Bad Blood
Page 64
“Masters only have a seat at the table for twenty-one years,” I said. My voice was hoarse—from screaming, from hoping, from knowing that this was about to get worse.
“My time as an active member had come to an end,” Director Sterling admitted. “But the Pythia rather obligingly slit my successor’s throat.” He withdrew a knife from his jacket pocket. “I can’t say I mind. Certain privileges are only afforded to those with a seat at the table.” He lifted the knife to the side of my face. I waited for the pain, but it didn’t come. Instead, he lifted his free hand to the other cheek, trailing it gently over my skin. “Other privileges aren’t impossible to obtain as an emeritus member.”
I shuddered beneath his touch.
“Scarlett Hawkins.” I fought the only way I could, cuffed and held at knifepoint. “You knew that she’d been killed by one of your brethren.”
The director’s knuckles tightened around the hilt of the knife. “Scarlett was never supposed to be a target.”
“Nightshade killed her,” I shot back. “He didn’t care that she was one of yours.”
Director Sterling angled the blade at the underside of my chin and pressed just hard enough to draw blood. “I made my displeasure known—at the time, and again…later.”
He lowered the knife. I could feel the blood dripping down my neck.
“You killed Nightshade,” I said, the truth coming into focus. “Somehow, you got past the guards—”
“I chose the guards,” the director corrected, a light in his eyes. “I arranged the shift changes. I oversaw the prisoner’s transfer myself.”
I saw what I should have seen before—the kind of access he’d had, the fact that as soon as we’d had a break in this case, he’d sent us on a wild goose chase after Celine.
“You knew where Laurel was being held,” I said, my voice cracking.
“The child is back in the proper hands.”
I thought of Laurel staring at the chains on the playground. I thought of the way she’d said the word blood.
“You monster.” The word ripped its way out of my mouth. “All this time, you treated Dean like he was less than human because of what his father had done, and the whole time, you were worse.”
“The whole time, I was better.” Director Sterling surged forward, his face inches from my own. “Daniel Redding was an amateur who thought himself an artist. And his son dared to lay a hand on my daughter?”
Show your hand, Director. Show me your weaknesses.
I saw the exact moment he recognized my strategy for what it was. His eyes were cold and assessing as he leaned back. “I watched the tape of your interview with Redding, you know.” He let those words sink in. “And he was right. Your mother is the type of person who can be forged in the fire.” He stood and began walking toward the door. “She’s everything we could have hoped for—and more.”
YOU
Cassie is here. They have her. That’s hardly a surprise. You’re the one who gave the word, the one who told the poison Master to take Cassie and let the FBI director use his resources to lay a false path for her team to follow—far, far away from all of you.
“It’s not that I want to kill her,” you murmur as Lorelai fights weakly for control. “But if it’s her or us…”
The door opens. Nine enters. Malcolm. He stares at you, then glances over at Laurel, who’s asleep in the corner. The child was born to replace him. He’ll see her dead first.
“The first test will come when she’s six,” the old man comments, his voice eerily calm. “It’ll be a kitten, perhaps, or a puppy. She’ll need to take it slow. When she’s nine, it will be a prostitute, bound and strapped to the table of stone. And when she’s twelve…” His gaze flickers from Laurel back to you. “We’ll strap you to the table.”
You read between the lines. “You killed your own mother.”
“And embalmed her corpse so that she could continue to sit at the table, perfectly preserved, for decades.” He shook his head. “Eventually, she was replaced. Woman after woman, child after child, and none were worthy.”
You can feel the blood thrumming in your veins as you remember the feel of the knife in Five’s flesh.
You are worthy.
“It’s been too long since you’ve been tested,” Nine continues. “There’s something poetic, don’t you think, about the nature of this one?”
He thinks you’re Lorelai.
He thinks Cassie is your daughter.
He thinks there are some things you wouldn’t do to survive.
Rough hands grasped me as a bag was thrown over my head. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since the director had left the room or who the men were who’d just entered it. I heard the handcuffs click open, and an instant later I was jerked to my feet.
This is it, I thought, unsure of where they were leading me or what might be waiting there.
I heard the creaking of metal. A door?
A hand in the middle of my back shoved me forward, hard enough to send me to the ground. My knees hit first, my hands catching the rest of my body moments before my face would have slammed into the ground. My palms registered the texture beneath them—sand—just before the hood was torn from my head.
I blinked against the blinding light, my eyes adjusting slowly enough that by the time I could make out the world around me, the men who’d brought me to this place were gone. I turned in time to see a metal gate slamming into the ground behind me.
I was locked in.
In where? I forced myself to concentrate. I was still indoors, but the ground was covered in sand, almost too hot to bear, like the desert sun had been shining down on it for days. The ceiling overhead was high and domed, made of stone and carved with a symbol I recognized.
Seven circles ringing a cross.
The room was circular, and recessed into the walls were stone seats, looking down on the sandpit below.
Not a pit, I thought. An arena.
And that was when I knew. You poisoned me. You healed me. Buried deep in my memory, I could hear the words Nightshade had spoken to me all those weeks ago. He’d told me that we all had our choices. He’d told me that the Pythia chooses to live.
