The Cult

Bartholomew sat beside me at the table, one ankle crossed on the opposite knee, on the floor above the restaurant packed with people for the dinner rush. Windows showed the lights from the city, the apartments and businesses across the street, the distant glow from the Eiffel Tower.

The waiter placed the bottle on the table, uncorked it, and began to pour.

Bartholomew raised his hand.

The waiter immediately stopped, spilling a drop on the table.

Bartholomew brushed him off with a wave of his hand. “That’s horse piss. I don’t drink horse piss.”

The waiter shifted his gaze to me, as if I would give better instruction.

“Do you drink horse piss?” Bartholomew asked. “Is it bitter, or is it sweet?”

“We’ll take something from Rothschild,” I said, trying to help the guy out.

The waiter wiped up the drop and left.

The upstairs was an open living room with a seating area and fireplace. We both sat there, waiting for our guest to arrive.

“You don’t have to be a dick.”

Bartholomew turned to me, his eyes piercing. “Yes, I do.”

The doors opened, and Julien was escorted inside, the front of his suit bloody and one side of his face puffy. His left eye was already blue and discolored. The men forced him into the chair in front of us, pushing him down with a thrust that made the chair scratch against the hardwood floor.

Julien sank into the chair, seething in silent anger.

Bartholomew remained relaxed in his chair, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers together in front of his chest.

I sized up our fallen opponent—our opponent who’d foolishly thought he could outsmart us. I stepped out of retirement and got back into the game as if I’d never left, finding information as if I’d typed the question into Google.

A long stretch of silence passed.

Julien said nothing, probably because this would end the exact same way whether he spoke or not.

I said nothing because it was fun to watch someone think about their death before it happened.

Bartholomew…I’d known him forever, and I still had no idea what he was thinking. He was probably still thinking about the horse-piss wine.

“Got the anthill,” Bartholomew said. “Now all we need is the queen.”

Julien’s face immediately tightened into rage, probably provoked by the queen comment. “Your time will come.”

“Maybe when I’m ninety.” Bartholomew kept his hands together, still and cold. “Getting my dick sucked by one model in Positano.” He tilted his head slightly, gave a shrug. “And my balls licked by another.”

I hid the smirk that wanted to grow.

Julien didn’t need to speak his rage. It was written on his face, in the tightness of his lips, the annoyance in his eyes—or, should I say, eye. “You’re crazy…blowing up your own ship.”

Bartholomew shrugged. “What can I say? I like to put on a good show.”

“You’re going—”

I pulled out my gun and shot him square between the eyes.

His body gave a jerk before he slumped in the chair—dead.

I set the gun on the table in front of us.

Bartholomew turned to me, the question in his eyes.

“I’m hungry.”

I walked in the door and dropped my jacket on the counter.

Constance was washing dishes in the sink, and she turned off the faucet when she heard me. “Just got home.”

I couldn’t suppress the annoyed sigh that came from my lips. I’d hurried home in the hope I could take Claire to school this morning, but I’d just missed her.

She dried her hands on the towel, her eyes pitying me.

I found the leftovers in the fridge and stood at the bar to eat it cold. Hot, cold, I didn’t give a shit. At the end of a long night, I just wanted to eat and go to sleep. When I woke up, Claire would be home. Maybe I could help her with her homework.

Constance leaned against the other counter and watched me.

I ignored her stare.

Everything on the plate was devoured in a minute because I was in a hurry. Didn’t want to slow down just to enjoy cold eggs that didn’t taste that great even when they were fresh. The dirty plate was left in the sink, and I walked off.

“About the other day…”

“It was a one-time thing.” I turned back around to stare at her from where she remained in the kitchen, in tight jeans, boots that went to her knees, a silk blouse that stopped at her elbows. “Meant nothing.”

Her green eyes didn’t hold a hint of offense. She seemed to expect me to say that. “I don’t want it to be a one-time thing.” Her quiet voice carried across the room, out of the kitchen, and into the sitting room where I stood.

“It meant nothing. And it’ll always mean nothing.” She’d been in my company long enough to know that I was an empty vessel that felt nothing for the world around me—unless it involved my daughter.

“That’s fine. Doesn’t need to mean anything.”

I stared at her from across the room, hearing the sincerity of her words, witnessing it with my own eyes too. “Then why?”

