Second Debt Page 3

  Locking her knees, she bounced in place and turned to face me. Her chest rose quickly, panting for breath. “What? Why?”

  My eyes involuntarily went to the break in the trees up ahead. Damn sunshine broke through the fog at the exact same moment, spotlighting the one place I didn’t want her to see.

  Nila followed my gaze. Her shoulders hunched, feeding off my nerves. “What’s up there, Jethro?”

  “Nothing.”

  “If it’s nothing, then why are you determined not to let me see?”

  My temper fed off her nervousness, creating a sick sensation in my gut. “Because it’s time to get back. You’ve wasted enough of the day doing something as pointless as running.” I snapped my fingers. “Let’s go. Now.”

  Her eyes filled with rebellion. She looked back to the hill, chewing her lip.

  I moved forward, ready to pounce and drag her back to the Hall. “Ms. Weaver—” I inched closer.

  Hesitation flittered over her face.

  I tried to grab her. But I was too late.

  Darting away from me, she said, “I want to see what you’re hiding,” then bolted down the path.

  “Fuck!”

  Her hair flew free from her hair-tie as she sprinted faster up the gravel and onto the moor that I wished didn’t exist.

  Shit, she’s fast.

  I tore after her, wishing I had Bolly and the foxhounds to swoop in and cut her off before she reached the crest.

  My feet burned and my socks became slippery as old wounds opened. My lungs were pathetic in delivering enough oxygen as I sprinted the final distance and skidded to a halt.

  She’d turned from super-sonic to a statue, staring dumbfounded at what existed before her.

  Goddammit, why did she have to be so determined to uncover what I wanted to keep hidden? The truth never helped—it only made things worse.

  Her hands flew into her black hair, fisting tightly. “Oh, my God…”

  I sucked air, hating the sensation of trespassing on such a sacred site. I wasn’t welcome here. None of my family was welcome, and if I were superstitious, I would admit there was a stagnant force that howled with hatred and pain.

  “No!” she whispered. Her strong legs that’d sent her flying into hell suddenly collapsed from beneath her.

  Her fingers dove into the dirt, clutching at grass and mud. “This can’t be real. It can’t.”

  She bowed with disbelief, kneeling on the grave of her mother.

  Her anguish joined the storm of revulsion that never seemed to leave this place. Goosebumps darted down my arms as a gale whipped her hair into a frenzied mess.

  “Ms. Weaver—” I moved forward, fully intending to pluck her from the earth and hurl her over my shoulder. I couldn’t be here another fucking second.

  Goddammit, this isn’t supposed to happen.

  Her eyes met mine, but they didn’t swim with tears—black hate glittered instead. “Is this true? All along, my father said she’d run off. All along, he told us stories of her leaving us for a better life. My brother understood that meant she was dead, but not once did Tex take us to her grave. After what your father said…about what he’d done, I still held onto those childish stories that she was alive. But this…” Her voice sliced through me. “Is. This. True? All this time my mother has been buried, cold and lonely, in the ground of the men who murdered her?!”

  I swallowed, rapidly diving into the safety net of my snow. I couldn’t stand there and hear her horror. I couldn’t let her grief infect me. I refused to fucking listen.

  “I didn’t do it.”

  As if that makes it any easier to bear.

  Nila shook her head, staring at me as if I were some grotesque abomination. “You didn’t do it? Do you think I care if it wasn’t your hands who severed her life? It was your family, Jethro. Your bloodline. You’re a monster—just like them!”

  The cuts on my feet no longer protected me. I was so fucking close to losing control.

  I itched with the need to shut down. To hide from everything snowballing inside. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you!” Nila spun to face the burial place of her mother.

  My eyes rose to read the inscription on the simple marble headstone looming over her trembling form.

  In here lies payment for debts now paid.

  Rest fitfully Emma Weaver wherein hell you may face another toll.

