Chapter 51
fifty-one
Something was buzzing.
A phone maybe? The sound drills straight into my skull, sharp and insistent, dragging me up from the depths of sleep. Groaning, I crack my eyes open and squint toward the nightstand. My cell phone screen is lit up, vibrating against the wood like it’s possessed.
Yep. Definitely my phone.
I grab it, my fingers clumsy and heavy, and frown when I don’t recognize the number. My stomach gives a slow, uneasy roll. I swipe to answer and bring it to my ear.
“Hello?” My voice comes out thick, rough with sleep.
“It’s about time you answer your phone, Ava Dashkov,” a voice chirps brightly on the other end.
Female. Smooth. Too light. There’s a lilting accent woven through her words, one I can’t quite place, and it sets my teeth on edge.
“This was my third attempt to get a hold of you, and I was afraid my present would go to waste,” she continues, almost sing-song. “It would have been a pity if it had.”
My pulse spikes.
I sit up and nudge Matthias with my knee. He groans and shifts beside me, but the second he sees me upright, tension snaps through him. He bolts up, eyes sharp, already scanning the room.
I press a finger to my lips and lower the phone just long enough to tap the speaker button.
“Who is this?” I ask, forcing my voice steady.
The woman laughs. It’s light and musical, like a bell chiming in the distance.
“Oh, please,” she tuts. “Like you don’t know.”
“I don’t.” I grind my teeth. “That’s why I’m asking.”
Another laugh, softer this time. Enjoying herself.
“I’m known by many names, dear,” she says loftily. “But you can call me Caesar. All hail her reign.”
I blink.
That’s some narcissism right there.
“What can I do for you, Caesar?” I ask, my gaze flicking to Matthias. His thumbs are flying over his phone now, silent and lethal, no doubt trying to get Mark or Bridget to trace the call.
“Oh, dear,” she chimes. “It’s not about what you can do for me— not yet anyway. It’s about what I’ve done for you.”
My brow furrows. “And what have you done for me?”
There’s a pause. Just long enough to make my skin prickle.
“Why don’t you go look out your bedroom window, poppet,” she urges sweetly. “I’m sure you’ll be so grateful for my grand gesture.”
A chill slides down my spine.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold beneath my feet, grounding and wrong all at once.
“Don’t be afraid,” she croons. “I won’t hurt you. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
Liar.
Swallowing hard, I reach for the curtain and yank it aside.
Then I scream.
The sound rips out of me—raw, animal, uncontrollable.
Matthias is there in less than a second, his body slamming into mine, shielding me as if bullets are already flying.
“Shit,” he mutters, but his voice is steady. Controlled. He’s seen worse.
I have not.
The moment he releases me, my knees buckle. I collapse to the floor and vomit violently onto the carpet, my entire body heaving as the image burns itself into my brain.
Nan is going to kill me.
“Did you like my surprise, poppet?” Caesar laughs. Dainty. Childlike.
“No,” I croak, bile burning my throat.
They hang just outside our window, on the opposite wall barely four feet away. Their bodies are split from chest to navel, skin peeled back, organs spilling out in grotesque display. Blood streaks the concrete beneath them like dark paint.
Their faces are untouched.
Except for their tongues.
Nailed to their foreheads.
They were meant to be recognized.
No wonder we hadn’t found them.
Sheila and Remus McDonough are dead. Displayed. Offered.
The room fills quickly, voices overlapping, bodies crowding, but it all fades to static. Kenzi drops beside me, her hand moving in slow, soothing circles against my back. She murmurs something to my father, confusion threading her tone. She doesn’t recognize the voice.
But when Matthias says the name.
Caesar.
Kenzi stiffens.
“Oh, come on now,” the woman mocks. “I saved you all that time and effort of looking for them.”
“And sent an army after my husband,” I hiss.
She laughs it off. “That was just my way of introducing myself.”
My hands curl into fists.
“Well, it was not nice to meet you,” I snarl. “Now leave us the fuck alone.”
Her next laugh is different.
Cold.
It slides under my skin and settles in my bones.
“Trust me, poppet. This is far from over.”
“Why?”
“Because you have something of mine,” she says softly, “and I want it back.”
My heart drops into my stomach.
My gaze finds my sister’s.
I already know.
There is only one thing she could want, and there is no universe where I give it to her.
“Kenzi.”
“Go to hell,” I snarl. “She isn’t yours.”
The laugh that follows is pure ice.
“Oh, but she is,” Caesar coos. “And I’ll be coming to collect her very soon. Be a good girl, Kenzi.”
The line goes dead.
And everything explodes.
Kenzi’s body locks up, muscles snapping tight like a drawn bow. I barely have time to react before instinct takes over. I roll just as her fist slices through the space where my face had been.
Fuck.
She moves fast, too fast. Kenzi is trained and precise. Her eyes are empty and every strike is meant to disable, not destroy.
“Kenzi, wait!” I cry.
She doesn’t hear me.
Pain blooms in my side as her boot connects with my stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. I hit the floor hard, gasping, reaching for her like I can physically pull her back to me.
Her gaze flickers over me once—cold, distant.
Then she’s gone.
And she takes a piece of my heart with her.
What I do know is this:
I’m not giving up on her.
I let my sister down once already and I’ll be damned if I do it again.