Page 91 of Illusionist
“This is for every child who didn't make it out.” Elias's voice is steady, controlled. “For every life you destroyed in the name of your twisted God.”
He pulls the handles apart. The wire bites deep.
But he doesn't finish it. Instead, he loosens the garrote and steps back, blood trickling from the shallow wound around Malachi's throat.
“Silas,” he says simply.
My turn.
I approach slowly, savoring this moment I've dreamed about for so many years. Malachi looks up at me—his son, his creation, his biggest mistake.
“Hello, Father.” I pull out my own weapon—a simple kitchen knife, nothing fancy. “Do you know what you gave me?”
He shakes his head weakly.
“Everything.” I grab his hair, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Every skill I needed to hunt you down. Every bit of cunning required to destroy your empire. Every ounce of rage necessary to end you.”
I press the knife to his chest, just above his heart. “You created your own destroyer.”
“Silas, you're my son?—”
“No.” The blade slides in slowly. Not fatal yet—I want him to feel this. “I'm your consequence.”
He gasps, blood frothing at his lips. I twist the knife, watching his face contort.
“This is for the eight-year-old boy you tortured until he forgot how to cry,” I whisper. “For every night I woke upscreaming. For every time you made me choose which child would suffer next.”
The knife goes deeper. Malachi's body convulses.
“And this,” I say, finding his heart, “is for our mother.”
I drive the blade home.
Malachi Voss—Prophet, father, monster—dies with my blade in his heart.
I stand there for a long moment, watching the life drain from his eyes, feeling the rage that's defined me for decades finally, finally begin to fade.
“It's finished,” Elias says quietly.
I nod, unable to speak past the emotion clogging my throat. Around me, my brothers—my real family—stand in silent witness to the end of our nightmare.
The leader of the commune we were born into is dead now. And from his ashes, we rise.
32
TEDDY
Afew weeks after Malachi's death, the Seven Sins Carnival has settled into a new rhythm. Dr. Morrison has cleaned house at the foundation, rooting out corruption while protecting the children who need help. We're moving slowly across the state now, taking legitimate bookings, performing for crowds who have no idea they're watching vigilantes. The hunt for other Prophets continues. Next target—Samuel Harlan. Justice, it turns out, comes in many forms.
I wake up pressed between Nova and Silas in what used to be his trailer and is now officiallyours. The new bed barely fit when we bought it—we had to remove half the furniture just to get it through the door. But lying here with Nova's auburn hair tickling my chest and Silas's arm heavy around my waist, I can't imagine sleeping any other way.
“Morning, sunshine,” Nova murmurs against my throat, already half-awake.
Silas stirs behind me, his lips finding the back of my neck. “Someone's eager,” he observes, noting my morning erection pressed against Nova's hip.
“Can you blame me?” I shift to face him, marveling at how natural this feels now. Months ago, I was Special AgentColeman, straight as an arrow, living a compartmentalized life. Now I'm Teddy, and I belong to both of them completely.
“Lucky us,” Nova laughs, sliding her leg over my thigh. “We managed to corrupt a federal agent so thoroughly he forgot he was supposed to arrest us.”