  Nila looked over her shoulder; her eyes widened until they were as black and as soul-sucking as an eclipse. “Jethro—”

  The pain and hatred in her voice sliced me better than any cut on my foot. I took a step backward, placing distance between us. “I can’t give you what you want.”

  She shook her head. “You can’t or you won’t?”

  I knew she wanted answers. An explanation. Facts on why her family was buried on Hawk land and how we circumnavigated the law to do things no one else could.

  But what could I say? I was bound. Muzzled. Shackled, not just by Hawk blood, but the very condition that made me a reject in my own family.

  The truth hurt. Fuck, everything hurt.

  Her panic. Her grief. The throbbing pain in my feet.

  I had to get away.

  This was why I’d remained cold. Why I did what I did.

  This was why I never let anyone get close to me and embraced my duties as a son over the cravings of my heart.

  My disease meant I couldn’t let things like this happen.

  I couldn’t handle it.

  “I told you I didn’t want you to see this place but you fucking defied me!” Hot anger gave me somewhere to hide. “I refuse to indulge your feelings of self-pity.” Rage coated my veins, granting sanctuary.

  I backed away, distancing myself from the raw fury glowing on her face. “Come here. We’re leaving.” I snapped my fingers again. “Now!”

  Nila stood. Her eyes darted to the semicircle of death surrounding us. An unlucky horseshoe of tombs.

  Her chest rose as a silent sob escaped her. Waving her hand at the other graves, she shook her head. In one motion, she asked a lifetime of questions.

  How could you?

  How did you get away with it?

  Why has no one stopped you?

  I had no answers.

  My eyes fell on the graves.

  Six in total.

  All with a diamond chiselled into the remembrance of their tombstone and the ultimate mockery of all: a hawk perched on the top, its talons dripping blood down the face of the eulogy.

  “This—it can’t be real. No one could be this diabolical.”

  You’re wrong. The Hawks can.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Quiet.” Looking back up, I demanded, “Say goodbye. We’re leaving, and I doubt you’ll be allowed back up here.”

  Her mouth twisted with black amazement. “You…I don’t have any words for what I think about you. How sick you make me.”

  “Good. I don’t want words. I want to leave.” Storming forward, I grabbed her elbow, yanking her away from the cemetery.

  “No!” she screamed, scratching my hand and backpedalling. A huge wave of anguish buffeted me. Everything she felt poured from her like a tsunami. I stood, unable to move as it drowned me.

  Apart from knocking her unconscious and carrying her back to the Hall, I had no way of making her leave. I couldn’t handle carrying her kicking and screaming.

  I’d break.

  She rattled with the pieces of her broken heart, and just once, I wanted to give in to the benevolence that others enjoyed.

  But I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t stand there while she grieved.

  It just wasn’t possible.

  Not for a man like me.

  Sighing, I said, “Fine. Stay. Pay your respects and worship the dead, but you’ll do it alone.”

  You’ll do it alone, so I don’t lose the rest of my soul.

  This wasn’t a good place for a Hawk, but in a way, it was home to a Weaver. She might fin
d whatever she was missing by conversing with her past.

  “I’ll—I’ll leave you alone.”

  Nila balled her hands, looking as if she wanted to strike me. “Disappear, Mr. Hawk. Run like you always do. Good fucking riddance. Leave. Get the hell away from me and don’t come back!”

  I paused for a fraction. I should do something about her outburst—teach her that I wouldn’t permit her to raise her voice, but I was done here.

  Taking another step away, I said, “I’ll see you back at the Hall.”

  She didn’t reply.

  With a black-laced heart and thundering headache, I backed away, faster and faster. Her arms wrapped around her body and her hair danced in the turbulent breeze. She looked like a witch placing a curse upon my house. Then she collapsed at the base of her mother’s tombstone, bowing in the dirt. I left her with only ghosts for company, kneeling on the grave of her ancestors.

  Shuddering once, I turned and didn’t look back.

  I GOT MY wish.

