Текст книги "Fable of happiness book two"

Автор книги: Pepper winters

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER THREE

“STAND UP STRAIGHT, ALL of you.”

We all snapped upright, a long line of Fable kids who’d been summoned before our master.

Storymaker sat slouched in his favourite chair in the library. He nursed a drink that he’d made Elise pour for him. He trailed his fingers up her delicate forearm as he accepted the glass. Tugging her forward, he tiptoed his fingers up her bicep to her cheek in that sick, disgusting way that said he had two tasks for her tonight.

A guest and himself.

I almost bit my tongue into pieces, doing my best not to launch myself at him for touching her. For daring to make her tremble. For making her owlish eyes gleam with knowing tears.

If I could, I’d take her place. I’d volunteer, just like I volunteered as much as I was physically able, accepting the beatings and sodomy so my family didn’t have to.

I was the oldest, after all.

It was my job to protect them.

The only problem was, Storymaker preferred girls. He’d yet to touch any of us boys, and it fucking killed me that I couldn’t step in and save her.

Dismissing Elise, Storymaker narrowed his gray eyes at us as she joined our lineup. Watching us over his glasses, he sipped his drink and made us all squirm in tense silence.

I happened to know he was almost blind without his thick glasses, their silver frame painting him as some bookish father figure with salt and pepper hair, long, lean body, and obscenely feminine hands.

He’d been the feature of many of my nightmares.

His feeble, nerdy body was unable to create too much pain by fists and feet alone, but his affection for torture, sex, and age-old sadism had well and truly made him the scariest motherfucker in this house.

“Neo, didn’t I tell you to stand up?” Storymaker drawled, his stare locking onto the boy beside me. The boy who’d named himself after his favorite character of all time. He wanted to be Neo from The Matrix. A man who’d been normal until he suddenly wasn’t.

Neo bowed his head, his black hair swinging to obscure his face. His almond eyes, courtesy of a Vietnamese mother who’d been raped by an Englishman, gleamed with hate. He braced his shoulders, sticking his scrawny chest out.

Storymaker huffed. “Are you forgetting your manners, my children? What are you supposed to say when I summon you to a family meeting?”

I swallowed bile that washed up my throat, reciting along with my fellow prisoners. “Thank you so much, Master, for giving us a night of fun. We can’t wait to play with our friends.” Our voices all droned together, sounding like a hive of dying honeybees. “We promise to be good. We promise to go to bed when they tell us and to play whatever game they want. We promise to make you proud.”

Quell, standing next to Neo, wretched, her blond hair jerking as she pursed her lips and swallowed down whatever her stomach had tried to evict. Nyx with her fire-colored hair and milky skin grabbed her hand. Nyx seemed even whiter tonight. A ghost with flames upon her head, her light green eyes locked on the window as if she could escape.

“Ah, ah, ah, what have I told you? No touching unless a guest commands it.” Storymaker leaned forward, his temper cutting through the suave refinement he did his best to maintain.

Nyx and Quell let go of each other, denied every small comfort we had.

“And if I catch you all holding hands at night in that dormitory of yours again, I might just have to take those hands away, okay?” Storymaker grinned, looking at each one of us.

Jareth hissed under his breath. His bi-colored eyes (one blue, one brown) were so fierce and full of loathing, I honestly wondered if tonight was the night he snapped.

He’d tried to attack Storymaker before.

He’d gotten as far as grabbing the bone-handled letter opener on Storymaker’s desk, ready to stab the bastard, before the two guards who were always close by disarmed him and dragged him out of the room.

We didn’t see him for two weeks.

And when we did, he wasn’t the boy we used to know.

He was...soulless.

Storymaker kept his eyes locked on Jareth, waiting, same as us, to see if he’d try to kill him again. A few seconds passed before Jareth unfurled his fists and forced himself to take a breath.