“It’s what I need right now.” Her arms crossed over her chest, one hand absentmindedly rubbing her arm up and down. “You’re what I need.”

Claire sat across from me at the dining table, our coloring books on the surface, colored pencils everywhere, along with crayons and markers.

I pushed the black crayon into the page, marking the inside of the horse with the dark color.

“Dad, that’s ugly,” she said with a laugh. “You’re supposed to do it like this.” She held up her page, showing the vivid colors of the horses, the flowers in the meadow, the bright blue sky. “See? It’s pretty.”

“Guess I’m just not as good as you are.” My dark horse was accompanied by a dark, gray sky, a London fog, and brown soil that had been kissed by fallen raindrops. “It’s supposed to be Budweiser.”

“Ohh…I see it now. We’ll put it on the fridge.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Whenever I spent time with Claire, Constance silently excused herself and stayed in her bedroom. She understood exactly when she was needed and dismissed herself without my having to give her instruction, and it was one of the reasons I liked her the most. She knew her place. “How was school?”

“Good. I hate aritick, though.”

“Aritick?” I asked with a laugh. “You mean arithmetic?”

“Yeah, whatever. It’s a weird word.”

“It is a weird word.”

She kept coloring, moving on to another page, making it just as bright and bold as all her others.

“Still like having Constance around?”

“Uh, yeah. She’s the best. She’s my best friend.”

“She is?”

“Besides you.” She rolled her eyes as she kept coloring. “Dad, you can have more than one best friend.”

I continued to add color to the page, but I’d rather sit there and stare at her forever. “You can?”

“Yep. Angelica and Linda are my best friends too.”

“What about Strawberry?”

“You can’t be best friends with a pony. But she’s my favorite pony.”

I nodded. “Makes sense. I’m glad that you and Constance are getting along.”

“I think she’s a witch.” She put the red pencil down then searched the table for the pink crayon. When she found it, she pressed it to the paper and filled in her lines.

I halted my coloring and stared at her. “A witch?”

“Because she can do magic.”

“Claire, what do you mean by that?” My voice deepened with a hint of panic, immediately thinking about that horrible place that held her captive for months. She’d never spoken of things like this before.

“She makes bad things go away. She made the monsters disappear. I’m never sad around her…she makes that go away.”

I stared at my precious daughter, watched her color like she hadn’t just said something concerning. “Are you sad, sweetheart?” It was so hard to ask the question, to keep my broken heart in my throat.

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

She kept coloring, her eyes down. “Is Mommy coming back?”

My eyes instinctively closed because the moment had arrived. Claire didn’t get her weekends with her mother anymore, and she noticed. She was smart enough to know something was different…everything was different.

I was left with this burden.

This terrible fucking burden.

Like every father who ever existed, I asked myself the question.

Should I lie?

A lie would only buy me time. She was too smart for that. “No.”

Claire’s hand moved slower as she colored the page, her sadness visible.

Just fucking kill me.

She asked the question that I didn’t want her to ask. “Why?” This time, she looked up and met my look. The same blue eyes stared back at me, but hers were filled with goodness and innocence.

I didn’t have an answer. “She needs to focus on herself for a while…”

“Did I do something—”

“No.” This time, my voice choked. Couldn’t stand the question. Couldn’t even let her finish it. “You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. Don’t think that—not even for a second. And you always have me.”

Her fingers grasped her pencil, the tip pressed to the last place where she’d colored. “In the forest…it didn’t seem like she wanted me around…but Constance always wanted me around.”

I had no idea what to say, so I said nothing at all.

“Constance makes it better…she makes everything better.”

I cooked dinner, and Constance did the dishes afterward.

I gave Claire a bath, tucked her in for the night, and sat at her bedside until she fell asleep, surrounded by all her stuffed animals. She had more than horses. There were bears, a hippo, and a tiger.

The curtains were drawn closed and the bedroom was dark, but I could still see her face clearly, see how peaceful she looked when she was tucked into a warm bed with her stuffed bear against her chest.

I didn’t understand how Beatrice could leave.

I would never understand it.

When I returned to the dining room, Constance had finished loading the dishwasher. She closed the door, turned it on, and then the quiet hum started. She washed her hands, patted them dry, and then rubbed the back of her neck like there was a kink.

