CHAPTER TEN #2
“You still think this is about a person.” The answer twists something in my gut.
Not a person. Then what? A system. An idea.
A machine. Something bigger than the people feeding it?
The thought makes my skin crawl. “People are the weakest part of any structure,” Cameron continues.
Behind me, drawers slam open again as Billy frantically searches for something.
I should probably turn around. But I don’t.
Because every instinct I have is screaming that whatever this cunt is saying matters.
That he’s standing on the edge of a truth we’ve spent years trying to reach.
The machine behind me screams again, longer this time.
“Raven!”
“Everyone thinks power belongs to the person holding the gun.” I push the barrel harder into his forehead because damn right it does.
His bloody smile returns and all I want to do is end him right fucking now for all this bullshit.
“It belongs to the person who convinces someone else to pull the trigger.” Awareness crawls up my spine, settling at the base of my skull.
“Just tell me what I want to know.”
“Careful, Gravedigger.” The use of my nickname makes my stomach tighten. So he does know who I am. How much else does he know? “This is bigger than us.” The room suddenly feels claustrophobic. The walls seem closer, the air heavier, like the entire structure is pressing down on us.
“Queens inherit,” he says quietly. “Queens are handed kingdoms built by other people.” The phrase replays through my mind. Queens inherit. Kings take. Over and over, like a fucking drumbeat.
“And what happens when someone decides neither deserves the throne?” Silence settles between us. The desperate rustle of movement around the room disappears.
“Everyone expects war.” My grip tightens.
“That’s the point.” His bloodied face turns toward me.
“Men always expect war. Armies. Violence. Bloodshed.” His gaze drifts briefly toward the entrance before returning back to mine. “And while they’re busy looking for enemies in front of them, they miss everything happening behind them.” A drop of blood falls from his jaw.
“You know what the problem with kings is?”
“I don’t really give a fuck. Get to the point.” His tongue drags across the inside of his cheek.
Thinking.
Choosing.
Like the bastard is deciding which final secret to leave behind.
“Everyone watches the crown. The heirs. But nobody watches the spare.”
The spare.
Everything inside me freezes. The gun suddenly feels weightless in my hand.
The room around me starts to blur. He’s not talking about Ezekiel King.
No, that doesn’t make sense. Ezekiel dedicated his entire life to this cause.
Bled for it. Killed for it. Sold his fucking soul for it.
To Charles fucking Jensen. The founder and reason behind all of this fucked up shit. The king.
The heir.
The spare.
Seraphine.
The name slams into my head so hard my grip loosens on Cameron’s scrubs.
Every death. Every missing piece. Every answer that led me on a long trail to fucking nowhere.
My stomach drops, because suddenly they do.
He won’t tell me where she is, but the hunch I had years ago that she had assumed a new persona may have been right.
I’ve been looking for the wrong person. Wrong name.
Wrong face. Seraphine is someone else now, and this prick made it fucking happen.
“What’s the point of all this then?” I ask, jerking my head toward the woman dying on the table. He must see that I’ve finally caught on, because his shoulders slightly relax. Do these assholes have a death pact or some shit?
“Transformation.” He’s sick. A damn lot sicker than I am.
“That’s a fancy way to say murder and mutilation.”
“Vanity is one of the oldest currencies in the world.”
“Bullshit.”
“Is it?” Cameron asks. “People kill for power. They kill for money. They kill for love. But they’ll become someone else entirely for the chance to be seen differently.” His eyes drift toward the operating table. Toward the woman. The face being built into something new.
“A new face won’t fix what’s underneath,” I murmur.
“No,” he agrees. “But it opens doors that would’ve remained locked.” Access. Opportunity. Infiltration. The ability to become someone nobody would question. To walk through a door that would’ve otherwise stayed shut. To get close. His bloodied smile grows.
“You’d be amazed what people are willing to sacrifice for a second chance.
” His gaze locks onto mine. “And even more amazed by what they’ll sacrifice for revenge.
” Blood simmers beneath my skin. Because if what he’s implying is true…
“La beauté ouvre les portes. Le pouvoir les garde ouvertes. La vengeance est ce qui les franchit.” The French leaves his mouth and I almost roll my fucking eyes.
“Danny! Oh Fuck! No!” Billy’s voice tears through the room, and a sharp crack follows.
My head snaps around and time stutters as I see Danny on his knees.
One hand is braced against the concrete, the other clamped over his chest. Blood pours through his fingers in thick, dark pools spreading across the floor beneath him.
Billy lunges forward, catching him before Danny’s face smashes into the floor.
“Stay with me, brother.” Billy’s voice comes out rough and panicked, and Danny lets out a strangled laugh.
“I got ‘em,” Danny mutters through clenched teeth, and my pulse slams against my ribs. I spin back around to Cameron, his smile wider now, and I don’t let him say another word before I shoot the fucker right between the eyes.
His body crumples to the concrete with a dull thud, his blood fanning across the floor beneath him.
The room falls silent around me, save for Danny’s strained breathing.
“No.” I cross the room in three long strides, dropping to one knee beside him.
Blood continues to seep between his fingers, thick and warm, soaking through the fabric of his henley.
Billy wraps Danny’s discarded leather jacket around another wound, holding pressure on it to stop the bleeding, while I survey his body for further damage. “Move your hand.”
“I’d rather n-not.”
“Danny.”
He lets out a pained breath before peeling his hand away from the gash.
The slice carved straight through his shirt and into his chest. Blood continues to seep through the fabric, sluggish but steady, its edges jagged as though whoever the bastard was who’d hurt him had taken his sweet time inflicting as much damage as he could.
“Fuck. We’ve gotta get him to Katia!”
“It l-looks worse than it is,” Danny grunts through gritted teeth.
“You’re losing enough blood to prove otherwise.”
He tries to shrug, only to hiss when pain tears through him. Billy presses harder against the wound at his side.