With that breath, Storymaker relaxed back into his chair and smiled like any doting father would. “Right, now that you’re all bathed and fed, it’s time to play. You’re in for a treat tonight, my children. Every single member of our wonderful society is here. It’s our birthday, after all. That means you all get to stay up well past your bedtime. If you get sleepy, feel free to ask for some wakey medicine. We can’t have you falling asleep when you’re meant to be playing games now, can we?”

No one replied, our collective hate thick around us.

“Answer me,” Storymaker commanded. “Tell me you won’t fall asleep and disappoint me.”

We all shook our heads, vowing silently not to fall asleep.

We all hated wakey medicine.

It made our heart race and sweat coat our skin. We wouldn’t sleep for days. We’d hallucinate. It was doubly hard to protect each other when we were all high as fucking kites.

And I couldn’t be incapacitated tonight.

No fucking way.

I’d already killed Wes’s guard. If I didn’t finish this, there would be no second chance.

I’d been hoping for a night like this. Praying to a God I no longer believed in.

Last year, on Fables previous anniversary, only a few guests showed up. Men and women, who had a Fables’ membership, often had high-powered jobs and important positions in society—according to Storymaker and his decree to respect and obey every single one as if they were kings and queens.

It’d been a club they’d all formed, pooling funds to build a house in a place no one would stumble upon. The rules were simple: once a member, always a member. You couldn’t transfer or cancel. Their combined funds kept us operating, each one paying more if a member died and could no longer contribute.

In my eight years of serving, only two members had died.

That left eighteen.

Eighteen guests who’d arrived throughout the day and were getting ready for a night of abuse and gluttony, taking Viagra or doing their hair, preparing themselves in their respective bedrooms.

Soon, we would be taken to those bedrooms.

Shared around.

Enjoyed.

And Storymaker would pat himself on the back for an enterprise well run. Human property well-trained. Slaves well versed in fucking. He would relax in his library. His guards would station beside him.

No one would suspect a massacre.

Staying perfectly still and eyes on the carpet in submission, I traced the butcher’s blade I’d stolen from the kitchen, hidden carefully in my jeans. The chef had been beaten for its disappearance. His scullery maid whipped in the vegetable garden.

But I hadn’t fessed up.

I’d buried it outside by the cucumbers.

I’d waited until I’d counted eighteen guests had appeared through the cave.

And now...

Now, I was going to use it.

Or die trying.

OceanofPDF.com

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER FOUR

THE CLOCK IN THE LIBRARY struck midnight by the time I finished washing away the mud from his skin and hair. The old-fashioned minute hand tick, tick, ticked as I applied antiseptic cream to his cuts, bandaged sore knuckles, stuck butterfly stitches to the lacerations on his chest, and rubbed arnica into fresh bruises.

I’d managed to get some water past his lips, coaxing him to drink even while he remained unconscious. Occasionally, he acted as if he’d wake up. His pulse would skyrocket, his body would wince, and his forehead would furrow. He’d moan in his sleep about games and friends and blood.

His delusions didn’t last long, the tension in his body draining, leaving him catatonic once again. During his episodes, I kept my hands on his naked chest. I murmured to him that he was safe. That I would take care of him. That all he had to do was open his eyes, and I’d do whatever he needed.

He never responded to me, reserving his reactions to whatever dreams haunted him. Eventually, I ignored his mumbles and flinches, focusing on repairing the exterior wounds, and doing everything I could to repair him.

I worried he’d broken a few bones. The heat in some areas and rapid swelling hinted more than just bruises existed.

But until he was awake, I couldn’t know for sure.

And even if he had broken pieces of himself, what did I know about setting bones? I only knew rudimentary things like making a splint for a broken leg and a sling for a broken arm—just enough to get back to civilization for help.

Not for the first time, my mind ran from the library and flew up the cliff to my Jeep. I mentally made the drive out of the national park and into a populated town with doctors, police, and psychiatrists.

