In a way, I do understand. But I don’t appreciate the pools of blood on my lawn.
“Did you kill my father?”
The Persian replies, “No.”
I purse my lips thoughtfully, the answer coming far too smoothly without an explanation. If he didn’t kill my father, then who the fuck did?
“Walk with me, Mr. Somerville. We have much to discuss.”
“Why can’t we chat here?”
He chuckles. “You look a little cold, Mr. Somerville. I figured you would be more comfortable in clothes.”
Humming, I grab the robe from the ground and wrap myself in it. I walk next to the Persian, feeling strange as I try to figure him out. He hid away from us for so long. Why is he making an appearance now?
“We have a request,” the Persian states. “Though I should be clear that if it’s not completed, you’ll find yourself joining your father on the other side.”
“Not much of a request then, is it?”
He laughs, tilting his head back with amusement as he slides his hands into his pockets. The way he walks is casual, as if he’s simply catching up with an old friend in the garden. Splotches of blood decorate the stone pathway and I sneak around the stains, wondering where all the bodies have gone.
“You have such a good sense of humor. It entertains us,” he says. “No, it’s not much of a request, but I thought it was more polite to frame it as such.”
I sigh. “What’s the request?”
“The men who killed Osmond must be killed. They’re my henchmen, the Sanderson brothers, but…they’ve been useful enough. The way they’ve strayed off the path has…” He hums curiously, pausing to observe a rather large crimson stain near the rear porch steps. “Gotten messy.”
“I see.”
He smiles brightly while gesturing to the porch, saying, “You understand then, Mr. Somerville; we must proceed. Those who are out of their depth must be disposed of properly. It’s the best thing to do.”
I don’t understand, but I don’t care much about that if it means getting the men that killed my father. He must know that, too, or else he wouldn’t have asked me specifically. And he wouldn’t have asked in person either. “How long do I have?”
“How long do you need?”
I shrug. “Depends.”
The Persian drums his fingers against his chin as I reach for the porch door. He waits patiently until I gesture inside, inviting him to step into the lavish rear den.
“I can set it up,” he calls over his shoulder as he pauses near a table. Two men rest facedown in a puddle of blood, a pack of cards scattered between them. “You’ll have to do the rest. We expect it of you.”
“I can handle that. What’s the setup?”
He chuckles. “I can’t give away all the details or else it’ll be a failure.”
“Then why the fuck would you ask me?”
“We have faith in you. You’ve already taken over the affairs of your late father seamlessly, showing your true colors.” He stands up straight and fixes his blazer, shrugging off toward the door leading into the hallway. “After you, Mr. Somerville.”
When I open the door to the hallway, I notice the bodies littering the ground, slumped over like dummy mannequins no longer in use. Silence pounds my ears as I step around limbs and heads, cringing when I notice the gaping wounds in each guard.
So much for doubling my fucking security.
The Persian clicks his tongue. “Such a waste. Those carpets are antiques, too. I can’t imagine white vinegar will do much for those stains.”
I glare at him. “Thanks.”
“I told you, Mr. Somerville, that certain measures needed to be taken.” He waves his hand elegantly as he walks toward the foyer. “My large family had a home much like this in Gaugamela Hills.”