory in the dress shop,” I peer down at her and give her a slight head bow, “But I will make sure he hurts for all three of you.”
Her expression turns from hatred to confusion. “Three of us?”
I square my shoulders before I speak. “He was driving the other car that ran them off the bridge.”
“Are you certain?” I nod again, as she continues. “Very well, I’ll be in the library. Tell me every detail you can when you see me next.” She pats my back on her way past me. Once she has cleared the doors and vanished, I turn to face the West Wing—following Brennan in stride.
∞∞∞
The screams are deliciously loud as I enter the room.
The door to the right is open now, and claw marks are carved into the oak like a wild beast had been trapped inside.
Moving forward, Brennan is standing over the not-so-poor creature—a killer over his prey.
“It was you, huh?” Brennan crouches in front of his victim.
Cracking every knuckle in sequence before he grabs the man’s face firmly in his oversized hands.
“Makes me wonder if you are the one who called the hit on me a year back.” Spit flies, landing in Brennan’s eye—a thunderous cackle bursts from his throat as he puts two fingers on the globe of mucus.
Positioning them in front of the unaffected eye, he rotates his thumb, smearing the fluid between all three fingers.
Then in a flash, the back of Brennan’s hand splits the guy's lip.
“Who are you?” Brennan demands. His anger an anchor for the events that follow while a sneer crosses his face.
Once no answer is provided, Brennan begins to sway to the percussion of blows—back and forth—a metronome of lefts and rights.
He delivers a powerful open-palm strike, but not enough to break his quarry's jaw—it’s not his intention to keep him from talking.
His victim stops swaying and rocks back and lifts his face, unrecognizable, with both eyes bloodied. “I’m not… giving you shit!” He grunts between labored breaths. His voice is familiar—nasally.
A venomous smile stretches over Brennan’s face, twisting up on one side, revealing his canines as he clicks his tongue.
“I'll ask again, if not you, then who put it out? Hmm?” he reaches for his belt and unhooks a whip-like object—a cat-o'-nine-tails, to be exact. “Look, you already aren’t getting out of here. So, might as well fess up.”
Focusing way too much on the new toy he brought out, I almost didn’t hear what he said. I have never seen one like that before:
Seven individual cables.
Eight feet long.
Braided steel.
Fraying on each end.
I am, briefly, distracted by the glint of a talon-shaped blade spinning in his hand as he circles the pathetic trash on his knees before him…
torturously pressing it to his back. “Who the fuck knew where to find me?” Brennan raises his hand.
The whip in one hand and a stunning blade in the other.
I am torn by which weapon to look at, but that is decided for me when the tip of the knife catches onto the hem of the prisoner's jacket, stopping Brennan mid-interrogation.
A navy-blue button-up, peeks out from beneath the hoodie—parting like silk under a seamstress’s blade with the mere kiss of the tapered metal.
Brennan chuckles, “Silk? That’s a little fake and gay if you ask me.
” Then, proceeds to drag the knife up towards the nape of his neck.
The point vanishing in his hair, where blood adds to its multiple shades of red.
The pressure, although minimal, grazes his spine—the steel so sharp it causes a thread of crimson to follow in its wake.
Brennan shifts his other hand, the many tails of metal purr as they run across the wood, pulling them up to place them around his neck—draping them over his shoulders like a stole, before grabbing the man by the throat.
Brennan’s arms barely waver as he elevates him, and the veins in his arm pulsate with epinephrine—he lowers him where their noses touch.
“Not going to tell me?” He spits. “No biggy. Let's discuss which family, then.”
Launching the man into the foot of his grandfather’s hospital bed, Brennan shouts in German. “Steh auf, du arschloch!” The man stands, as told, then Brennan throws a quick jab to the man's throat, dropping him to his knees—clutching at it, gasping for air.