Chapter 36
HELLFIRE
Bronte
Despite living on a detective’s salary, Scull resides in a backwater apartment in Salem’s slums.
The streets cloaked in night are infested with criminals. Barrel fires litter the alleyways like fleas. Drugs openly pass hands. Metal flashes at hips, guns and knives alike. Serpentine laughter slithers through the air, scaling up my spine.
Keeping my hood up and chin low, I stick to the path Emi advised me to take for the least amount of camera disruption to manage on her end. If Scull really is a member of Leviathan, these cams are likely the most monitored.
Aside from a few feral cats hissing my way, I encounter zero issues in finding the fire escape leading up to Scull’s apartment.
At the door, I snap on a pair of nitrile gloves, pick the lock, and soundlessly step into the lackluster space devoid of any personality.
No wall portraits nor décor of any theme to show what kind of man lives here.
Fitting, for a potential cult leader.
Kimber at the ready, I make quick work of sleuthing through the living room, kitchen, bathroom, and his personal office. Finding only eerily tidied belongings and enough espresso to stock a café, I move to the bedroom.
It reeks of sex in here.
Stifling a gag, I scour the dresser and find an absurd amount of panties I assume are Quinn’s. The nightstand is a trove of lube, toys, and XXL condoms.
And Poppy calls me egotistical.
Discovering nothing out of the ordinary after checking every crevice in the room, I sigh and turn to leave. Perhaps we’re wrong about him.
As I head for the exit, I spy a book on a shelf above the sofa—Quinn’s rebound Carmilla. The cat’s eye embedded in the leather watches me like it can see straight through me. I swear it winks as if it knows something I don’t.
Keeping my face hidden in shadow should a camera be planted in the cover, I lift it cautiously and pause at the sight of a small metal safe lodged in the wall behind it.
The design is old, with a combination dial standing between me and what’s inside. A red dot beneath it blinks at me in warning. Any wrong inputs will undoubtedly alert Scull.
There’s no room for error.
Scull is a lone wolf; no family, no noteworthy friends. He’s vain, but he’s not foolish as to use his birthday. I don’t know enough about his past to guess any other personal dates. What else would a member of a satanic cult use to guard his secrets? The devil’s number?
…Is it that easy?
There’s only one way to find out.
I dial the code 6-6-6. Sweat trickles down my temple as the red light blinks faster.
Then the light flashes green, and the lock slides loose.
Jackpot. Even if there’s nothing inside, the code alone is proof enough. What lies in wait, though, isn’t what I expect.
Gingerly, I seize the old and weathered tome. It’s large, heavy. I flip through the thin and delicate pages, slowly recognizing the Latin script paired with sketches of runes and ritualistic instructions. It’s a spellbook.
A grimoire.
A loose page slips out. Written upon it is the Morgenstern family tree.
Seven siblings are noted beneath Lucian and Josephine Morgenstern, along with their spouses and children and a few grandchildren.
Many I recall speaking with my first time at the manor with Poppy.
Black lines slash through every name but three:
Alexander Morgenstern
Rin Morgenstern
Poppy Morgenstern
Misery perches on my shoulder as I realize what this is and what it means.
This isn’t only the fall of an empire.
This is genocide.
Poppy is asleep when I return.
Alexander isn’t.
I’ve avoided crossing paths with him at all costs, but what I discovered tonight is too important to let lie for comfort’s sake.
Stalking through the manor’s library, I find Salem’s underworld king where he always seems to be: in a wingback by the hearth, chasing his woes from the bottom of a bottle. He senses my presence, his grip on the wine glass visibly tensing.
“You’re disrupting my peace, boy.”
“That’s my specialty, don’t you think?”
Alexander grunts, sufficiently miffed. “To what do I owe the displeasure of this particular vexation?”
I tap into my photo gallery and tilt the screen toward him. He studies the image of Scull’s Morgenstern kill list. Not an ounce of surprise shows on his face.
“Where did you find this?”
“In the apartment of a certain crooked detective currently shoving his knife deeper into your back.”
I anticipate a burst of rage, perhaps his glass thrown into the fire. Certainly not his sigh of dejected defeat.
“You knew this was happening,” I bite out, incredulous. "Your own fucking family has been hunted to near extinction, and you haven't told your own daughter?"
“Watch your tone, boy.” His arctic glower flicks to me then to the chair beside him. “Sit.”
