Page 27 of Illusionist
But the rest of me—the part that's still half-hard despite coming harder than I have in years—can't stop thinking about what I saw through that window.
9
SILAS
The pristine facade of 1247 Sycamore Lane gleams under the streetlights like a fucking monument to hypocrisy. White colonial siding, manicured hedges, brass house numbers that probably cost more than most people make in a month. Everything about this place screams respectability, comfort, success.
I want to burn it all down.
“Look at this shit,” Logan mutters through his balaclava, hefting the red spray can in his scarred hands. “Bet he's got a fucking white picket fence around back too.”
“Easy,” Elias says, his voice muffled but commanding even through the black fabric covering his face. Only his pale eyes are visible, and they're locked on the house. “We're not here to demolish the place. Yet.”
The seven of us crouch behind the neighbor's hedge, dressed in dark hoodies and pants that make us look like any other group of vandals. Which, technically, we are. Just vandals with a very personal agenda.
“Motion sensors are on the garage and front door,” I whisper, consulting the tablet I tucked inside my jacket. “But the securitycompany's basic package doesn't cover the sides or back of the house.”
“Cheap bastard,” Cole observes, producing one of his knives and absently cleaning under his fingernails with the tip. “You'd think a man with his history would invest in better protection.”
“He thinks he's untouchable,” Marek says from the shadows. Sometimes I forget he's there until he speaks. “The righteous never expect their sins to find them.”
Jonah shifts his massive frame, scanning the house. “Two cars in the driveway. BMW and a Tesla. Both here for the night.”
“Domestic bliss,” Rowe murmurs, and there's a bitter undercurrent to his quiet voice. He's been tracing those raised scars on his forearms—a nervous habit that surfaces whenever we talk about the Prophets.
“Remember,” Elias says, checking his watch, “we're not trying to be subtle tonight. We want him to know we were here. We want him to understand this is just the beginning.”
I pull the blue spray can from my jacket, feeling its weight. Twenty years of rage condensed into pressurized pigment.
“Who takes which wall?” Logan asks, eager as always to start the destruction.
“Sides and back,” Elias decides. “Stay away from the windows—we don't need to wake up the whole neighborhood. Silas, you handle the front door area. The rest of us spread out.”
Cole twirls his knife one last time before tucking it away. “What's our timeline?”
“Fast and clean,” I say, already moving toward the front of the house. “Security patrol comes through every two hours. We've got forty minutes.”
We disperse like shadows, each finding our assigned section. The familiar rush of adrenaline hits my system as I approach the pristine front porch with its perfect white columns and hanging ferns. How fucking quaint.
The spray can hisses as I shake it, the sound loud in the suburban quiet. Then I press the nozzle and watch blue paint arc across the white siding in smooth, decisive strokes.
CONFESSION IS MERCY
Each letter feels like a small victory. Behind me, I hear the soft hiss of more cans—my brothers leaving their own messages on Malachi's perfect little sanctuary.
“Si,” Logan's voice drifts from around the corner, barely audible. “You seeing this back patio setup? Man's got a fucking hot tub.”
“Focus,” Elias's voice carries the slightest hint of amusement.
I move to the left side of the frontage, adding a second line beneath the first:
THE SANCTUM RISES
“Jesus Christ,” Cole mutters from the east side of the house. “Check out this fucking rose garden. Bet he spends more on flowers than we make in a month.”
“Priorities,” Jonah rumbles. “Man always did like pretty things.”
The bitterness in his voice is poignant. Jonah's the gentlest of us all, which makes his rare moments of anger much more powerful. Our Prophet fathers all did a number on us, but Jonah carries those green eyes like a curse—a daily reminder of the DNA he can never escape.
