37. Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Six

Vincent

S mashing the guy's hand against his desk, I grab it before sliding it through the walnut cracker I brought. One slip through, a pinch of the handle, and the bone makes a sickening crunch, followed by his muffled screams. It's hard to scream when your tongue has been cut out and your sweaty socks have been stuffed inside your mouth. You know, to help stop the bleeding. He'll thank me someday.

The task assigned to me was simple. Make sure he can never speak or write what happened to him but make it hurt. Once I go through each broken finger, I pull out his left hand, resting it on his desk as I pull out the meat cleaver from my little bag of tricks.

The man begins bucking and squirming, even going as far as to kick me. Fucking rude.

Lifting up the cleaver, I bring it down with a solid swing that sends his entire wrist and hand flopping to the side. Blood shoots out of his arm and I get a rag from my bag, making a quick torniquet. If the Brethren wanted him dead, they would have said that.

The next hand goes easier than the other, mainly because he passes out from the shock and probably from the blood loss. It's one hell of a way to spend a morning. I'm just grateful this guy works out of his home office. Can't imagine how many people I'd have to take care of if this was an office building.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm a little too fucked up for this world. Death, blood and violence, they don't affect me like they do normal people. I've been raised with it. I remember my parents coming home as a child, seeing them dripping the blood of their targets. It's been engrained in me since birth– receive orders, follow orders, repeat. There is no room for error or self-will and for a while I was okay with that, until Nathaniel. Then things started to really come into focus.

We aren't some guardians of the Brethren, actively protecting our people from harm. We are doing the harm. We are the henchmen, the yes men. For years I was mind warped, thinking what we did was important, that it mattered. Now, I follow my orders to stay alive until a better opportunity arises, or a better escape plan.

I was so close to being ready too. My things were packed, fake death planned, and then…I saw her. Just a glimpse of her getting out of her father's car, following his security guards to the Parris Dorm and suddenly, instead of driving away in my car like planned, I stayed. I blew all of my plans of freedom to hell and followed her like a moth to a flame.

I spent the next week obsessing over every scrap of information I could pull on Skyla Parris. Despite my best efforts, I was infuriated to find that there wasn't much available. She had been hidden away perfectly. The exquisite crown jewel of the Brethren.

Skyla thinks she's special because of her father and while, yes, he is a high ranking Elder, that's not the reason. She is so goddamn valuable because up until her, there hasn't been a female born in the Elder families in over two hundred and fifty years.

At first, no one thought anything of it. Men are more useful, more powerful. At least that's how they saw it. But then, after having child after child, all being boys, the Brethren became curious. They started actively trying for girls, even going as far as going to fertility clinics all over the world in the last fifty or so years. Every time it's a boy, never a girl.

It began a sort of crazed quest for many of the families. They wanted to know why it wasn't possible. Other members of the Brethren didn't have a problem, it was just the Elders.

Obviously, you already know what they're thinking. They are cursed. I'm not sure how much I buy into all of that stuff. I think the trials were a distraction from a power struggle they wanted desperately to win. What better way than do the worst thing you could do back in the late seventeenth century? You accuse those you don't like or see as a threat, of being a witch.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I step away from the man after applying his second tourniquet before answering it.

"Yeah?" I answer.

"It's Skyla, man," Liam says. "The stalker left her a note and rose in her class. She thinks it could be Andrew Hutchinson."

Anger sparks inside me, followed by irritation. Hutchinson? I cleared him weeks ago. He was an initial suspect for me as well, what with his infatuation with Skyla, but after a deep dive, I came to the conclusion that he was harmless. Guess I'll be needing to look into him more thoroughly.

"Do you have him?" I ask, already packing up my bags. My job is done here anyways.

"No. We can't find him. Was hoping you could help us with that."

I nod wordlessly, keeping my gloves and mask on as I open the office door and step out into the foyer. It's a nice house. I'm sure the blood will come out of the carpet, eventually.

"You have her?" I ask, making sure to keep my words vague as I slip out of the house and head for my bike that's stashed a block down the road.

"Yeah, we got her. Wesley took her home. Ronan went with them. Asher and I are looking into shit here on campus."

"Good. Let me know what you find," I say as I hang up the phone.

Stepping out onto the front porch, I stop in my tracks when a shadowy figure moves towards me.

"Graves," I say stiffly, my hand going to my holstered gun.

That psychotic fuck tilts his head in amusement, his skull mask hiding the face of the well-known killer.

"Griggs, it's been a minute. Now, don't tell me you took out my mark before I could," he tuts, that amused lilt to his voice only amplifying how unhinged this man is.

Don't get me wrong, I can fucking slaughter someone with hardly a blink or moment's hesitation, but this guy…he enjoys it, has fun with it. Being in the same…line of work, we've run into each other over the years. My parents used to talk about the Graves brothers from time to time. Sometimes they would take out his mark before he could, other times, it was vice versa. Whoever his employer is, they seem to have similar enemies to the Brethren.

"Sorry, looks like you're getting slow with old age," I remark flatly.

A glint of silver flashes from his side, a long hunting knife firmly gripped in his hand. He hmphs lightly as we both stand still, watching the other, waiting. I'd like to say I'm not afraid of going toe to toe with most people. I know without a doubt, though, out of anyone in the world, I do not want to go against Zayden Graves. I might make it out the other side, but it won't be without a few dozen stab wounds as a parting gift.

Lucky for me, he seems as uninterested in a fight as I do.

"You don't mind if I tell my employer I handled it, do you?" he says on a laugh.

"Not as long as you don't mind me telling mine that I handled it."

"Fine by me, you saved me a load of laundry tonight. I have an angel to go see, anyways."

With that, he turns on his heel and walks off into the distance, disappearing into the tree line. I stand still, watching him every step of the way until I know for sure he is gone, before I begin walking to my bike. Now that I'm not faced with the hurdle of going head-to-head with one of the nation's most lethal hitmen, I have a new target in mind. One that is deserving of all of my wrath and then some.

Andrew motherfucking Hutchinson. You better hope I don't fucking find you.