The Grave Shadows

37. The Gun

Haunted by some obscured pain, Hector huddled in isolation and dwelled in the misery he shared with no one. He drank in the poolroom all day, and the bed traumatized him at night. His pitiful howl wafted through the gloomy hallway, soft and heart-rending than David's. But when Everett confronted him, denials fell between them. The other Watts boys were helpless; nobody could get through to the prince. A therapist might be worthwhile, but the Watts Clan's ghoulish prestige was beyond reasonable methodology.

In the driveway, the first quarter moon illuminated the sky when Everett stepped out of his truck. Licking the lingering raspberry gloss on his lips, he cast his mind back to the clock store. Everett and Cyan managed to squeeze some time to see each other every evening before becoming starved and apart throughout the night. And here he was, back to the dormant purgatory, tired enough to doze off. Unfortunately, the prospect of peace was small when he saw a shadow persisting to the north.

Hector was ambling toward the cemetery, an odd routine he abided after dark. He visited the graves every night since his return, seeming to take responsibility for the deads under the ground. Although he usually planted in front of his mother's tombstone for hours, the formidable woods called him farther away tonight. Everett picked up the pace, afraid that Hector would reach Dawn Cathedral. The air was blue, hot breaths warming fall breezes. Steadily, Hector marched as if he knew a way out, as if he had an urgent appointment, and as if he was heading back to the war. He drifted into the blackness, unaware of Everett's noisy footsteps.

Thick limbs and dense foliage barred the waxing moonlight as the brothers immersed deep inside the wilderness. Everett looked back at the way they had come, and a chill scratched down his back. Cicadas wailed from the bushes, and the winds animated dark thoughts. The feral eyes glowed in the shadows of shadows. The forest lights flickered in Everett's mind. Agitated, Everett opened his mouth, but Hector had come to a standstill.

Everett was only a few feet behind Hector, but the latter didn't notice him. The fruity whiskey scent suggested the wandering was unconscious. Everett took some steps forward, minding his face and neck that had recently healed. His skin spasmed at the memory of the teeth. Before him, the piercing blue gems flared in the dark like sapphires afire.

Hector slid a hand inside his jacket. A sleek barrel blinked. A pistol snarled at the serene night. He flicked off the safety and opened his mouth.

"Hector, no!" Everett flew at Hector and knocked the pistol away. His heart went cold.

Something blew up, bright and blue, and it wasn't a bullet. Hector struggled, and the earth spun.

Everett swung at Hector's face. His breaths turned into ice.

While Hector was fumbling on the ground, Everett grabbed the pistol and threw it into the deepest darkness. In that split second, Hector charged at Everett. Everett dodged away and caught Hector's arm.

The vile and grave scream shot the roof of the forest. The malevolent rage turned Hector's blue eyes scarlet, his face masked.

"What the hell, Hector!" Dread raked down Everett's throat as he clutched Hector against his own body. Their sweats made Hector slippery, so Everett twisted Hector's arm harder.

Groaning, Hector hurled Everett away and collapsed on his knees, covering his face with both hands. "I can't do it," he cried, grappling with madness. "I just can't." Tears overflowed through his fingers.

"It's over now, brother." Everett heaved and crawled to Hector, scared to death that it was all real.

Hector lifted his chin and wiped his face. "No, Everett." He tossed his head. "You don't understand what a sick crime I have to do. I have to. I'm a monster, a killer, a murderer."

"Hector, you're home now. You don't have to do it anymore." Everett lost another breath, his knees soft on the crackling ground. "We'll get through this together, but you have to talk about it. Get it out of your chest. Talk to someone. Damn it! Talk to me." Everett tapped Hector's face as agony surged from his own eyes.

Hector sneered, his mood shifting. He chuckled and sobbed at the same time. "You think this is about the wars?" His dominating eyes blurred behind the curtains of tears. "No, Wolf. The wars were my vacations." A sinister laugh transformed his sorrow into crooked despair, echoing through the night winds. "It's this family that I can't stand. The power, the jealousy, this disgusting insatiable desire..." He pointed at his chest. "I can't control it anymore."

It? Everett thought. What did Hector want to control? What couldn't he do?

Everett scooted to Hector, his head heavy and his body cold. Hector's ramble faded into the forest's whispering.

Hector held Everett's face with a palm and smacked it tenderly as he always did. "You know you're my favorite, right?" His trembling lips curled up.

"Well, if we don't count David." Everett chuckled, mopping his cheeks.

Everett was worried about Hector more than ever. He loved his brother more than before. His dream of being this heroic prince, the one who was determined, the knight who won, and the Watts boy who was perfect, rippled. If Everett were Hector right now, where would the bullet go?

Hector sprang to his feet and wheeled back to the mansion.

"Hector!" Everett shouted.

"This never happened," Hector said and proceeded.