I’d bring them all here or find a way to take Anon to them.

I’d pass on the largest responsibility of my life to professionals who had trained for this.

I...I don’t know what I’m doing.

Kneeling over him, I made a deal with myself.

If he hung on until morning, if I could get him stable enough, if he would only just wake up so I knew he could eat and drink, I’d go for help. I’d somehow make the long journey, not to save myself but to save him.

Crazy how just a few short hours had changed everything.

Incredible how I’d gone from doing anything to get away from this man to doing whatever it took to keep him alive.

Please...wake up.

Don’t die.

My hands trembled as my courage faltered a little.

Dammit.

I dropped the tube of antiseptic for the third time as I tried to apply it to the cuts I’d given him last night. Indentations of my car keys still lingered around his throat and collarbones.

Guilt was a crushing, hissing enemy in my heart.

My shoulders slouched.

I’m sorry.

Tiredness made my arms shake like useless twigs. All my strength had been used. I had nothing left after dragging him here. I’d left scuff marks on the marble tiles as my sapling stretcher hauled in garden debris as well as a nameless man, mumbling under his breath and reliving nightmares in his ill-gotten sleep.

I’d chosen the library because it was the largest, closest room of the house. I’d pushed aside a well-worn chair that sat like a throne in the center. I’d rolled him off the stretcher and traipsed back out the door to leave the rope and branches outside.

I never rested. Never stopped.

The deeper the night turned, the more he sank into hallucinations.

He thrashed as I gently washed his hair. He trembled as I cleaned his body. He keened a noise that broke my heart as I gently pulled off his slacks and wiped away the dirt on his thighs.

His breath was shallow and fast as I touched him with nothing but tenderness and care, his back snapping straight as I applied another bandage to his shin that’d been left raw and oozing from his tumble down the cliff.

I wished I could reach into his mind and silence whatever was tormenting him. I wished I could wake him up so he didn’t have to be their prisoner.

But no matter what I did, he stayed stubbornly asleep.

Exhaustion hung off my eyelashes as I glanced at the clock again and found it was now two a.m., not midnight.

I had no recollection of the past two hours.

I wanted nothing more than to lie beside him in the nest I’d created with cushions from the couch, cosy blankets from the games room, and pillows from a few beds upstairs.

I didn’t have the strength to drag him up the stairs. There was no bedroom on this level. Therefore, I’d compromised. I’d made a bed on the plushest carpet I could find, made him comfortable and clean, wrapped him in a soft blanket, and sat vigil while he suffered things I couldn’t heal.

“Maliki, no—” He jolted with a belly-clenching groan.

Frazzled tears rolled down my cheeks as I cupped his cheek. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

He threw himself away from my touch, rolling in the blankets, knocking me off balance.

I swayed and crashed to my elbows. My bleary stare and bone-weary body begged to lie down. My eyes closed even as unwelcome sleep suffocated me.

No!

Wrenching my eyelids up, I forced myself to focus.

You can’t sleep.

Not while he’s dreaming.

He’d fallen still again, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, his hands clenching as if he held invisible weapons.

My heart fisted with pity.

I’d done everything I could for his physical healing, but his mental health seemed entirely unfixable.

“Anon, it’s time to wake up, okay? Open your eyes, and you’ll see you’re alright. Nothing will hurt you here.” I shook his shoulder for the billionth time, my words slurring with tiredness. “You need to eat and drink.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I fought off a throbbing headache. “If you have a concussion, you shouldn’t be sleeping so much.”

I had no way to refresh myself on symptoms of a concussion. No Google or doctor websites, but it seemed as if he was displaying most of them.

Excessive fatigue.

Inability to be roused.

Emotional outbursts.

As if to prove my point that he’d sustained a significant head injury, he mumbled again, rolled to the side, then vomited.

His back curled, the beads of his spine evident as he wretched up an empty stomach.

