Page 106 of Decimation

“So tell me.”

He takes a long drink. When he lowers the glass, his eyes are focused on something I cannot see. Something in the past. Something in the dark.

“There was a woman. A witch, they called her. She had visions. She saw things that hadn’t happened yet, things that would happen. Things that might happen. The future, Lazarus. She could see the future.”

I want to dismiss this. I want to roll my eyes and change the subject and go back to the world I understand, the world of flesh and blood and quantifiable threats. But something in his voice stops me, something that sounds too much like belief.

“She came to the Order before the schism, before we are what we are now. Before any of it, and her visions split us in half. Half the Order believed she was a gift from God. A prophet if you will. The other half believed she was the daughter of the devil himself, sent to ruin us from within.”

“And which half was right?”

“Both. Neither. Does it matter?” He shrugs, and the gesture is almost childlike. “What matters is what came next. The fracture. The schism. The Esau. They were the ones who believed in her, who followed her. Who mixed their blood with hers and created something new. Something terrible. The rest became the Brethren, and we have been at war ever since.”

I stare at him. The firelight is dancing across his features, making him look both older and younger than he is. A boy playing at being a king. A king crumbling under the weight of his own crown.

“What does this have to do with Paitlyn?”

“Because she is Attainted.” He says the word like a curse. Like a diagnosis. Like a death sentence. “Her grandfather, our great uncle, secretly married a woman from that cursed bloodline. From the witch’s bloodline. They mingled their blood, they joined the two houses. The Brethren and the Esau. She is an heir to both thrones, Lazarus. Both of them.”

The words hang in the air between us and clearly, he wants them to hold far more drama than they do. I want to laugh. I want to tell him he’s being absurd, that this is the kind of paranoid fantasy that belongs in a novel, not in the mouth of the Grand Master, but I can see that he believes it. Every word. Every syllable. He believes it with the desperate fervour of a man who has built his entire worldview on a foundation of fear.

“If anyone found out who she really was,” he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper, “who her grandparents are, what flows through her veins, we would all be ruined. Us Heseltine’s would never out live the shame. The Brethren would split just as they did before. Brother against brother. House against house. It would be civil war, It would be anarchy. It would be the end of everything our father built, everything his father built. Everything that has held us together for a thousand years.”

“You never told me.”

“Because you didn’t need to know.” He says simply. “Ines and I were handling it. We had it under control.”

“Ines.” The name slips out before I can stop it. Sharp. Bitter. Wounded. “Ines knew all of this. She knew, and you trusted her. But not me. Never me.”

“Ines ensured it was sorted.” He doesn’t seem to notice my tone. Or if he does, he doesn’t care. “She buried it so deep no one would ever find it. After the mess you made of Gunther’s death, she smoothed everything over. Made sure Gunther’s brother kept his mouth shut. Made sure all of it was swept under the carpet where it belonged. She was efficient, she was loyal. She understood what needed to be done.”

“You had her sent to Oblivion.” My voice is flat. Dead. A blade without an edge. “Whatever her lineage is, whatever blood runs through her veins, you had Paitlyn locked away in that place like a criminal.”

“She is a criminal.” The words come fast and hard. Defensive. “She is a sinner. Her blood marks her as that. The sin of her ancestors is written in her very DNA. It’s not my judgment. It’s simply the truth.”

“And yet after that, you had her and her husband moved to the United States. Practically welcomed them here. Gave them a house. A life. A future.”

He shrugs again. God, how that gesture is becoming unbearable.

“Easier to deal with them both that way. Antonio was still poking around, asking questions he shouldn’t have been asking, and Magnus was becoming a bigger fish. A bigger threat. I needed to contain all of it. All of them. And besides…” He takes another drink. A long one. When he speaks again, his voice is almost casual. “…There’s nothing to stop them from having an accident in the not-so-distant future. A car crash. A house fire. Something tragic and irreversible that erases them both, along with that little brat she’s popped out.”

I do not move, I do not breathe. I do not let a single muscle in my face betray what I am feeling in this moment but inside, something cold and final settles into place. Something that feels like the last piece of a puzzle I have been trying to solve for years.

He is talking about the murder of an infant. A child. A baby who has done nothing except be born into the wrong family. And he is talking about it the way another man might discuss the weather, the stock market, or what to have for dinner. With indifference, with detachment. With the absolute certainty of someone who has long since stopped seeing other human beings as real.

I reach for the bottle and top up both our glasses. My hands are steady. My hands are always steady.

“Tell me more,” I say, and I make my voice gentle. Curious. The voice of a brother who finally understands. “Tell me all of it. I want to know everything.”

And he does.

He talks for another hour, maybe more. I lose track of time in the way that only happens when you are listening to something that will haunt you for the rest of your life. He talks about the old bloodlines, the secret histories, and the things that were done in the name of preserving our family’s legacy. He talks about the people who had to disappear, the families who had to be silenced. The children who had to pay for the sins of their parents.

“He looks so much like her that sometimes looking at him hurts,” he says, staring into the fire.

I narrow my eyes, knowing exactly who he is referring to now. That his mind is on Ezra now. I take a slow sip of whiskey and let it burn its way down my throat. He hasn’t even asked after him, hasn’t even said a word about him. Does he realise Ezra is even here, in the same country or has his madness kept that knowledge from sinking in?

“Although.” He tilts his head, and something shifts in his expression. Something dark and uncertain. “Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I look at him, and I wonder if he’s really mine.”