Chapter 2

Nine yearsago - Age 26

A drizzly rain comes down in a fine mist, drenching me just as well as a downpour, only less annoying. The lush green countryside o' my mother's homeland surrounds me. We moved here from Sweden when I was about eight so Mum could care for my grandmother. When she died; we stayed. My grandfather had been gone for years and my mother was the heir to the title and land. It was now mine, but I couldn"t care less.

I love Scotland. I always have, but now I'm nae sure what I think or feel.

The priest's monotone voice drones on.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

It's nae the first time I've heard those words. Both times, I lost everyone I cared about and everyone who cared about me.

I didnae lose them.

The thought skids across my mind, reminding me o' the evil lurks in the shadows. I've known that since my parents and little sister died in a car accident, leaving me alone in the world.

My parents provided for me in the event o" their death, but they failed to consider who would raise me. Not that I needed much raising, but I was already well into my teens. But they hadnae arranged a caregiver. Well, they had, but only the one set and they died just days before.

It's one o" those things in life that I cannae decide if I love or hate them for. If they had followed through with a secondary plan, I wouldnae have met Simon, and having him in my life was worth the stent at the orphanage with the nuns.

"You'll be comfortable here, Draven," the nun says as she leads me through the halls.

It was the biggest lie I'd ever been told.

Orphanages arenae good places. Maybe I was just unlucky. Whatever the situation was, then, I survived it and thrived.

Until the day I walked the halls with Sister Annie, I led a charmed life. I had two parents who loved me and each other. Who provided for me. Protected me. That was all ripped away from me, minute by minute—day by day.

It was all gone.

My charmed life—gone.

My parents—gone.

My sister—gone.

My grandparents—gone.

That left me with nothing more than a bed in an overcrowded orphanage.

That's where I met him.

Simon.

The man I love.

The man who wasnae in the kitchen that day over a week barreled through the door that day to the kitchen, only to be met with disappointment. The housekeeper was there instead.

She looks up at me in surprise as I rush into the room. "Can I help, ye, Yer Lordship?"

"Simon," I say. "Have ye seen him?"

"Aye, milord, he left some time ago with several other men."

I looked at the security tapes and Simon did indeed leave the house with several other men. One o" who looked suspiciously like a man in the papers my grandfather sent. Several days later, Simon turned up, but not in the way I'd hoped.

The car that took him from me returned him to me, beaten, bloody, and with death rattling in his chest. He lasted long enough for me to gather him into my arms and kiss his nearly unrecognizable face.

The Order o' Death took from me and all I'm left with is the man in the casket who is about to be lowered into the ground.

Simon was my everything. Without him, I am adrift in the abyss.

I'm lost without you, min k?rlek.

I look out over the people gathered around the grave to celebrate Simon's life, and I'm pleased to see how many people's lives he touched. Simon was the best thing in my life—the only thing, really.

The Order robbed the world o" Simon's refreshingly sunny outlook on life. Everyone loved him. And they took him from me. They orphaned me and now they've widowed me.

Now, they've taken everything. They killed my grandparents. Then they killed my parents and sister. And because I searched for them, they killed Simon, too. All because I loved him and they wanted to make me pay.

And for that, I will kill every member o" the Order I can. They will die by my hand or I will die by theirs.

Once everyone leaves me to my grief, I lock myself in the library with a bottle o" Jameson. I uncap the bottle and take a swig. Simon, if he were here, would roll his eyes at me before handing me a glass.

The tears I've fought for days well in my eyes. As I gaze into the fire, I realize that one o' the servants set it before leaving for the day. There's also a vague memory o' the housekeeper saying she left me dinner as well. I've nae eaten anything without her shoving it into my hands since Simon was dumped onto the front steps.

I take another drink from the bottle in my hand and turn toward the desk. The sofas in front o' the fire hold too many memories. The pages from Simon's research into my parents' and Maeve's deaths sit on the desktop.

Opening the drawer, I pull the envelope from my grandfather out o" the drawer. It's ratty and frayed. The papers inside have become worn and fragile from my frequent handling. Tear stains dot the pages from where I read and re-read them.

I pour through both sets o' documents, looking for the clues Simon saw that I dinnae.

"I dinnae know why I'm reading these again, Simon," I say as I sit at the same desk I sat at the first time I read these papers.

I know Simon cannae hear me. He's been gone for days. Maybe I'm going batty, but who else am I to talk to? Simon was the last person on this planet who gave a shit about me.

Truth.

That's what I told Simon is in these documents.

I'm not sure there is such a thing anymore. Every time I believe I've uncovered the truth, all I find is more conniving, more manipulation, more subterfuge.

Today, though, after ten years, I think I've figured out who killed my family.

Graeme Buchanan.