  My wish to become as cold and as merciless as Jethro came true as I huddled on my mother’s grave. My sweaty skin turned to ice with renewed hatred for the Hawks. I struggled with rage so damn strong I was sure the earth would crack beneath me and swallow me whole.

  How could he?

  How could they?

  How could devils live so blatantly amongst us?

  My teeth ached from clenching; my eyes bruised with unshed tears.

  I breathed revenge. I ate vengeance. All I saw was hate.

  I felt invincible with rage, as if I controlled the tectonic plates and had the power to summon a catastrophic earthquake to devour this disease-riddled place forever.

  How could any goodness live inside me when all I wanted was four graves—one for each of the Hawk men? How could I believe in right and wrong when all I wanted was their blackened hearts bleeding at my feet?

  Morning turned to noon.

  Afternoon turned to dusk.

  Twilight turned to midnight.

  I stayed vigil, moving slowly between the six graves. My bloodless lips whispered as I read aloud their horrific epitaphs.

  Farewell to Mary Weaver

  Long ye may rest in solitude and reap the havoc in which you sowed

  My heart broke at the thought of my grandmother and great-great-grandmother enduring such a life.

  Herein rests the soul of Bess Weaver

  Her only redemption was paying her debts

  The oldest looking tombstone had the simplest carving but the one with the worst desecration of a dead soul.

  The corpse of the Wicked Weaver who started it all

  Wife to a traitor, mother to a whore

  I couldn’t forgive. I couldn’t forget. I couldn’t even comprehend how I could ever set eyes upon the Hawks again without wanting to slaughter them with my bare hands. My rage fed me better than any material sustenance.

  I wished I had magic; a potion to strike them all dead.

  Every murmur that escaped me, every incantation and promise, worked like a spell.

  My whispers wrapped around me like a cocoon—turning my tenderhearted naivety into a chrysalis where I rapidly evolved into a monster as bad as them.

  I threw myself into darkness. I traded any goodness I had left for the power to destroy them. And with each chant, I chained myself deeper to my fate—cementing me forever to my task.

  I didn’t want food or water or shelter.

  I didn’t need love or understanding or connection.

  I wanted retribution.

  I wanted justice.

  No one came to get me. If they cared I was missing, no Hawk came to corral me back to my prison.

  In a way, I wished they would come. Because then my removal from my dead family would’ve been a justified struggle. I would’ve screamed and cursed and fought so hard, I would’ve drawn their blood.

  But they never came.

  So, I had to swallow my bitter resentment and plod back to purgatory on my own accord. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t scream.

  I had to deliver myself willingly back into the devil’s clutches.

  By the time I entered my quarters, I shook so hard I was sure my teeth were chipped from chattering so badly—from cold and from horror.

  I didn’t recognise the woman inside me. Something had switched permanently and any facet of the little girl—the twin who’d always believed in fantasies—had died upon that patch of earth.

  I’d been destroyed, yet my eyes remained dry. Not one tear had been shed. Not one sob had come forth.

  I’d become barren. No longer able to display emotion or find relief from the pounding terror of seeing proof of my ancestor’s demise.

  The diamond collar around my neck disgusted me and the weight seemed to grow heavier with every breath, sucking me deeper into hell.

  Struggling to remove my sweat-dried exercise gear, I barely managed to crawl into the shower. Gradually, I turned my blood from snow to spring—thawing out the phantoms that now lurked within.

  I stayed beneath the hot spray for ages, curled upon the floor with my arms wrapped around my knees. Mud and soil from the graves siphoned down the drain, swirling around like dead souls.

  So much had happened, so much that would’ve broken the old Nila.

  But this was just another hurdle—another obstacle to clear in my quest for victory. My essence had been infused with the lingering spirits of my ancestors. They lived within me now, wanting the same thing I did.

  The clock hanging above the fish tank in my sewing room announced the witching hour as I climbed exhausted into bed.

  Three a.m.

  The time when ghouls and demons were thought to roam the passageways of homes and terrorize helpless sleepers.