Worry made me sharper than I intended. “Dammit!” Scrambling to my feet, I hastily removed the blanket he’d soiled and tossed it into the corner. Grabbing another one that I’d stacked close by, I shook it out and spread it over him.

Kneeling by his head, I brushed aside his long, wild hair, my fingers coming away damp from his clammy skin. “Hush, it’s okay.” I bowed over him, instinct directing my motions instead of common sense. Pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, I murmured, “It’s me. Gemma. If you can hear me, then let’s start again, okay? I forgive you for what you’ve done to me if you forgive me for what I’ve done to you. We can be friends—”

His eyes soared open.

His hands launched for my throat.

He tackled me to the ground.

His gaze was overly dilated, his pupils black as coal. “You want to be my friend?” His voice wasn’t his. It was black and tainted, icy and sharp. “I’m sick of friends who think they can fuck and hurt me.” His fingers tightened on my throat. “I think I’ll kill you instead.”

“Wait!” I dug my fingernails into his wrists, gasping for air. “I’m trying to help you!”

“Help?” He laughed. “I don’t want your version of help.” His thumbs crushed my larynx.

You’re going to die, Gem.

Dark spots danced over my stare.

My legs jerked, trying to get purchase and run far away from him.

Pure panic chased away my exhaustion, replacing my blood with electrifying adrenaline. Shooting my hips up, I prepared to fight for my life (again), only...he collapsed on top of me. His fingers went loose, his face slack.

He was out.

I gulped oxygen and shoved him off me.

Kicking him with a burst of hysteria, I crawled on my hands and knees, coughing and swallowing, never taking my eyes off him.

How many times must this happen, you idiot!

When would I learn?

No matter what happened between this man and me, I could never let my guard down.

Ever.

Jesus, Gem.

I’d deserved that.

He’d successfully reminded me that, once again, I’d been unbelievably stupid. I’d romanticized this entire damsel taking care of the beast scenario.

I’d forgotten that he wasn’t just a man who’d chosen to live in a forest, alone.

He was a man with serious issues, a trauma he hadn’t dealt with, and a mind that, quite frankly, seemed unable to be reasoned with.

He’s unstable.

And you’re in danger if you leave him untethered.

My knees wobbled as I slowly pushed to my feet.

I hesitated.

It went against every caring part of me, especially as I looked down at a man sprawled on the floor, his belly flat and hollow from lack of food, his skin scarred with silver mementos, his face looking far younger unconscious than awake.

I took a step toward him, wanting to pull the blanket over his nakedness. One minor act to provide some comfort before I tied him up.

But he twitched again, his eyebrows tugging low as his head thrashed side to side. “Nyx, don’t. Don’t—!”

I backed away.

Every step I took toward my backpack, my heart pounded harder.

He seemed to be plummeting faster into his nightmares.

His legs flailed outward. His lips tore wide as he silently screamed. He choked on air, his arms swooping up to attack something only he could see. “You’ll die tonight.”

Hurry.

Quietly, even though he paid no attention to me, I unzipped the main compartment of my bag and pulled out another length of climbing rope.

An orange-and-green-speckled cord that boasted the ability to hold hundreds of pounds of dead weight. The instructions hadn’t said anything about being suitable at tying someone up, but if it was strong enough to catch a person as they fell from a cliff, it would hold a man in the throes of a concussed aberration.

“Run, Quell. Do what I say!” He continued to buck and moan, completely hostage to his mind.

Unravelling the rope, I created another lasso so I could grab his arms and knot them together quickly. I didn’t want to be in striking distance now he’d lost himself entirely to whatever he saw.

My heart drummed in my ears as I forced myself to return to him, gritting my teeth as he let out another soul-crushing cry.

His chest shot off the floor as if he’d been electrified, then fell backward. His arms landed by his sides, his head turned to the left with hair draped over his cheek and eyes.

Now.

Quickly.