The darkness o" the night provides cover as I enter the house. I've been waiting for this moment for nearly a year. Ever since I found the letter my grandfather sent to my father all those years ago.

I've trained for it. Months o" weapon and close-combat training hardened my body. The losses I've suffered hardened my heart and my mind, banishing all the good inside me. I've planned everything down to the tiniest detail. I've even flown to America to carry out my plan.

Now that I'm here, the time is nigh. It willnae be long before the man who killed my family, who killed Simon, is dead. I just have to find him.

That will be no small feat. The house is massive. Simon had located the plans for it somehow, and I studied them until I knew them by heart. But while I know the layout o" the house, I dinnae ken what room Graeme Buchanan sleeps in.

I creep further into the depths o' the residence, making as little noise as possible. I hear shouting in the distance, so I weave through the shadows toward the voices, hoping to catch sight o' Graeme Buchanan. Once Graeme is dead, any Order member would do, but I cannae risk them catching onto my presence until Buchanan is dead.

A slight shuffling o' sound makes its way to my ears. I hazard a glance. A slight figure, nae bigger than a child o' ten, maybe twelve, is scurrying away from the voices I'm making my way toward.

What's a child doing here?

Strange.

I shake my head and refocus my attention on what had me crossing the Atlantic. Graeme Buchanan is in this house and I mean to do away with him, so he disnae see another sunrise. I must stay on task. I cannae let myself be distracted by a wee lad wandering about where he shouldnae.

The further I go into the Graeme's domain, the more evidence there is o" his and the Order's wealth and reach. There are photos o" Graeme with government officials, foreign dignitaries, high-ranking police and military members and more. Owen Black, head o' the Order o' Death, and several other men I dinnae recognize stand alongside Graeme in the photographs.

Those photos show how insulated and protected the Order is. With the relationships they have with those in power, stopping them willnae be an easy feat. That disnae matter one wit to me.

Footsteps echo throughout the cavernous interior o' the home. The steps arena slow and measured, they are heavy stomps that sound angry. I duck behind an enormous leaning mirror and wait, watching to see if the person is alone.

Hoping it's Graeme.

When the steps pass my hiding spot, I bite down on my tongue. Copper bursts across my tastebuds and fills my senses.

It's him.

Giving him a large lead, I follow behind as he makes his way up the stairs. He grumbles the entire way, which helps cover my movements.

At the top o' the stairs, he pauses. I duck behind some gaudy pillar and wait. The click o' the door opening and closing is loud, and it echoes through the hallway.

A deep sigh o" relief fills my chest, pressing against my ribs. I exhale in a rush before making my way to the door he disappeared behind. At the door, I press my ear to the wood, listening for any surprises that could await me on the other side.

Hearing nothing, I turn the knob slowly. So slowly, it feels as if an eon has passed before the knob stops. I give the door a tiny shove and it pops open with nary a sound. There's no sound coming from the room, either.

With another deep sigh, I slip inside. I'm standing in an alcove, and the room opposite the door is nae a bedroom, like I thought it would be, but a sitting room. The room is fairly dark, only lit by the glow o" a single lamp. I turn the lock, peeking around the corner, wondering where the fuck the arsehole had got off to.

Then I hear where he is. The shower in the next room is running. I move across the floor toward the partially open door. The carpet silences my footfalls as I stalk my prey.

I pull out the pair o" bearded axes I carry strapped to my back. The Skegg?x have been passed down through my mother's family from generation to generation. Mum may have been a Scot, but her people were descendent from Scandinavia. But the battle axe wasnae something I could conceal. The Skegg?x were difficult enough to hide on my person. A six foot long double-headed battle axe would draw attention I dinnae need.

At first I considered nae using these axes. I didnae want to dishonor them with Graeme Buchanan's blood. They'd been used in battle many times over the centuries since they were made, killing the foes o" my ancestors, but for some reason I hadnae wanted to taint them with the blood o" the Order.

Then one day when I was holding them in my hands, dripping sweat onto the gym floor as I trained, I caught sight o" myself in the mirror hanging on the wall. I looked feral, like a Viking warrior o" old. That's when I realized there was no better weapon for what I'm about to do. These axes were made to protect my family. They had been carried into battle many times over and now I would use them to avenge the deaths o" those I love.

The shower stops and I can hear Buchanan rustling around. I step away from the wall, placing myself directly in front o" the door. As quietly as possible, using the blade o" an axe, I push against the door.

Graeme's bowed head jerks upright, his eyes meeting mine in the swipe o" clear glass on the foggy mirror. Shock erases all the color from his face and he spins toward me.

"Who are you?" he croaks, an army o" frogs crowding out his voice.

I stare him dead in the eye.

