The Cult
: Chapter 4

I grabbed the bottle and refilled my glass, hearing the tap of the decanter against the crystal. The brown liquid swirled around before it went still, like a black pool of death. The decanter returned to the table, nearly empty because I used scotch as a pain medication for my soul.

Opioids for the heart.

“Should you contact him?” He left his chair and grabbed the decanter from the coffee table. He carried it into the kitchen and emptied it down the sink before leaving it empty on the counter.

I stayed on the couch and stared at the fire. “You think that’ll stop me?” The only thing that mattered to me had been taken, and now I had nothing left—except scotch.

“No.” Bleu came back into the living room. “But I can.”

I released a painful chuckle because it was so false that no amount of truth was needed to deny it. There was no reason to keep my mind sharp like a tack, my body ready for a demolition, because I’d explored every thread of hope to endless dead ends. What was the purpose of being ready for a battle that I couldn’t replace?

Bleu sat down again. “Should we go back to the Chasseurs?”

“No.”

“It’s been a few days.”

“I’d be suspicious if it took less than a few days. This isn’t a restaurant where you call to see if your order is ready for pickup. If Bartholomew has something to say, he’ll say it.” I tipped the glass and took another drink, my eyes irritated because they were dry from constantly being open and staring, looking at the fire and feeling the heat burn the moisture away.

Bleu turned quiet, shifting his gaze to the fire, his hands clasped. “What did they want in return?”

I stared down into my glass and gave it a gentle shake, seeing the colors change as it swirled, moving from a deep black to slightly brown. “Money.” I lifted my glass once more, letting the coolness touch my bottom lip before the liquid came. My eyes returned to the fire, the only company I really had since Claire had disappeared.

Bleu turned back to me, his eyes slightly narrowed, slightly suspicious. But he didn’t dare challenge me.

I wasn’t in the mood for it.

His gaze lasted a while before it shifted forward, looking toward the kitchen and the dining room. When his shoulders tightened and he cleared his throat, I knew we weren’t alone. He rose to his feet and silently excused himself. His footsteps moved across the hardwood floor, across the house, and then out the front door.

His exit was audible, but Bartholomew’s entrance was silent.

The glass returned to the table, and I rose to my feet to look at the man to whom I’d once pledged my eternity. Through the dark streets, through the knife fights, through the endless battles, we stood shoulder to shoulder. Trust took a lifetime to earn, but a second to lose.

His dark eyes were fixed on my face, dressed in black with a black leather jacket on top. His military-style boots shone in the light coming from the hearth—and his dark eyes did the same. His stare was steady and unreadable, because he kept every thought encased in his cold exterior. The only way for someone to know what he was thinking was if he chose to tell you—and that happened rarely.

I pulled the air into my lungs and felt my chest expand, but I felt winded at the same time, like I never really had a full breath. The grief had destroyed my body. It wasn’t visible on the surface to anyone who looked at me, but my heart was about to give out from the chronic pain, my lungs could never fully expand to give me what I needed, and my brain was fried from the nightmares.

I didn’t ask how he’d found me. I didn’t ask how he got into my impenetrable apartment without making a sound. None of that mattered because the only thing that did matter was whatever he was about to tell me.

The silence lasted an eternity because he spent more time thinking about his words than actually expressing them. “I found her.”

I took my first true breath since I’d realized my daughter was gone. My hand clutched my chest, and I couldn’t hide my reaction from him. I couldn’t keep it inside. Relief hit me, knowing there was hope, that I would get my girl back. Nothing would stand in my way. “Where?”

Bartholomew had no reaction to my emotional response.

“Tell me.”

“It’s complicated—”

“Tell me!” I stepped toward him, my hands tightening into fists and making my knuckles ache from all the old injuries I’d sustained at his side.

He didn’t flinch at my outburst, didn’t even blink. “Hell took her.”

My chest started to rise and fall harder, processing those words without meaning.

“When Fender left the game, he abandoned that camp out there near the Alps. Shortly afterward, it was claimed by a new group. Hell.”

When I left the Chasseurs, I became a contractor. I started my own company and adopted a quiet life—for Claire. The world had changed since I’d left, and now I was in the dark. I had no idea who Hell was. “Who are they?”

“A cult, basically.”

Fuck.

“They believe angels walk among us and they’re the path to their redemption. They take women they believe to be divine, they believe to have invisible wings, who are so beautiful they’re ethereal. That’s all I know.”

They must have spotted Beatrice in her ballet—and took her. My daughter was with her, and they decided to take her too. My little girl was stuck in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of psychopaths that had no grip on reality. “Tell me the way.” I’d ride on horseback or take a chopper and replace Hell, get Beatrice and Claire, and burn it to the ground.

Bartholomew continued his hard stare. “That’s where it gets complicated.”

“It’s not complicated to me.”

“They’re a large group. At the camp alone, there must be hundreds. They’re heavily armed, and they’ve got allies.”

“I’m not asking for your help, Bartholomew.” I would get my girl back on my own. A bunch of psychopaths wasn’t going to stop me. They could be heavily armed, but it wouldn’t make a difference—because I was fucking bulletproof.

“Then you’ll die, and she’ll die too.”

I sucked in a breath through my clenched teeth and winced in pain, dropping my chin to stare at the floor, needing a moment to push the image out of my head—of her lifeless eyes. I refused to bury my daughter. I refused to outlive her. I refused to let anything happen to her.

“They’re a bunch of freaks, but they are smart freaks. We negotiate first.”

“No. I will kill them all—”

“They deal LSD. They’ve got friends in high places…no pun intended. We’ve managed to coexist peacefully up until this point. Not going to disturb that for a kid.”

I huffed and puffed in immediate anger, wanting to dismantle his frame piece by piece, arms and legs, fingers and toes, until there was nothing but a spine left behind. “She’s not a kid. She’s my daughter.”

With no sympathy whatsoever, he stared at me. “You shouldn’t have had her in the first place. You had a way out, and you didn’t take it. None of this would be happening right now if you’d just let Beatrice get that abortion—”

“Fuck.” My entire body clenched, my teeth grinding hard together before they opened again and let the spit fly out. “You.” My clenched hand slammed down through the air and failed to hit a target because he was the one person I couldn’t strike. He was the only lifeline I had right now. “Don’t you ever fucking say that to me again. I’m sorry that I broke my vow, but I’m not sorry that I had Claire. I’ll never be sorry for that. Ever.”