I watched her movements, watched her fingers brush her long hair away so she could touch her soft skin. She closed her eyes and rolled her head back, like she’d found the spot she’d been looking for.

My eyes noted every feature she possessed, her long and slender fingers, the fair skin that looked like freshly fallen snow, the color of her nude nails, the nails that had dug into my back days ago. She was still in her jeans and boots, in a gray blouse that fit over her small breasts to highlight their perkiness.

She used to be a warm body in a cold bed.

But now, I looked at her differently.

Couldn’t explain it.

She looked at the painting that hung above the sink for a moment before she turned away. When she saw me, she stilled, clearly having no idea I was there. Or how long I’d been there. The unease quickly disappeared, a deep breath entering her lungs then cleansing her stress on the way out.

It was the exact same reaction she gave every time I came home, every time I stepped into the room.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t lust.

It was comfort.

Her boots hit the tile as she approached me. “I have to agree with Claire. You’re definitely the superior cook.” Her hand went to the surface of the nearby counter, and she looked up at me, giving me a slight smile.

I ignored the words like they were never spoken.

Her smile slowly began to fade, but her eyes kept their contact. She used to look away when my stare was too much, too long, too intense. She didn’t do that anymore. She could hold my gaze forever.

“Thank you for making my daughter happy.”

Her eyes slowly tightened with emotion, her lips pressed together a little harder, and the breath she drew was labored with a pain that wasn’t physical. My words hit her right in the heart, and her reaction showed that. “I love her so much…”

“I know.”

The soft smile emerged, but it only lasted a few seconds, her eyes mirroring that gesture.

She had full lips, but their plumpness could disappear the second she was upset. She pressed them tightly together whenever she was overwhelmed. In bed, she bit her bottom lip, which was distinctly different. Her green eyes reminded me of pines caked underneath piles of snow. Evergreen. Earthly. Soulful. She had high cheekbones, an elegant neck with a hollow in her throat, beautiful skin that had faded freckles in some places. Her dark hair reminded me of the mane of my horse, thick and long, moving in the most magnificent way every time she moved.

So many details I’d never noticed before.

Her eyes shifted from side to side, as if regarding me with the same distinction. It was quiet in the house, with the exception of the dishwasher behind her. It was just the two of us, and that same look came on to her face, the same look she’d worn on the couch when her hand grasped mine. “Are you staying home tonight?”

I gave a nod that was so slight, no one else would have noticed.

But she did—because her eyes hadn’t left my face.

The instant I moved in, a breath filled her parted lips. She sucked the air into her lungs like she’d just breached the surface. Her eyes instantly glossed over with throes of passion that hadn’t yet begun. Her mouth was open for me before I even got there, and once my chest was against hers, her arms hooked around my neck and she pulled me closer, needing as much of my mouth as I would give her.

My hand immediately slipped underneath her blouse so I could feel the bare skin of her back, my fingers spanning across the warm and soft skin. My other hand was deep in her hair, pushing it away so I could kiss her with the same heat she gave me. Tongues came together. Breaths were exchanged. The fire ignited as if gasoline had been thrown on top.

My arm scooped under her ass, and I lifted her into me. The kiss didn’t break. Her hand dug into my hair as I carried her into my bedroom, her legs around my waist. She writhed against me even though we were fully clothed.

We stepped into the darkness. The door was shut. The bed was unmade. I laid her down and immediately pulled off her boots before I dragged her jeans down her long legs. Her nails yanked my shirt off in the process before she palmed my chest. My bottoms were pulled down, the condom was slid on, and then I was inside her.

She moaned like it was the first time.

With my arms behind her knees, I took her in the middle of the bed, her small body folded underneath mine, watching her moan and breathe through the thrusts. Her blouse was still on because we were in too much of a rush to stop for that.

We moved together, slow and deep, our lips coming together for brief moments of exchange before the pleasure of our wet bodies overcame us. We breathed together, groaned together, writhed in mutual ecstasy.

It ended for both of us at the same time, her nails digging into my chest, my body shoving her deeper into the mattress. Our final groans released, and then it was just our breathing, shallow and labored.

She pulled my lips to hers and kissed me, a slow and thorough kiss, purposeful.