  I’d always been superstitious about keeping my wardrobe doors shut against night monsters. Vaughn used to laugh at me, saying beasts and night creatures didn’t exist.

  But now I knew the truth.

  They did exist, but they didn’t come out when the witching hour opened a portal from their world into ours.

  They weren’t called werewolves or vampires.

  They were called Hawks.

  And I lived with them.

  The next morning, I woke to a text.

  A single message from the crux of my annihilation.

  Kite007: I feel what you feel. Whether it be a kiss or a kick or a killing blow. I wished I didn’t, but you’re mine, therefore, you are my affliction. So, I will feel what you feel, and I will live what you live. You won’t understand what I mean. Not yet. But it’s my best sacrifice. The only thing I can offer you.

  I waited for my heart to spike.

  I held my breath for a sparkle of desire.

  Jethro had just shown me the truth. In his cryptic, almost poetic message, he’d torn aside the mysterious curtain of who Kite was—fully admitting something that only he would know. There was no way a message like that could come from Kes. I doubted the middle Hawk was deep enough to pen such a complex riddle.

  If such a message had come yesterday, I would’ve tripped from lust into love. I wouldn’t have been able to stop my heart from unfurling completely and letting my enemy nest deep inside.

  But not now.

  Not now that I’d seen the heinous truth.

  With steady hands and an even steadier heart, I sent a single message to my brother.

  Needle&Thread: I’m living a nightmare, V. I…I can’t do this anymore. I miss you.

  Once it had sent, I deleted Kite’s message and turned off my phone.

  A NEW MORNING, yet I felt older than I’d ever been.

  Every part of me ached.

  I’d left Nila at the cemetery—I’d had no choice.

  But when she didn’t return after dusk, I went back for her.

  She’d sat beneath the crescent moon, arms wrapped tight around her ribcage as if to prevent whatever meagre body heat she had from escaping. Her white skin glowed in the darkness, etched in shadow, making her s
eem part wraith, part woman.

  I’d waited in the blackness, obscured by trees. Waited for her to either fall asleep or fret herself into unconsciousness. I wanted to wrap her in warmth and take her back to her chambers where she could find some resemblance of living…with me.

  I wanted to kiss her frigid lips and run my fingers down her icy arms. I wanted to be warm for her and forget all notions of being a glacier.

  But powerful waves of hatred and disgust rolled from her delicate form, lapping through the trees and around my ankles. As much as I wanted to go to her, I couldn’t.

  For the same reason I needed to see Jasmine so often.

  For the same curse I’d lived with my whole life.

  So, I’d waited.

  I’d sacrificed myself by feeling her pain.

  I’d shared the cold with her.

  I’d hoped she sensed my presence and it offered a shred of comfort.

  And when she’d finally retreated to the Hall, I’d followed discretely. Shadowing her every step, determined she wouldn’t see me.

  It wasn’t until she’d stumbled from her bathroom in a cloud of steam and wearing a towel that I’d left the security hub and the constantly recording cameras and returned to my own quarters.

  As I lay staring at my ceiling, thinking how disastrous my life had become ever since I texted her over two months ago, I felt another stirring inside my broken heart.

  One that gave me a small blaze of hope that there might be some way to salvage this nightmare.

  For the first time in my life, I wanted to talk to someone. Fully confess. And not just to my sister.

  I wanted to unload and spill everything to my sworn enemy. To the woman I wanted but could never have.

  If I stepped off that ledge and took a leap of faith, I had no doubt I would end up dead when I fell. But I’d left it too long to fix myself and no longer had control over my impulses.

  I’d regret it.

  Shit, I already did.

  But it couldn’t stop me.

  With a rabbiting heart, I’d messaged her the first shred of truth.

  I began the journey that would pulverize me.

  Cut looked up from his newspaper, his eyes narrowing. “Where were you yesterday?”

  Torturing Nila. Torturing myself.