Blood to Dust(2)

Hysteria burns my throat, sending flames of panic through the rest of my body. I know exactly who he is taking me to.

Godfrey.

The door to the backseat swipes open and Seb stands in front of me again, equipped with two of his muscle men, one on each side. Godfrey’s bulldogs, no doubt. I draw a breath and sit at the corner of the van, making a show of examining my nails.

These very men taught me how to look darkness in the eye and defy it, even when I stand no chance. If I show weakness, they win.

I will die a graphic, painful death wordlessly just to spite them.

“Get up.”

“Make me.”

“Happily.” He shrugs, snapping his fingers once and nodding toward me. The two gorillas climb into the van and pull me out, each of them clasping an arm. I’m not dumb enough to try and break free; they can tear me limb from limb and make potpourri out of my skin, so I just watch the floor as they carry me—my toes floating above the sidewalk—into a warehouse I don’t recognize in an area I’m not familiar with.

Once inside, the florescent lights hit me hard.

Then Seb hits me harder. Elbow shot straight to my cheek.

I collapse to my knees, blood trickling from my split lip and my chin, and it’s when I’m on all fours that I catch the footfalls of Godfrey’s orthopedic shoes. Rumor on the street is those are the only ones he wears nowadays—his legs will never be the same after what I did to him the night of the barn—and they’re squeaking against the tiles like chirpy mice.

Screech.

Screech.

Screech.

Stop.

“Prescott. So nice of you to drop by.” He rolls the word drop on his tongue, not allowing the pun to escape me. I may be down on the floor, but my chin is still high and defiant. “Funny, I don’t remember you paying me any visits when I was in state prison.”

I raise my head proudly, my eyes adjusting to the bright light, and toss a bloody, scarlet smile, compliments of his right-hand man.

“Don’t be sad. I promise to visit your grave regularly.”

He flashes his teeth, even though he is anything but amused, and jerks his index finger sideways. “Sit her arse down, tie her up to this chair.” He cocks his chin in the same direction. I let the muscle guys do as he said, watching him through hooded eyes as I calculate my next move. Godfrey looks delicate, brittle. San Dimas prison did the job I couldn’t finish, and weakened him even more. His limp got worse and his cheeks hollower. But I know better than to think it’d work in my favor.

It’s when the king is about to be dethroned that he is the wickedest.




Sixty-something, English, head overflowing with cotton-white hair and a matching moustache, hobbles toward me, each leg creating a semi-circle as he puts it forward. Likes: Money, watching others writhe in pain and his son, Camden. Dislikes: when people cross him…and me.

Godfrey has a quad cane with tennis balls shoved onto each end. He clutches it in his hand to the point of pale knuckles. White stretch walker shoes, Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian button-up shirts are his uniform. He always looks like a retired tourist.

The police are less likely to pick on a tourist.

“What’s in the bag, darling girl?”

“I busted your knees, your hands are fine. You can unzip it and see for yourself,” I chirp, and am immediately rewarded with another smack from Seb. My body crashes against the dirty floor, a coat of dust sticks to my tongue.

“Camden misses you.” Godfrey’s voice floats above my head. Calm. Collected. Crazy. “He’s coming stateside next month. Eager to see you.”

Eager to kill me, more like. I shudder into my Prada dress.

“I’m guessing that’s why my heart is still beating in my chest?” Said organ pounds so fast it almost burns a hole through my skin, spattering on the floor.

“Yes.” Godfrey bends down to my eye level and taps my nose, feigning endearment. “And no. I’m going to let my son do as he pleases with you after you stew in misery. Beat you, shag you, gang-rape you. He’d be more than happy to tick all three boxes. But after he’s done with you, you’ll be delivered back to my loving arms. And trust me, Prescott, there’s no fun in a bullet to the head. I have quite the plan for your death. You’ll be made an example, a lesson for all to see.” He trails his long, delicate finger on my neck, stubbing my chin to tilt my head upwards.

Our eyes click, the air between us super charged—light a match and the whole place would explode. A wide smirk spreads across his wrinkly face.

“It’ll be a beautiful death. Gaudy, dazzling and inventive. A bit like you, come to think of it.”

I gulp, chancing a glare at Seb and the muscle men. They stand behind Godfrey cross-armed, their masochistic glee barely contained by their tough charade.

“But first things first—accommodation.” His tone turns cheery and he straightens his stance, clapping his hands together. “Prescott Burlington-Smyth had me locked up in prison for a few good years. . .and now she’s going to have a taste of her own bitter medicine. She’s about to learn a lesson about time. How awfully slow it moves inside four, thick walls of nothing. Bring me Beat and Ink. Now.”

Two men charge into the warehouse in perfect timing. Godfrey always was one for punctuality. One is a chubby, short man in a ski mask and blue coveralls. The other is a tall, built guy. He’s wearing black, ripped skinny jeans like a second skin, with a book rolled into his back pocket, military boots—unlaced—and a matching black hoodie. His straight dark hair is modernly slicked back, a Guy Fawkes mask covering his face. You can see from his form, posture, and the lazy way he carries his muscled body, that behind the mask is a man who sees more * than a pack of Tampax.