To Be Obscure

| CH. 28

My mother, Margot, used to tell me how easily I'd trod into the flames of Hell without looking. She'd say this at night when I brought a woman back to our estate. And she'd remind me in the morning, when the woman would be dead in my bed, blackened and bloodied, all the while I sat at my window as though it hadn't mattered. She'd clean up the mess and scold me for not thinking of the consequences. I didn't care then, and Margot had done nothing to fix me.

But Charlotte had, she tried; she wanted me to be different. She'd done everything in her power to change me, even if there were times she partook in my sins.

I knew she would try again when I took Abigail's hand; her nod in my direction held a look of determination. She saw the source of my pain and I felt the pit of hers.

I'd get revenge for us both.

"I'd always wondered when you'd return to me," Abigail said, but I didn't listen to her. I looked past her as she led me down the pews and over to the statue of Lucifer.

Or, as she addressed him, Lord Almighty.

She touched the statue, stroked the lines, and spoke again. Still, I didn't listen. I eyed the back of her neck, her shoulders. I heard the blood coursing through her veins and smiled to myself—I could end this with one swipe of my hand. All I'd have to do was yank her hair back, expose her neck, and with one quick pull, I could sever her head.

Simple. Easy.

There were mops and buckets present to clean the blood.

"There aren't any ill feelings between us, right, John?"

That caught my attention. My eyes shot up and met her hard stare as a hand wrapped around my own. It was Charlotte's and her grip was tight, reassuring, but it wasn't the reassurance I needed. I wanted a dagger, one sharp enough to slice Abigail's throat in one stroke.

Abigail blinked. "John?"

"Hard feelings about what exactly?"

She pursed her lips. With her hands on her hips, she leaned right, then left, and looked at me with her brown eyes. At her side, Nathan and Victor appeared like shadows. "You don't remember?" she asked.

Unfortunately, Abigail, I didn't, but I had a good idea what it was about. "I couldn't possibly have hard feelings." I squeezed Charlotte's hand. "I'm alive, aren't I?"

She smiled, and I felt sick. The pain returned between my eyes. I shifted one foot forward to keep standing. She didn't notice or bother to care; not that thought she would. She spun, her dark hair whipping around her shoulders, and with both hands, she tapped both Nathan and Victor on their arms. Victor followed her as she left the space; Nathan made a face. "You, Boy," she called to him as her hips swayed left and right. "Name?"

Before he could even open his mouth, I stepped towards him, pulled him, and shook my head. "Don't," I warned. "It's better if she doesn't know you."

When he looked as though he wanted to ask why, Charlotte's hand reached for his. With her thumb, she stroked the bruise that colored his skin and shook her head. "Listen to him," she told him, "his memory may be bad, but he's got good judgement."

Under his breath, Nathan muttered "yeah, sure," but listened nonetheless and followed us as we followed them.

We were given a proper tour, one I accepted willingly. I was able to see every turn and corner of the tunnels built beneath the manor; I painted every inch of the walls and floors into memory. At times, Victor looked back at me, concerned, but I'd only nod at him. It was all going according to plan—his plan—and oh, did she walk into it willingly.