My eyes closed to appreciate it, to soak in the feeling of her soft lips against mine, showing me another layer of affection that had nothing to do with lust.

I pulled away, cleaned up, and then returned to the bed beside her.

My sleep schedule was out of whack, going from days to night, and then back to days again.

But I was tired, nonetheless.

Like last time, she had no intention of leaving. She pulled the sheets to her shoulder, tugged a pillow to her chest, and closed her eyes to sleep. Her body went still, like she was already drifting off.

I would have asked anyone else to leave.

But not her.

I opened the door to the back seat of the blacked-out SUV that was parked outside my apartment. It was the middle of the night, the exhaust rising like smoke in the freezing nighttime air. The street was deserted.

Bartholomew was in the other seat, and he nodded to the chair beside him. “Get in.”

I climbed inside, shut the door, and the vehicle took off. “What’s happening?”

Bartholomew gave me a side glance from his side of the car, dressed in a black jacket with a blacked-out watch on his wrist. His knees were far apart, his military boots planted firmly to the carpet. “Can you keep your shit together?”

“I always keep my shit together.”

“I don’t know… You seem trigger-happy lately.”

“Because if I’m going to kill someone, I kill them. Don’t waste their time or ours.”

“Fair enough.” He looked out the front windshield as we drove through the empty streets of Paris. “But this is a little different…” His eyes flicked to mine again.

I stared, silently demanding more than that.

“We’re meeting Forneus.”

The reaction was instant. Like a bear ripped open my rib cage and emerged from inside me with a roar, I felt my vision turn red. “You want to do business with that freak, fine. But I want no part of it.” My hand would carve that smile off his face with a fucking butter knife. “If you think I’m trigger-happy now, wait until I get a look at that motherfucker.”

He gave a slight nod, almost bored. “So much for keeping your shit together.”

“This is personal. I don’t do personal.”

“You’re the one he wants to talk to—not me.”

My nostrils flared like a bull, and I was ready to charge. “I’ll kill him.”

“Then I’ll relieve you of your weapons—”

“You think that’ll make a difference?” I snarled like a bear. “The only reason he still breathes is because Claire is okay, because I don’t think about him. But that shit will change if I have to look at his freak-ass face.”

“Benton, he’s a partner—”

“Your partner. Not mine.”

“Benton, you’re doing this.”

“Fuck off.” I tried to open the door, but it was locked. “Unless you want me to break your window, unlock the fucking door.”

He kept his same stoicism. “Benton. You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you shit, asshole. I’ve come back to the Chasseurs—”

“And this is what Chasseurs do. He wants to speak to you. I’ve arranged it—because he’s our partner.”

I turned away, severing the conversation with my angry silence.

The SUV pulled up to the Louvre.

Bartholomew sat there and stared at me.

“Claire is fine. You need to let it go—”

“Don’t fucking—” I couldn’t finish the words. Too angry.

The guys left the front of the vehicle, giving us our privacy.

Bartholomew looked out the side window, his arm on the sill. “I don’t know what he wants. I don’t care what he wants. He asked for a meeting, and I granted it. That’s the extent of my obligation. What you say, what you do, that’s all you.” He opened the door and stepped out.

My hands tightened into fists before I left the vehicle and joined him on the sidewalk. I stared him down. “You asked me to return to the Chasseurs, but that’s not what you wanted. You wanted me back on the throne. You wanted me as your equal. I’m not running the streets doing petty-ass shit. I’m at your side day and night, side by side, on two thrones.”

He held my gaze and didn’t refute the claim.

“You need me.”

Silence.

“So, don’t ask me this shit again. This is the one and only time I’m doing it. But after this, I’m done.”

Bartholomew held my gaze without a hint of a thought. His eyes reflected the lamppost behind me, and the space behind him was full of a thick fog. After a final long stare, he gave a subtle nod.

I turned to the stairs. “Then let’s get this shit over with.”

The Louvre was lit up in all its glory.

But the fog was so thick that the lights looked like distant ships on a cold sea.

Forneus was there—his freaks behind him. With the skulls on their heads, the antlers protruding, still as statues even though they were living men so high on acid they had no grasp on reality.

Forneus’s eyes were immediately locked on mine when I appeared.

There was no smile this time.

I halted several feet back, because if I got any closer, his throat would be cut.

