Maskli (Legacy Of Bluebloods 1#)

33

Chapter 15

(Matt)

I was still thinking over that incident.

The morning matured into a dimmed evening, almost night, with the taintless carpet blanketed Sembon, even with the sheath of a black cloak above the thick coat covered, the air was still frozen laced on my skin, my pulse was slamming against the sides of my neck as I peered over the lonesome street.

That time, John's words kept floating back to me when his strangled voice implored me to follow him.

"Matt! I've done something terrible!" His upper part of his body was soaked with sweats, his hair was wild, there were red stains tainted on the edge of his shirt. The pit of my stomach clenched.

"What did you do?"

He sobbed helplessly; the only time I ever saw him crying was the first month of our mother's death. We were trained to be poise most of the time -almost every second, something bad must have happened to John if he acted like this. Apart from me did not want to find out the truth, yet the brother in me said otherwise.

I examined his hand cautiously, careful not to touch his wound. He restrained his sob, still not breathing a word out. He didn't need to.

"How?" I kept my voice even. This was bad. Bad. But I would've done the worst.

John stared at me, there's a pang of unspoken guilt and resignation there "Midnight, by a house. Nobody's there and ...I lost control." His hands were shaking when he swept the perspirations from his face, he wandered about as he didn't know what to do. I wish I could stop him before it's too late; This burden isn't his to keep, I knew it too well to have even experienced this sort of guilt. But the damage has been done.

"Let's go before somebody sees him."

And that is how we ended up here.

"Are you certain he is there?" I said in a hushed voice, the anxiety was kicking my stomach. His warm breath was obscure in this merciless winter, nodded in fear. We crossed over the T-junction to a shabby place abandoned on the other side.

We were lucky nobody dared to step out of the house since the earthquake happened. Less witness.

Standing outside the doorstep, I drew the hood over my head, careful not to reveal anything that will give away my identity. John did the same before I twisted the doorknob open. It clicked in an invitation to pursue our small mission.

"Do you mind telling me how do you know?" My eyes landed on John, who was surprisingly quiet this evening. He leaned away from the door, clenching and unclenching his fist, the rise and fall of the tendons popped on his knuckles told me he was upset and nervous. "He comes here every weekend." He confessed, and then added confidently "He will always be here; here is his only hideaway now." There was a hint of betrayal in his voice. I gave him a manly pat on his shoulder as a comfort. As I said, I am no good at consoling people.

"Matt?"

I turned to look at him, waiting.

He took a deep breath, said weakly "I'm so sorry I dragged you to this."

"It is not your fault."

We did not waste any time taking a tour around this abandoned house, though it sparked the curiosity in me to scan everything that belonged to him. We headed straight to his room.

This was worse than I thought.

Peter was sprawled on the bed, obviously dead -maybe for days already, due to flies herded on the slashed wall of his abdomen and the potent stench of his body bursting the bedroom. The sight and scent of him have altogether twisted my intestines, but being involved in the medical field, I could tolerate. I stole a glance at John, whose face was turning in a light shade of green. The murderer was standing beside me.

I remained composed, inched closer. Now would be a good time shutting in emotions to place my curiosity. There was a slit on his used-to-be flawless forehead -the blade must have the width of one and a half centimeters, his face was decorated with blue-red bruises, it either could punch from the murderer or unknown force hit his face. His abdomen revealed red flesh and coagulated blood on it; I was surprised that there wasn't any worm gnawed his body yet. I waved my palm to chase away the flies, taking in every beat and cutting on the rest of his body.

We couldn't carry the cadaver out of the house, there is ninety-seven-point nine five percent we would get caught, and both of us will be headed for that. Even if we did, where would we bury him in? And Peter's disappearance would have encouraged the sheriff department to investigate this place, had anyone known his whereabout...

Unless we destroy the whole evidence of his existence together. By an accident. I turned to John, who was pale and on the verge of vomiting his bile out.

I pulled out my matchbox and threw it to him. He caused this, so he needed to do this. This place needed to turn into ashes.