Page 75 of Muerte
"The mother and father will be made examples of. He can witness the ruin of his family for his idiocy."
My father’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of approval and pride. I turned to the Nocturnals that had remained silent and were waiting for me to give the go ahead.
“Do you understand your tasks?”
They both bowed their heads and recited, “It will be done,” before leaving the room to go next door, joined by three more to assist them.
I watched intently as they prepared to execute my orders, relaying my ordinance in Impío’s native tongue. Their movements were precise, each one purposeful and efficient.
It was a dance of shadows and silence, a macabre ballet that didn’t require words. The scene inside the holding room unfolded with brutal swiftness. The child was wrenched from his mother's arms. His small frame disappeared through the doorway as a disciple carried him away from the scene.
To his merit, he didn’t fight or resist. That was a good sign. His mother did the complete opposite. Desperate and guttural, her screams echoed off the walls, a chorus of anguish and rage as her son was taken.
Her theatrics amused me endlessly.
Fueled by a sudden rush of desperation, Garret attempted to fight back. His efforts were in vain, of course. A sharp jolt from an electric prod brought him to his knees, his body convulsing briefly before he slumped, subdued but conscious. That left the blonde and the dark-haired woman.
The blonde's defiance had evaporated, replaced by the dawning realization of her imminent fate. The younger sister, her eyes wide with terror, seemed frozen in place, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. Or a man wearing the face of a demon. Same difference, really.
She went from the room with an ease that signaled she’d most likely gone into shock. By the time the Nocturnus Disciples efficiently restrained the remaining family members, I had exited the viewing room to enter where they were.
“Where have you taken my son?” Garret seethed.
I ignored him as I rolled my sleeves back. He was a weak man, not worth the attention he’d gotten tonight. I ignored him and went to retrieve a curved blade from its secret panel, concealed behind an ornate picture depicting the devil and his bride at an altar of sacrificial flesh.
That would be me and Lolita soon.
The picture slid aside with a quiet hiss, revealing the weapon that had served as an instrument of judgment for generations. My hand wrapped around the handle embellished with symbols of Alistair and the devil’s serpent, feeling the cold, familiar metal beneath my fingers.
“The boy belongs to me now. As does your daughter, Arielle.” Turning back to face the family, I was met with a tableau of shock, rage, and unfiltered terror.
“W-what does that mean?” the boy’s mother stuttered.
Garret demanded to know what I intended to do with the child. I ignored her. She wasn’t who I needed to address and should’ve never spoken in the first place. I focused on her pitiful excuse of a spouse instead. “Garret, are you hard of hearing by chance?”
He sputtered, and I realized he had a strangely small upper lip as spit gathered on it.
“You mother—”
I pressed the curved edge of the blade to his tiny mouth to shut him up. “Think carefully before you finish that sentence. I understand you lack common sense, seeing as you’ve wound up here, but do you think it wise to insult the person that holds your life in their hands?”
Garrett simmered but chose a moment of intelligence and remained silent, his face going cherry red.
“Pull the women away,” I ordered as I lowered the blade. The Disciples moved with silent efficiency, herding them to three different corners. I pushed the decorative coffee table aside, revealing a hidden drain in the floor. Garret’s eyes widened in horror as he pieced together its purpose.
I savored the fear that spread across the man’s face. It was a fear born of realization and finality, the understanding of what was to come. This was a small essence of my rule, a hard, unyielding truth of the Isle.
“Put him on his knees.”
Before Garret could protest, my disciple grabbed a fistful of his copper, graying hair and forced him down to the stone-cold ground.
I turned and held out my hand. Understanding my silent command, the man’s wife was moved into my reach.
“No,” she hissed like a pissed-off cat and tried to pull away. Her strength was no match for mine, and with a shove from my disciple, I had the woman where I wanted her, my chest to her back.
She trembled, sweat soaking through her oversized nightshirt, her dark hair a mess. She’d most likely been sleeping when she was retrieved. I brought the knife up to keep her still, encircling her throat.
“Please don’t!” Her daughter’s desperate pleas reached me and did nothing but make me think of another woman that had said those words to me that night. I couldn’t wait to get back home to her.