Dropping to my haunches, I grabbed his left hand and inserted it into the rope. Leaning over him, I repeated with his right, drawing the lasso closed and securing a knot.

I couldn’t catch a proper breath as I fell backward, feeling like I’d just betrayed him even though he was the one who’d kept me prisoner for days.

Having him secure gave me a false sense of power and tears came hotter for his situation. Was this the throes of impending death? Was his brain bleeding? Would he have a stroke and pass away?

Needing to touch him, to somehow find a way to breakthrough his pain, I scooted closer to his head and ran my hands through his knotty hair.

I pulled upward gently, raising his neck and shoulders to place him carefully on my lap.

However, he shot upright.

He swayed in the blankets.

He blinked at the library around us.

And then, he did something that ensured, no matter how much time passed, no matter how much pain he granted or blood he spilled, I would never curse him, betray him, or hate him.

I would only love him.

Love a broken beast who’d survived so much.

OceanofPDF.com

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER FIVE

I WORE WAR PAINT created with tears, blood, and vomit.

Their tears, their blood, my vomit.

The moment Storymaker commanded us up the stairs, reeling off bedroom numbers where we were each to serve, my heart hadn’t stopped galloping a thousand beats a minute.

I’d dutifully trudged up the steps, linking my fingers with Quell, and giving Maliki a grimace of encouragement. We were well-trained. Well reminded. We didn’t deviate or pause.

Silently, we all broke away as we reached our respective bedrooms, enslaved to the end as we closed doors on our misery.

Behind those closed doors the sounds of pleased hellos and sleezy welcomes sounded, knotting my guts into snarls of pain.

It was excruciating to let Quell slip through my fingers as she reached her bedroom. She caught my gaze. She nodded once, stoic and so, so brave. “It’s okay, Kas. I’ll see you later, okay?”

I wanted so fucking much to hug her, snatch her, run away with her.

To run away with all of my family.

But my only option was to nod and let her go. To willingly say goodbye as she stepped into another night of rape.

I was the last to branch off from the corridor.

Alone at the end, I listened to the final snick of a door closing and took a second to prepare.

I would either see my family again or I wouldn’t.

This would work or it would fail.

Regardless, I was most likely dead tonight because even if I succeeded, I doubted I’d live to see sunrise.

You sure you want to risk this?

Risk them?

My jaw clenched as the sound of male laughter came and went. A laugh of a paedophile who probably already had Nyx bound and naked upon his bed.

Yes, I’m sure.

I would rather we all die tonight than endure anymore of this.

If I had to kill everyone, including my family to be free, then so be it.

Touching my blade one last time, I braced my shoulders, turned toward the door, and stepped over the threshold to serve Mr. and Mrs. Willby.

“You’re late, my boy.” Mr. Willby stood by the fireplace, his cock already hard thanks to a blue pill he always popped. His nakedness was obscene with the glowing flames highlighting a beer belly, huge balls, and a red-angry erection.

“Don’t berate him, dear.” Mrs. Willby lay on the bed in a pose she thought was seductive. Her sheer nightgown was open, revealing a pudgy breast, huge nipple, and a belly button piercing she should’ve removed decades ago. “We’re so glad you’re here, Kassen.”

Kassen.

I shuddered.

After tonight, that was not my name.

All of us Fable kids would choose new names. Names that weren’t chosen from books under the fierce instruction of Storymaker.

I couldn’t even remember what I’d been called before I belonged to him.

Kassen Sands was a character in a book full of fables about genies and wishes and deserts. He’d been the poorer cousin to a prince. He’d used his wishes to help his village members, wishing for water, food, and health. He hadn’t wished for riches for himself or to be king over his cousin. His heart had been good and he’d helped all those around him—even his enemies.

In return for his sacrifice and kindness, the genie had given him the greatest wish of all.

Happiness.

Kassen Sands was granted a house of his own, a wife, a child, a home.

He lived the rest of his life in peaceful joy.