The order grates my pride, but I obey.
“Rin and I have known, hai.” Alexander focuses on the flames, his gaze glossing. “We’ve been discussing when to tell Poppy.”
“The longer you wait, the higher chances she’ll hear it from someone else.”
His tongue clicks disparagingly at my unspoken threat. “Spare me. You and I are both very much aware she’s in no sound state of body or mind to hear it now.”
I snicker. “You’re such a fucking coward.”
Alexander’s attention cuts to me. “Would you care to repeat that?”
“Coward.” I smirk at his scowl. “Poppy can handle the news. You’re afraid of how she’ll look at you when she learns that you’ve been hiding the systematic murder of her entire family.”
“Is that so? How will she look at me?”
“Like you’re not the strong, capable father she thought you were.”
A crack splits through the glass in his white-knuckled grasp. A familiar rage burns in his irises, so bright they almost glow in the firelight.
Très bien. I need his hellfire for what comes next.
“Tomorrow, you’re going to tell Poppy, and then you’re going to invite the detective over for a nice, long drink.”
I’ve never seen his smile before. It’s the kind his daughter wears, vicious and infernally wide. Befitting a predator locked onto his prey. His laugh is worse, the chuckle of something vile from the depths of hell.
“You’ve impressed me.”
“Volkov set a low bar, no?”
Alexander chortles into his glass, gesturing to the wine bottle on the table between us. “Help yourself.”
I shake my head, rising to my feet. “Raincheck.”
He nods, and I take my leave back to Poppy’s room down the hall.
The little devil is now awake, sitting against the headboard and reading my book with a scrunched nose, strangely out of breath. She looks up as I pat Jezebel’s head, her frown deepening.
“How can you read this shit? There’s no sex.”
“I told you.” I chuckle as I strip down to my boxers and climb in beside her. “Why are you up, Petit Diable? You’re supposed to be asleep.”
Her demeanor sobers as she sets the book aside. “I couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways you could’ve been hurt.”
“Mm. Which one was your favorite?”
Poppy snorts, sinking down with a wince and using my bicep as her pillow. “I’m serious, Bronte.”
“As am I. Once you’re healed, I intend to make all your fantasies come true. Especially the morbid ones.”
“You’re so”—she searches the ceiling for the right word—“twisted.”
“Says the woman who rather enjoyed being worshipped in a satanic crypt.”
Crimson creeps up her neck, flushing her cheeks. I kiss each one, savoring their warmth on my lips. She threads her fingers through my hair, idly playing with the strands as she seems to consider what to say next.
That’s when I realize she hasn’t yet asked what I found at Scull’s. And I reconsider why she seemed out of breath while sitting still in bed.
“Were you eavesdropping?”
“Hai.” Her lashes lift, her baby blues hard as diamonds. “I was.”
“You heard everything, then?”
“Everything.”
“You’re quite calm, given the situation.”
“I was never close with my extended family. Don’t, however, mistake my quietude for apathy. Many of my cousins were children, some babies.” The same fire in her father blazes through her veins. “Leviathan will pay for this, starting with this Master who thinks he’s a fucking god.”
Pride swells in my chest. Banding an arm around her, I tug her closer. “Act surprised tomorrow.”
“I will, on one condition.”
“Name it.”
She kisses the angel tattooed on my heart. “I get to watch you play bad cop.”
I chuckle again, capturing her lips and refusing to let her go. I kiss her until she grows tired, tucking her beneath my chin as she dozes off.
Her breaths deepen, and my eyes sting. I haven’t allowed myself to feel the relief of knowing she’ll wake up again. Not until now, as she’s in my arms, her limbs curled around me like ivy on stone.
Alive. She’s alive and awake and suffered no cognitive damage after nearly dying in a pool of her own blood.
The weight of nerve-wracking days and sleepless nights spent in endless limbo smacks down like a hammer to my head. I hold her tighter as residual fear shoves its rusted blade in my guts and twists. I fist her hair to staunch the shake in my hands.
Alive. The woman I cherish is alive.
No, not just cherish. I’m not going to lie here and cower from what I feel. From what I’ve been feeling for so long, I don’t know when the arrow struck me.
I am in love with Poppy Morgenstern.
And I will love her long after the seas have dried to deserts and this planet burns to nothing but ash and smoke.