Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(2)
My house sits on a stretch of green, grassy land on the north end of Aplana Island, a little patch of rock floating just outside the Boston Harbor Islands, with a permanent population that’s grown from a mere couple hundred to several thousand in the last few years.
Before that, we were mostly relegated to a tourist region where rich families could hide their illegal activities in mint and crab exports, or work on developing the infrastructure to attract more residents.
Essentially, Aplana acts as an independent, partially impoverished version of The Hamptons. With far more crime, its own little airport, and sprawling acreage split by small roads.
It’s not the kind of place I would’ve picked for myself, but my family moved here from London when I was a boy, and I never left.
My house is separated from the buzzing array of attractions and shops downtown; with no neighbors for miles, things can get as loud and messy as they want.
Normally, I try to avoid loud and messy. Clean hits mean clear consciences, and I’m not a man who wants even a modicum of guilt weighing down his shoulders.
There will be time for guilt on Judgment Day, and not a moment sooner.
Switching off the faucet, I spin on my heel and dry my hands on a dishrag. Kevin glares at me from behind the packing tape I’ve wrapped around his head, his mouth accessible through a tiny gap left in the binding.
“It’s a shame things have to end this way,” I tell him, eliminating any hopes he may have of leaving this earth with dignity.
Slowly, I approach the chair he’s tied up in, noting the beads of sweat percolating along his hairline. Flames from the stone fireplace lick at his back, heating the room and turning the exposed skin at the nape of his neck into a web of purple welts.
Crouching down, I slide a metal rod from the wall-mounted fire iron hook, holding the shaped end against the flames. It flares orange, sizzling, and I can’t stop the excitement from thrumming through my veins when Kevin whimpers.
Standing up straight, I pull the rod from the fire and shove it toward his face. It skims his cheek, and he squeals like a stuck pig, rocking back until his chair almost tips over.
“Have you anything to say for yourself?” I ask, even though there’s no way he’ll answer. “I’ll admit, I’ve no idea why Alistair asked me to take care of you. It’s been a while since he had me do any eliminations, so he must be planning something grand.”
Kevin groans, and I’m sure he’d be in tears if not for the tape.
Hooking my ankle behind one of the chair legs, I lean in, gripping Kevin’s shoulder in one hand. The rod glows as I wave it between us, tsking at the fear frozen on his tired face.
“Come on, mate. Throw me a bone here.” The gold cross around his neck catches my eye. “You’re Catholic, yes? So you believe confession absolves you of your sins, or some other bloody nonsense. Well, now’s your chance. Tell me what you’ve done, and maybe God will have mercy on your soul.”
This time, he doesn’t even try to say anything. Sighing, I swipe the poker across his jaw, reveling in the absolute terror radiating off him.
The head of the iron is shaped like a W and engraved with intricately woven vines and roses. It’s an heirloom passed down from my grandfather to my father, and then to me—though I suspect I’m the first to use it in this manner.
Then again, my father’s lack of creativity in this line of work is likely what got him killed in the first place. If he’d stuck to his hidden talents and not tried to align himself with Primrose Realty, perhaps he’d still be alive.
I glance at the silver Rolex on my wrist and frown when I realize what time it is. Alistair will have an aneurysm if I show up late, so I’d better make this quick.
Pity.
Prolonging the inevitable really is the best part of my job.
Kevin trembles in my grasp, and satisfaction funnels through my nerve endings, lighting me up like the night sky.
“I thought for sure when my brother had his cock up your arse, it meant good things for you. Though, I suppose he has his methods of torture...”
Biting back a smile, I push the W-shaped end of the branding iron against his cheek, letting him thrash and scream as much as he can. The smell of burnt flesh reaches my nostrils, and I inhale deeply, allowing myself a breath to revel in the depravity.
The Wolfe family insignia looks delightful etched into his face, and once I’m content with the severity of its presence, I move back and fit the letter between his lips.
“... and I have mine,” I finish, one flick of my wrist shoving the iron into his mouth. He has no teeth left to block the entry, so the end reaches the back of his throat on the first try.
He jerks some as I hold him in place, but the struggle dies off quickly as his energy evaporates. When he goes limp, I punch my arm forward more forcefully, until the end of the iron pops out the back of his neck at an awkward angle.
Blood gushes from his lips and the exit wound, spilling onto the floor. Some of it splatters onto my leather shoes, and I sigh as I bend down, wiping it away with the handkerchief in my breast pocket.
Refolding the tissue, I stuff it into my leather jacket and clean up, wrapping Kevin’s body in a tarp and placing him temporarily in the deep freeze on my back deck.
Later, when I arrive at my pub, The Flaming Chariot, my brother sits in a booth in the very back, watching patrons writhe around the dance floor with a blank expression on his face.