Page 82 of Decimation

“She’s my wife,” Konstantine continues, and his voice has dropped to a whisper, intimate and obscene. “Mine. Not yours. You don’t get to keep her for yourself. You don’t get to take what belongs to me.”

I wrench my arm free.

“She doesn’t belong to you,” I snarl. “She’s not Ines. Ines is dead. She’s rotting in whatever hole you’ve hidden her corpse in, and no amount of surgery, coercion or madness is going to bring her back.”

Konstantine’s face contorts. For a moment, I see the boy he used to be beneath the monster he’s become; the brother who used to share his sweets with me when our father wasn’t looking, who used to promise that we’d always protect each other no matter what.

Then the moment passes, and all that’s left is that same hollow shell of a person.

“You can’t keep her from me,” he says. “I will find her. I will have her. And when I do, you’ll watch. I’ll tie you to a fucking chair and make you watch, and you’ll remember your place, little brother. You’ll remember who you are. That you are second, that you are beneath me.”

I walk away.

His laughter follows me down the corridor, bouncing off the marble, the gold and the centuries of blood that built this place.

The dim lighting casts long shadows across the room, and the low hum of conversation is punctuated by the occasional moan or laugh. This place is a den of sin, a playground for the Brethren’s most depraved desires. And tonight, it’s exactly where I need to be.

I sit in a private booth, a glass of whiskey in my hand, the amber liquid catching the flickering light of the club. The booth is secluded, offering a clear view of the room while keeping me hidden from prying eyes. I sip the whiskey slowly, savouring the burn as it slides down my throat, and watch.

The club is alive with activity. Men and women move through the space, their bodies pressed together, their faces flushed with lust. On the stage a woman is tied to a pole, her body writhing as a man takes her from behind. The crowd watches, their eyes hungry, their hands roaming over their own bodies or those of their companions.

It’s all so predictable. So mundane.

But then I see him.

Antonio.

He enters the club with his new pet, Grace, at his side, his hand gripping her arm tightly. She stumbles slightly, her face pale, her eyes downcast. She’s dressed in a sheer dress that clings to her body, leaving little to the imagination. Antonio leans down, whispering something in her ear, and she nods, her expression blank.

I watch as he leads her to the centre of the room, his grip never loosening. He says something to her, his voice low and commanding and she drops to her hands and knees, crawling behind him like a dog. The crowd parts for them, some laughing, others watching with keen interest.

Antonio stops near the stage, turning to face Grace. He grabs her by the hair, forcing her to look up at him, and says something I can’t hear. She nods again, tears streaming down her face and he releases her, stepping back to watch as she crawls onto the stage.

The crowd cheers as Grace is tied up, her body exposed for all to see. Men step forward, taking turns with her, their hands rough, their movements brutal. Grace doesn’t scream, doesn’t fight. She just takes it, her eyes vacant, her body limp.

I feel a flicker of disgust that anyone would want to abuse their wife in such a manner, but I push it aside.

This is the world we live in.

This is the Brethren. We men rule, and our women do as their told.

Antonio watches from the sidelines. He doesn’t see me, and I make sure to keep it that way. I don’t need him knowing I’m here. Not yet.

I take another sip of whiskey, my eyes scanning the room, and then I spot my real reason for coming tonight.

Ezekiel.

He’s sitting across the room, his gaze fixed on the stage. Is it morbid curiosity, or something closer to hatred on his face? He’s dressed in a dark suit, his posture relaxed but there’s a tension in his shoulders that tells me he’s on edge.

And he should be. He’s a wanted man. Esau. There’s a blood price on his head so high even I would be unable to save him if someone realised he was here and decided to collect.

I consider approaching him, but before I can make a move he turns, his eyes meeting mine. He nods, a small, knowing smile on his lips, and gestures for me to join him.

I hesitate for a moment, then stand, making my way through the crowd as inconspicuously as I can. Ezekiel watches me as I approach, his gaze sharp, calculating.

“Lazarus,” he says quietly as I sit down beside him. His voice is calm, measured, but there’s an undercurrent of something darker.

“Ezekiel,” I reply, nodding in acknowledgment.