I would never be so lucky, but perhaps, if I did what he did and focused on saving those I could, I would end up in heaven instead of hell.

“Take off your clothes, Kas,” Mr. Willby snapped. “I need your tight ass and my wife needs your talented tongue.”

I hid my shudder, my absolute disgust, and nodded like a good little slave.

Pulling my T-shirt over my head, I stepped toward the bed, ignoring the way Mrs. Willby’s eyes raked over my nineteen-year-old chest. I’d been their toy for almost half my life. They’d seen me grow from boy to man. They’d seen more of me than any parent I’d ever known.

And tonight, they’ll die.

Mrs. Willby shifted onto her knees, coaxing me forward with a wriggling finger. “My, my, you’ve filled out in the past three months since I last saw you.”

I didn’t flinch as she ran her pink-painted fingernail from my throat to my belt.

I didn’t kill her as she cupped my flaccid cock through my jeans.

“Ah.” She tutted under her breath. “Well, now, that’s disappointing, I thought you’d learned to come to us hard, Kas. We have no time for foreplay when we’ve been so eager to fuck our darling boy.”

“Here.” Mr. Willby grabbed his wallet from the side table, throwing a small packet of blue pills at his wife. “Feed him one of these. I want an all nighter. He needs to be out of his head with lust.”

“Oh, good idea, Donny.”

My heart kicked.

No way would I be able to commit genocide tonight with a chemical hard-on. Giving myself time to put my plan into action, I gave her a slow smile. “That won’t be necessary, Patricia.”

She blinked.

The first time I’d used her given name after countless years of her fucking me. Her cheeks pinked as if she liked it. Just as much as she liked me rutting into her in agony all while her husband whipped me, cut me, fucked me.

You’ll pay. Christ, you’ll all pay.

“I’m hard now.” I licked my lips, letting my eyes hood the way she liked. “Here, I’ll show you.”

She nodded quickly. “Oh, yes. Yes, show me. Show me what toys I’ll be playing with tonight.”

Swallowing fresh bile, I unbuttoned my jeans and let them fall. I kept my legs close to the bed to catch the blade as it slipped down with the denim.

Mr. Willby sucked in a breath from behind me, no doubt jacking off to the scars he’d layered me with. The many moments of pain he’d carved into my skin while I’d driven into his wife.

He couldn’t see my weapon.

They both never suspected I’d break from my extensive conditioning.

And why would they?

After so long, they’d all bought Storymaker’s claims that we were happy in our roles. That we no longer needed extra discipline. That we hadn’t tried to uprise or refuse in years.

And he was right.

It shamed me to my bitter soul that we only whispered about freedom in the dark but were too shit terrified to fight for it.

I supposed that was what happened when you’d been groomed since you were twelve. We were so grateful to have each other but so fucking afraid of what would happen if one of us stepped out of line.

We all paid the price.

All we had was each other.

And that was both a blessing and a curse.

Mrs. Willby blew me a kiss. “You’re so handsome, Kas. I think I’ll ask Stu about taking you home with us. I know he’s denied my request before but you’re older now. You need some life experience.”

I forced myself to smile, reaching for my weapon. “A change of scenery would be good.”

She beamed, flicking a disillusioned look at her beer-bellied husband. “I agree. It would be very good indeed.” Winking at me, she added, “Now, let’s play a game. I’ve missed you and you’ve made me rather eager.”

I shuddered, feeling the binds of conditioning, the constant need to protect my Fable family, the evil whispers in my head to submit, surrender, succumb.

Be a good boy.

Do precisely what they say.

Beg, moan, crawl, and cry.

I straightened my spine.

I curled my hand around the knife.

No more.

Tonight, I’m done.

I smiled at my masters.

I raised my hand, flames glinting off my blade.

And it was so easy.

Too easy.

The knife was sharp.

Mrs. Willby’s throat was soft.

