Page 111 of Decimation

The room is dark. Not the soft, muted dark of a dying fire, but the absolute, suffocating dark of a tomb. The hearth is a black mouth, no embers, no glow. The air is frigid, carrying the faint, acrid scent of cold ash. And the chair where I left Konstantine is empty. The cushions are still indented from his weight, but he’s gone. He’s fucking gone.

A sound escapes me, something between a growl and a gasp. He’s out. He’s free, and Leandra’s location has been compromised. The two facts collide in my brain like a head-on crash, and for a moment I’m frozen, caught in the wreckage of my own failure.

“You wouldn’t listen.”

The voice comes from behind me, low and calm, with that infuriating note of paternal disappointment. I whip around, my hand instinctively going to my hip, but I’m not wearing my holster. I’m standing in my bare feet and jeans, unarmed, and Charles is leaning against the doorframe like he’s been there for hours, watching this entire thing play out. His arms are crossed over his chest, his face half in shadow, but I can see the faint, smug curve of his mouth.

“What are you talking about?” The words tear out of me, a snarl so raw it scrapes my throat.

I’m already moving toward him, my hands curling into fists. My head is a siren, a relentless, piercing wail that drowns out everything except the need to get to Leandra.

She’s in danger.

She’s in danger and this man is standing here, blocking my path, speaking in God damn riddles.

“I warned you,” Charles says, and he doesn’t flinch as I advance. His voice is steady, almost gentle, which makes it a thousand times worse. “I told you not to commit the same mistakes he did, but you thought you knew better. You always do.”

He. Konstantine. The mistakes. The words are a match dropped into the gasoline of my rage.

I launch myself at him, my hands grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, slamming him back against the doorframe. The impact rattles the wall, but Charles barely reacts. His eyes, pale and unblinking, meet mine with an infuriating serenity.

“What the fuck have you done?” I’m shouting, my face inches from his. Spittle flies from my lips. I can smell coffee on his breath, the faint musk of his cologne. He’s calm. He’s so goddamn calm while my world is imploding. “Where is he? What did you do?”

Charles doesn’t struggle, he doesn’t push me away. He just looks at me, and that small, knowing smile spreads across his face like a crack in ice. “What you should have done,” he says. “I have taken control. I have sorted this mess out for you.”

The words don’t make sense at first. They’re too absurd, too monstrous. I stare at him, my grip tightening until my knuckles ache, searching his face for some sign of deception, some flicker of the man I thought I knew. But all I see is conviction. A terrible, unwavering certainty. He let Konstantine go. He orchestrated this.

“You will thank me for it,” he adds, and his tone is so matter-of-fact, so utterly convinced of his own righteousness that something inside me snaps.

My fist connects with his jaw before I even register the decision to throw it. The impact is a shockwave up my arm, a satisfying, sickening crunch of bone and cartilage. Charles’s head snaps to the side, his body slumping against the doorframe, and for a split second that smug expression is wiped clean.

He staggers, one hand flying to his face but I’m already past him, already running for the door.

The car screeches to a halt on the gravel driveway, and I’m out before the engine dies, my boots hitting the ground hard. The mansion looms before me, its windows dark, its front door hanging open like a wound.

That’s when I see him.

Konstantine.

He’s walking out. With blood on his hands, literal blood dripping from his fingers, staining the cuffs of his shirt. His clothes are dishevelled, his shirt untucked, his collar torn. There’s something on his face, smeared across his cheek, and it takes me a moment to realise it’s more blood.

He’s done something. Something horrific.

I can see it in the way he moves, that shuffling, unsteady gait, like a man who has just crawled out of hell and doesn’t quite remember how to walk among the living.

“Konstantine!” My voice tears from my throat, raw and primal.

I lunge toward him, my vision tunnelling, my hands reaching for his throat. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to wrap my fingers around his neck and squeeze until the life drains from his eyes, until he pays for whatever he’s done, until…

Arms catch me. Strong arms, pulling me back.

“Lazarus, stop!”

Charles. It’s fucking Charles. Clearly, he followed me from the villa.

“Let me go!” I snarl, thrashing against him. “Let me fucking go.”

“You cannot kill him. Not here. Not now.” Charles says, his voice unnervingly calm.