It felt like a summer night—because the blood boiled in my veins. I could take on all these motherfuckers at once because my hands were strong enough to crush bone right now. One day, I would get revenge for Claire and Beatrice. Just had to bide my time until the moment was right.

Bartholomew and the rest of the men stayed behind me.

It was just the two of us, faced off in a chilling stare.

Forneus spoke first, eyes furious, the veins in his neck popping. “My an-gel.”

My jaw immediately tightened at the ridiculous way he spoke, the obnoxious way he pronounced each syllable.

“Gi-ve her ba-ck to me.”

“No.”

His face immediately stretched because of the grimace he made with his mouth. A vein popped in his forehead. His shoulders squared like he might rush me. “She was not part of the deal—”

“Pretending my daughter was dead wasn’t part of the deal either, freak.”

His lips smashed together in suppressed rage. “Give her to me!”

“No.”

“Name your price.”

“She’s not livestock, asshole. Not for sale.” I stepped away. “We’re done here.”

His voice turned quiet, but it captured my attention. “I ha-ve no i-ll w-ill to-ward yo-u an-d yo-ur dau-gh-ter.”

I halted then took a long turn back to him.

He was closer to me now, because he’d stepped forward when I stepped away. In a long-sleeved shirt with his bulging muscles underneath, he didn’t look like a man who needed to beg for anything.

“That sounds like a threat.”

His eyes burned once he had my focus again. “It doesn’t have to be. Just give her back to me.”

I stared him down, reading between the lines like it was words on a billboard. “I have a better idea.” I pulled the knife from my pocket and moved forward. “How about I just put an end to this, so you never have to live without your precious fucking—”

Bartholomew grabbed me by the arm and yanked me away. “Listen—”

“He just threatened me—”

“Listen.” He dropped my arm and lowered his voice. “Let him have the woman. She means nothing to you. Just give her back. Problem solved.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Because she protected your daughter?” he asked incredulously. “That was before you knew this psychopath was obsessed with her. She’s not worth it. Throw her to the wolves. That’s life.”

Claire was my everything. Couldn’t risk her safety for anything.

“Give him what he wants. They go back to the forest. We go back to the street.”

My eyes stayed on his.

“I’ll do the dirty work for you.”

“Or we can kill him right now and be done with it.”

Bartholomew shook his head. “We’ve got enough enemies as it is. I’m not taking on a war with a cult.”

Claire was my priority. I could drug Constance when she was asleep. Bartholomew would pick her up and make the transfer. I’d make up some lie to Claire. Our lives would go back to normal.

But I couldn’t do it. “The answer’s no.”

Bartholomew just stared, his eyes hard, eyebrows furrowed. “If she didn’t protect Claire, another woman would have stepped in—”

“That’s not why.”

His gaze hardened.

“She’s family.” I stepped away. “And I’m loyal to my family.”

Bartholomew grabbed me again. “Don’t be stupid right now.”

I pushed him off.

“She’s not worth it—”

I shoved him away and faced Forneus again.

His eyes were hopeful and maniacal at the same time.

“No.”

The rage returned instantly, like a lit match.

“Find someone else.” I walked off, done with this conversation.

Forneus’s booming voice followed me. “She’s the angel. My angel. Give. Her. Back. To—”

“It’s over.” Bartholomew was back to his clichéd calmness.

I kept walking.

Bartholomew continued. “To come anywhere near them is an act of war against the Chasseurs.”

I halted when I heard what he said.

“We will burn your forest,” Bartholomew said. “And we’ll burn all of you with it.”

The screams began.

The maniacal screams of a demon.

Bartholomew came to my side.

I matched his pace.

The screams continued to pierce the night.

“Aaaggggggghhhhh!”

The men opened the back door to the SUV, and we hopped inside.

We were on the road a second later, speeding through the ghostly streets.

I could still hear the screams in my head.

Bartholomew was still and quiet, his eyes on the road. Puddles splashed. The engine revved as we picked up speed. Lights dimly punctured the fog. The quiet was false, because the screams were infinite.

I turned to him, watching the side of his face.

He met my look with a side glance.

I held his gaze for a while. He already knew how I felt by my stare alone, but I said the words anyway. “Thank you.”

He gave a nod then his eyes flicked forward once more.