The Catacombs (Cult 2)

We both found our release, and then the high was over.

I didn’t lie there for more than a minute before I got up and started to dress. If I lay there too long, I’d never leave.

Constance propped herself up on her elbow and watched me, the sadness in her eyes. She didn’t ask the question because she already knew the answer. She was back to normal again, so she no longer needed my support. We had to go back to our old lives.

I pulled on my jeans and long-sleeved shirt before I tucked my gun into the back of my jeans.

When I was fully dressed, she got out of bed, her hourglass frame striking in the dim light from the lamp on my bedside. She had a narrow waist, a sexy belly button, and small but plump tits that ached for my kiss. But all that beauty disappeared underneath one of my t-shirts.

She walked me to the door and prepared to say goodnight. Instead of pleading with her eyes, she just looked defeated, as if the fight to keep me there was hopeless.

“There’s a gun in my top drawer. It’s loaded.”

She gave a nod.

I gave her a kiss goodbye and a grip around the waist before I walked into the wet night.

Early the next morning, we pulled through the gates, up the cobblestone path around the fountain full of lily pads, and approached the three-story estate that looked as if it had been ripped out of a book about French aristocracy.

Bartholomew hardly spoke to me.

The silence was mutual.

We came to a stop, and I looked at the double front doors. Sunrise was across the land, showing a blue sky because the rain clouds had passed. The road glistened from the downpour the night before. I’d been running around town all night while Constance slept through it all. “Why are we here?”

Bartholomew shut the door.

I swallowed my annoyance and joined him. “Answer my question.”

“Because we need him—that’s why.”

“For what? He’s been out of the game for years.”

Bartholomew approached the door and used the gold knocker to announce his presence. “You didn’t use to ask so many questions.”

“Because I was informed.”

He slid his hands into his pockets and waited, like our conversation was wrapped up with a neat bow.

A moment later, the door opened, and we were greeted by a butler in a tux. “Can I help you?”

“I have an appointment.”

Like the good butler he was, he narrowed his eyes. “No, you don’t.”

I stared at Bartholomew.

“I’ve been unable to reach him, so there was no other alternative—”

“You were unable to reach him because he doesn’t want to be reached.” He started to shut the door.

Bartholomew stuck his foot against the door to bar it from closing. “Bitch, did you just interrupt me?”

The butler kept his hold on the door. “If you would so kindly remove your foot…”

“Tell him I’m here to see him.”

The butler kept trying to slam the door on his foot.

Bartholomew wore military boots—so he didn’t feel a thing.

I grabbed him by the elbow. “Come on, let’s go—”

“Open the door.” A deep voice emerged from behind the butler, a voice I recognized even though it’d been a really long time since the last time I’d heard it.

Bartholomew withdrew his foot and gave the butler a seething stare.

The butler stepped aside and revealed him standing bare-chested in just his sweatpants, covered in sweat like he’d been working out in his home gym, and he held a shotgun—which was aimed right at us.

The butler grinned.

Fender came forward, his gun still aimed, his stone-cold face set in a look of malice. “You talked your way through my guards.”

Bartholomew didn’t reach for his gun or look remotely concerned. “That’s what I do.”

He came closer, his heavy feet loud against the tile. “Now they’ll be executed—because of you.”

He gave a shrug. “A dime a dozen, right?”

When he was close to the door, he lowered the shotgun to his side. His eyes took in Bartholomew’s face, his dark eyes shifting back and forth as if he was reading words off a page. “You must have a death wish, coming to my residence.”

“I tried to call—but it’s been disconnected.”

“You know damn well that I’m retired. There’s no promise of fortune that’ll bring me back into the game. Now get off my property before I pump these bullets into your chest.”

“Not trying to bring you back,” Bartholomew said. “Just need some advice. How about your butler here makes us a hot pot of coffee, and we’ll discuss—”

“Hospitality is issued to guests—not intruders.” He raised the gun and held it out to his butler, who took it without question and carried it away. “But because of our history, I will grant your request.” He abruptly turned around and stepped into an entryway that led to another room.

I gave Bartholomew a stare. “That went well.”