: Chapter 13

A father should never have to bury his daughter.

A parent should never outlive their child.

But that was my reality.

I’d never see her blond hair in the sink in her bathroom. I’d never walk down the hallway and watch her play with her dolls on her bedroom floor. There would never be crayons that fell off the edge of the table and rolled underneath.

Now it was me—alone—surrounded by the walls that held on to her echoes.

I’d have to sell it and move.

Couldn’t stay here.

I dropped off the remains at the funeral home so they could be placed into coffins and prepared for the funeral. For my final goodbye. I picked out a beautiful rose gold casket for Claire.

She’d always loved pink.

For Beatrice, I picked white.

She wouldn’t give a damn what she was buried in.

Honestly, neither did I.

I was furious that she’d suffered like that, that she was taken from her life like a carton of milk off the shelf at the grocery store. But my sorrow was reserved for my daughter, the only person I really loved in this world.

When we’d had her, it was all diapers and vomit and chaos.

But that quickly changed, and she became everything to me.

I sat alone in the parlor in my apartment, a glass of scotch always somewhere nearby, Bleu coming and going. My days blurred together. Time had no meaning. How could it when my nights were days and my days were nights?

This was a kind of grief that would never get easier.

If I’d just gone to Bartholomew sooner…she might still be alive.

But I cared more about my pride.

I was a piece-of-shit father.

My phone rang beside me. It was the number to the funeral home. I recognized it because I’d stared at it for so long before I’d made that first call. It was an out-of-body experience, to call a funeral home and make arrangements…for your seven-year-old daughter.

I took the call but didn’t say a word.

“Mr. Marseille?”

I inhaled a deep breath—then let it out slowly. “Yeah?”

“After examining the remains, we’ve discovered that there are bones for an adult…not a child.”

My eyes focused on the amber liquid beside me, my heartbeat nonexistent. I’d never opened the bag to look inside. I would never do that—look at her little bones. “I don’t understand…”

“We’ve confirmed the remains of two adults. But none from a child.”

I was on my feet, my eyes immediately turning to the window, my heartbeat back, stronger than ever.

“Since there are two sets of bones, we’ll need to go through all the steps to verify the identity—”

“Do what you have to do.”

“Can we pull Beatrice’s medical records?”

“Yes.” I hung up and left the house.

I ventured to the Catacombs, weaving through the narrow tunnels until I entered the grand chamber with the ancient city in the rear. The two thrones were there—one vacant and another filled.

Bartholomew gave almost no reaction. His closed knuckles were against his jaw, and his ankle was crossed over the opposite knee. The table beside him held his glass of wine. With vacant eyes, he stared, as if he’d been expecting me.

I walked straight up to him, oblivious to the men and activities going on around me. “She’s alive.”

He dropped his hand from his jaw as his eyes narrowed on my face.

“I sent the bones to the funeral home. They said the remains are of two adults.”

His eyes narrowed farther.

“He lied to us. She’s still alive.”

“Doesn’t mean he lied. Could have just given you the wrong bones—”

“We’re burning that place to the fucking ground, alright? You’re coming with me and giving me everything I need to make this happen.”

He cocked his head and asked in a bored voice, “I am?”

“Damn right, you are.”

“They say human memory is weak, and clearly it is.”

“Our arrangement hasn’t changed—”

“Clearly it has. Because you speak like you’re the leader—when you’re a deserter.”

I didn’t have time for his mind games and power moves. “Just help me get her back.”

“I have no interest in a provocation—not with these guys. But we will return and investigate the matter—”

“He lied to us. He threw her bones at my feet and smiled as he did it, just to watch my suffering. He crossed you—and we don’t let people cross us. I want them dead. Every single one of them. Heads on spikes. Bodies hanging from trees. Those trees on fire. Understand me?”

Bartholomew kept his voice at the same steady level despite my yells of rage. “We do this my way.”

“Fuck you—”

“Then do this on your own, Benton.”

“I will.” My voice echoed in the chamber, reverberating off the walls like an earthquake was shaking the world. “Watch me.”

His stoicism was infuriating, because nothing coerced a reaction out of him. He was immune to anger, rage, hurt, everything. He was a fucking sociopath. “I will handle this my way. If it doesn’t work—”

“I don’t have time to waste.”

He paused, waiting to make sure I finished my outburst. “Then we’ll do it your way. You underestimate these men, and I won’t make the same mistake. You’re blinded by emotion and rage, whereas I’m thinking rationally.”

“You can take your rational thinking and shove it up your—”

“If your daughter is alive, we’ll get her back. Whatever it takes.”

I finally shut my mouth, hearing what I needed to hear.

“And once that happens, I own you. Do you understand me?”

I didn’t have the capacity for pride. I didn’t have the capacity for anything, not right now. All I wanted was Claire—and I could pay whatever that cost later. “Yes, I understand.”