"You fucked up, Graeme. You forgot one."

"Whaaa…I don't know what you're talking about. What did I forget?"

"A Helvig."

I dinnae think it's possible for his face to get any paler, but it whitens until it turns ashy and gray.

"I d-don't know what you're talking about," he stutters, backing up until his ass hits the sink behind him.

"I am Draven Helvig. Son o' Dillon and Cora Helvig. Grandson o' Carl and Arabella Helvig. Brother o" Maeve Helvig. Ye murdered my family, and I am here to return the favor."

"I di-didn't do what you say. I haven't murdered anyone."

"Dinnae waste yer breath. My husband, Simon Helvig, found the evidence o' yer crimes before ye murdering cockstains killed him as well. Now, it's yer turn."

His face turns gleeful, and he says, "You fucking Helvigs. Tell me Draven, are there any more o' you?"

Before I can answer, I am grabbed from behind. A large forearm presses against my throat, cutting off my oxygen. My axes are pulled from my grasp and tossed to the bed.

Graeme prowls forward, tossing his towel to the side. He presses a finger to my cheek, pushing hard. The tender skin inside slides against my teeth. Blood seeps into my mouth from the cut he caused.

I stand still, biding my time as his finger trails down my face, over my beard, to my mouth. He smashes my lips against my front teeth before letting his finger fall to my chest. Nothing I've found on him led me to believe Graeme Buchanan fancied men, but there wasnae anything that said he didnae either.

Graeme isnae a small man, the big side o' average, and fairly attractive if murdering bastards who sell kids to the highest bidder is yer thing.

"If you weren't so damn big, this pretty face would bring a very big payday," Graeme laments.

Taking a deep breath, I clear my sinuses, gathering all the blood and spit I've collected in my mouth, and spit at him. Blood, snot, and spit covers Graeme's face, dripping from his chin to mix with the thick mat o' graying chest hair.

Pain explodes across my head and face as the back o" his hand connects with my cheek. Lights flash behind my eyelids. My eye pulses painfully like it's about to pop out o' its socket.

"Tie him up, Andrew," Graeme orders as turns for the towel to wipe his face clean.

I see his cock plumping as he turns his back and walks to the closet. Using his distraction, I kick the knee o" my captor. The crunch o" his bones shattering and the pop o" ligaments tearing fill the air with his grunt o' pain. I lunge for my axes and they slice through him like a hot knife through warm butter when I swing them in tandem.

I'm bathed in his blood. The arterial spray drenches me as I sliced through bone and soft tissue. My axes are sharp and lethal, cutting the man down in seconds and with little sound or fanfare.

I turn to Graeme, who had disappeared into the closet. Clearly, he felt the big guy holding me would be able to handle me. Ten years ago, hell, a year ago he may verra well could've taken me out without thought or effort, but nae today.

I enter the massive walk-in closet, nae longer trying to conceal myself or my path. Graeme turns to me. His eyes widen and dart over me, his face turning pale once again at the gory sight I present. His mouth drops open to scream, but it is cut verra short.

Wielding my axes, I slice them across his throat, nicking the carotids. Blood spews from his neck, covering my chest, neck, and abdomen. I chuckle, thinking I'd make a fabulous model for a horror flick.

The gurgling sounds the blood makes as he gasps for breath like a fish gawping in the bottom o" a boat is a symphony to my battered soul. Raising the axes overhead, I plunge them downward, burying them in his chest.

"May ye rot in hell, ye murderous letch. Not even an eternity o" fire and damnation will be an adequate payment for the lives ye've ruined."

I yank my axes from his body. The squelching, sucking sound nauseates me, but I bury the feeling and walk away from the mess I made, only to stop dead in my tracks.

Is that…

A jackhammer takes up residence in my chest, pushing blood through my body hard and fast. So hard, I can see it in my eyes and hear it in my ears.

It cannae be…

I walk toward a dresser covered in photos o" various shapes and sizes. Big or small, they are all arranged in ornate frames. I dinnae know how one photo out o' the multitude caught my eye, but it did. I reach for the frame, picking it up gingerly.

The photo is o' Graeme Buchanan and several other members o' the Order. They all have their arms around a girl each. Young girls. Some o" them are very young. I suck at judging ages, but these girls cannae be old enough to be hanging out with men as old as the ones in the photo appear to be. And they certainly aren't old enough to be doing what they are most likely doing with these men, given what I know o" the Order and its members.

But that's not what caught my attention. It's who's in the photo. It's been ten years since I saw my family alive and breathing. Ten years since I laid them to rest, entering an orphanage to live a life devoid o' family. Ten years since police officers told me Mum, Dad, and Maeve had all perished in a car accident. Yet I'm holding evidence to the contrary.

Maeve's alive.