I swooped up, sliced deep, and her skin parted like melted butter, blood pouring like a red, red river.

For a second, nothing happened.

Mrs. Willby blinked like an owl.

Mr. Willby chuckled as if I’d introduced a new game.

And then, all fucking hell broke loose.

She went to scream.

I shoved her backward and smashed a pillow over her face as she bled out.

Mr. Willby yelled a curse, throwing himself on me.

I elbowed him in the gut, spun around, hacked off his cock, then gave him the same bloody end as his wife.

His throat almost split completely in two. My force was too strong, making his head unstable and his body buckling instantaneously.

He gurgled and choked.

I moved the pillow from dead Mrs. Willby’s face to his, waiting until his final death throes ceased before standing and pulling up my jeans.

Blood drenched my chest, cooling and metallic.

The force of what I’d just done hit me out of nowhere, making me projectile vomit all over my two victims.

I stumbled against the bed.

I second-guessed everything.

If this goes wrong, everyone you love dies.

I clutched my blade and marched out of my bedroom to Quell.

I didn’t remember much after that.

It was nothing but a blur.

I was dancing.

Liberating.

Killing.

Killing.

Killing.

No, saving.

Saving my family, my loved ones.

I worked my way down the corridor, my bare footprints leaving crimson tracks on the expensive carpet. As each one of my family members were freed, they fell into line with me.

They watched my back as I ended all eighteen guests and turned the bedroom floor into a tomb.

Thanks to our mostly blind master and his two dumb-as-fuck guards, the muffled screams and cries for help as I stepped into rooms, threw myself on the members of Fables, and massacred them where they stood, were written off as groans of passion.

The corridors always echoed with screams on nights like this.

It was no different.

Only difference was the guests were the ones bleeding tonight, not us.

Once the last throat was cut, I looked at my half-dressed, shock-induced family, and commanded them to stay upstairs. “Stay here until I say it’s safe to run, then go to the dormitory, pack what you need and be ready.”

I had three more murders to commit.

Alone.

Maliki and Jareth stepped forward. “We’ll come with you.”

“No.” I shook my head. “I’ve got this. You need to find Wes. I cut him loose earlier today, but I don’t think he’ll have made it far.”

“Wes is still alive?” Nyx squeaked. They’d shared the closest bond. Far closer than sister and brother like the rest of us. I’d always pitied them, finding love, connection in a horrid place like this.

“He is. He’s been kept in the cabin.” I tried to keep impatience out of my voice. “He’s heading toward the cave but needs help.”

Nyx immediately tugged Sarez toward the stairs. “Come on. We need to find him.”

“Not yet. Stay here until I’ve dealt with Storymaker,” I growled. “It’s not safe yet.”

“I’ll help you kill him,” Neo hissed.

“No, I’m doing this alone—”

“Kas, let me—”

“I said no. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Not waiting for more arguing, I slinked down the stairs with my butcher’s blade high.

The guards would be the hardest part of tonight. They were trained. They had guns. However, after so many years of no real issues and only the occasional discipline required, they’d grown lazy and unprepared.

It just took speed, that was all.

Speed that I committed to as I reached the bottom of the stairs and broke into a run. I bolted through the foyer, skidded into the library, and sliced at the guard on the left then the one on the right.

I struck their arms, rendering only wounds instead of death.

But it gave me enough time to snatch one of their guns and shoot.

Bang.

Bang.

Dead.

Dead.

Storymaker leaped to his feet, his alcohol-induced snooze shattering into pieces. “What the—”

The scuffs of footsteps and quiet whispers of victory sounded behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I eyed my family. “I thought I told you guys to get ready to leave.”

“We want to watch,” Elise muttered, wringing her hands, rope burn obvious on her wrists.

“Yeah, we need to know it’s finished,” Sarez murmured. Her sweet gaze caught mine. “Please, Kas?”

I’d planned on dragging Storymaker’s demise out.