41. Amal
AMAL
The ringing in my ears drowns out everything else.
The organ, the chanting, the gunshots and screams have stopped. Only the grunts of the final cloaked men remain as they’re killed.
The chapel is unrecognizable, candles overturned, portraits knocked from the walls, utter chaos around us.
The smell of wax, incense and smoke fills my nostrils.
A warm hand cups the back of my head and there, above me, is his face. His bloody face. And he’s smiling a stupid smile. When he shifts his weight, I hear his grunt, see his pain in the way he pauses, squeezes his eyes shut.
I realize what it is that’s warm and wet when I draw my hand back and it comes away bloody.
“Jet!”
He sits up. I see what it costs him on his face. He’s been shot. He’s been shot again because of me. “It’s fine.” His voice is tight. “I’m fine. Where’s the key for this damn thing?”
I look over to where Callum is lying on the floor, his eyes open, the frozen look in them one of terror. His neck is a mangled mess.
Cotton is panting. She looks at me with her one good eye, her front paws still on Callum’s chest, her muzzle bloody.
I reach out to pet her and when she licks my hand, she leaves a streak of blood.
“He has it,” I tell Jet.
Jet searches Callum’s pockets and finds the key. He uses it to unlock the chain then gently removes the choker from my throat.
“Are you all right?” he asks me.
“I’m okay. They’re just cuts,” I say, touching a hand to his side. “But you’re hurt. Really hurt.”
He closes his hand over mine to stop me from pressing harder. “It doesn’t hurt.”
He’s lying. But he smiles and gets to his feet. Somehow, he gets to his feet, and he draws me to mine. Holding me, he cups my face, looks at the cuts, smearing blood, his and mine and countless others, across my cheeks as he wipes stray tears.
“I’m sorry I left you here,” he says.
“You didn’t know. You couldn’t—”
“I should have known it wasn’t you.”
I shake my head. “They planned everything. Everything. Even before we got here.” I glance at the photo of my mother. It’s crooked. “That’s my mom,” I say, pointing.
He takes my hand, closes it inside his big one before bringing it to his lips and kissing it, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I think they raped her. I think the twelve… they all… They…” I have to say it. I have to. “I think that’s where I come from.”
Bile rises in my throat, and I wish I could vomit. I wish I could puke it all out.
“Shh. Shh.” He pulls me to him hard, holding me, not letting me speak. He holds me as sobs wrack my body and I let them. Finally, finally, after so many years, I let them.
A sound comes from the corner of the room, a groan.
It’s Robertson. He must have passed out at some point and is now straightening to sit up.
Fury takes the place of everything else I feel in that moment.
The rage of all the women who have come before me.
Who have been forced to wear this bloody dress and kneel between a dozen men to what?
To be tortured? Humiliated? Raped? And for what?
I don’t even know how I cross the room to him.
On hands and knees, I think. I don’t know how I get one of those ceremonial daggers the bastards carried in my hand, but there it is all the same, the blade pressed to the older man’s throat, his eyes wide and terrified, all his arrogance, his casual mention of gang rape, where is it now? Where is all his power now?
“My mother,” I hiss. “Did you touch her? Did you fucking touch her?”
He’s terrified, eyes jumping between mine. I can imagine what I look like, frantic and bloody. This man could be my father. If they all had her, he could be my fucking father.
“Did you all fucking rape my mother?” I hiss, pressing the tip of the knife into his neck, seeing the line of thick, dark blood.
Jet is behind me. I feel his presence there, the solidity of it. Of him.
“Why? Tell me why you fucking bastard.”
“Money,” comes the answer from across the room.
I look over. It’s Jameson. He’s leaning against the wall, legs splayed.
He’s injured but his injury isn’t fatal.
“He won’t tell you, but I will. I will tell you everything you want to know about your mother.
I was here with her. I will tell you all in exchange for my life. ”
I glance at Jet, then back to Jameson. “Did he rape her?”
Jameson’s eyes meet Robertson’s. “He was Master of Ceremonies. Same as tonight. He would not perform the act itself. You must be one of the thirteen. Well, twelve.”
“But he orchestrated it,” I say, and without a second thought, turn back to Robertson and plunge my knife into his heart.
He doesn’t even make a sound. He just opens his mouth like he can’t believe what just happened as warm blood trickles over my hand and I watch him die. I watch and I know it will never be enough. I watch and I know I will never know who my father is and maybe that’s a blessing in disguise.
Hell, maybe I’ll even believe that one day.
Jet wraps his arms around me, lifting me to stand. There’s a sucking noise as I draw the knife out. Jet takes it from my hand and lets it drop. It clangs loudly as I turn my face into his chest and sob and let him hold me for a long, long time.