Perhaps someday that choice will be yours, Cassandra.
“My time as an active member had come to an end,” Director Sterling admitted. “But the Pythia rather obligingly slit my successor’s throat.” He withdrew a knife from his jacket pocket. “I can’t say I mind. Certain privileges are only afforded to those with a seat at the table.” He lifted the knife to the side of my face. I waited for the pain, but it didn’t come. Instead, he lifted his free hand to the other cheek, trailing it gently over my skin. “Other privileges aren’t impossible to obtain as an emeritus member.”
I shuddered beneath his touch.
“Scarlett Hawkins.” I fought the only way I could, cuffed and held at knifepoint. “You knew that she’d been killed by one of your brethren.”
The director’s knuckles tightened around the hilt of the knife. “Scarlett was never supposed to be a target.”
“Nightshade killed her,” I shot back. “He didn’t care that she was one of yours.”
Director Sterling angled the blade at the underside of my chin and pressed just hard enough to draw blood. “I made my displeasure known—at the time, and again…later.”
He lowered the knife. I could feel the blood dripping down my neck.
“You killed Nightshade,” I said, the truth coming into focus. “Somehow, you got past the guards—”
“I chose the guards,” the director corrected, a light in his eyes. “I arranged the shift changes. I oversaw the prisoner’s transfer myself.”
I saw what I should have seen before—the kind of access he’d had, the fact that as soon as we’d had a break in this case, he’d sent us on a wild goose chase after Celine.
“You knew where Laurel was being held,” I said, my voice cracking.
“The child is back in the proper hands.”
I thought of Laurel staring at the chains on the playground. I thought of the way she’d said the word blood.
“You monster.” The word ripped its way out of my mouth. “All this time, you treated Dean like he was less than human because of what his father had done, and the whole time, you were worse.”
“The whole time, I was better.” Director Sterling surged forward, his face inches from my own. “Daniel Redding was an amateur who thought himself an artist. And his son dared to lay a hand on my daughter?”
Show your hand, Director. Show me your weaknesses.
I saw the exact moment he recognized my strategy for what it was. His eyes were cold and assessing as he leaned back. “I watched the tape of your interview with Redding, you know.” He let those words sink in. “And he was right. Your mother is the type of person who can be forged in the fire.” He stood and began walking toward the door. “She’s everything we could have hoped for—and more.”
YOU
Cassie is here. They have her. That’s hardly a surprise. You’re the one who gave the word, the one who told the poison Master to take Cassie and let the FBI director use his resources to lay a false path for her team to follow—far, far away from all of you.
“It’s not that I want to kill her,” you murmur as Lorelai fights weakly for control. “But if it’s her or us…”
The door opens. Nine enters. Malcolm. He stares at you, then glances over at Laurel, who’s asleep in the corner. The child was born to replace him. He’ll see her dead first.
“The first test will come when she’s six,” the old man comments, his voice eerily calm. “It’ll be a kitten, perhaps, or a puppy. She’ll need to take it slow. When she’s nine, it will be a prostitute, bound and strapped to the table of stone. And when she’s twelve…” His gaze flickers from Laurel back to you. “We’ll strap you to the table.”
You read between the lines. “You killed your own mother.”
“And embalmed her corpse so that she could continue to sit at the table, perfectly preserved, for decades.” He shook his head. “Eventually, she was replaced. Woman after woman, child after child, and none were worthy.”
You can feel the blood thrumming in your veins as you remember the feel of the knife in Five’s flesh.
You are worthy.
“It’s been too long since you’ve been tested,” Nine continues. “There’s something poetic, don’t you think, about the nature of this one?”
He thinks you’re Lorelai.
He thinks Cassie is your daughter.
He thinks there are some things you wouldn’t do to survive.
Rough hands grasped me as a bag was thrown over my head. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since the director had left the room or who the men were who’d just entered it. I heard the handcuffs click open, and an instant later I was jerked to my feet.
This is it, I thought, unsure of where they were leading me or what might be waiting there.
I heard the creaking of metal. A door?
A hand in the middle of my back shoved me forward, hard enough to send me to the ground. My knees hit first, my hands catching the rest of my body moments before my face would have slammed into the ground. My palms registered the texture beneath them—sand—just before the hood was torn from my head.
I blinked against the blinding light, my eyes adjusting slowly enough that by the time I could make out the world around me, the men who’d brought me to this place were gone. I turned in time to see a metal gate slamming into the ground behind me.
I was locked in.
In where? I forced myself to concentrate. I was still indoors, but the ground was covered in sand, almost too hot to bear, like the desert sun had been shining down on it for days. The ceiling overhead was high and domed, made of stone and carved with a symbol I recognized.
Seven circles ringing a cross.
The room was circular, and recessed into the walls were stone seats, looking down on the sandpit below.
Not a pit, I thought. An arena.
And that was when I knew. You poisoned me. You healed me. Buried deep in my memory, I could hear the words Nightshade had spoken to me all those weeks ago. He’d told me that we all had our choices. He’d told me that the Pythia chooses to live.
Perhaps someday that choice will be yours, Cassandra.
