Blood to Dust

Underlying question: Did you send them or are you just a useless prick?

“Do I look like I work for you, lad?” he finally asks, his pupils assessing my reaction closely.

“No, I’d never hire someone like you.” My ass hits the chair in front of him as I sprawl back and make myself comfortable. “I’m the one who clearly works for you, under the assumption that I’m in your debt. That’s because you claim to protect me from the Aryan Brotherhood. However. . .” I trail off, leaning forward and smashing my palm against his desk when I catch his eyes drifting downwards trying to text message. The little bitch wants security to throw me out. He jumps in response, staring at me with heated eyes. “That can change. Maybe you’re not as powerful as I thought you were. Maybe you can’t keep me safe.”

“You know, Nathaniel, everybody loves the second concerto of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons best. It’s that part they keep using in car commercials. The summer part. Everybody loves the summer. But the thing about art is”—Godfrey tosses his phone across the table and gets up—“it’s quite subjective. For instance, I hate the summer, and I hate car commercials. My favorite part? The winter. Winter people are dangerous. They’re not afraid of the rain, the snow or even little blonde storms. The minute you stray from my plans, Nathaniel, the minute you walk away from our arrangement, after everything I’ve done for you. . .” He looks around, like there’s a crowd watching, and drops his voice an octave. “Caution is advised.” He winks.

I stand up and wipe everything off his desk. Folders, a full coffee mug, a laptop and a pile of documents all thrown, and crashing to the floor. “You never did anything to protect me from them.” My face twists with rage.

Godfrey sits back and knots his fingers together, looking smug. “Know your place, pawn.”

I know my place, all right. Now I know everything about where I stand, and it’s nowhere near where he wants me.

Fifty thousand dollars. Fake new passport. I know this rich kid has the money. And I’ve already seen a fake passport in her duffel bag. Prescott’s legit. What’s more? She’s fucking relatable.

As if reading my mind, he asks, “How’s our girl?” sounding creepily cheerful. “Camden can’t wait to come here. Shame, really, about this whole wedding. Such a hassle, but it’s got to be done.”

“She’s alive,” I grit, remaining vague.

“Tried any funny business? Run away? Seduce you? Convince you to team up with her?” He cocks one brow and strokes his chin thoughtfully. All of the above. And why wouldn’t she? I’m about to hand her over to this motherfucking nutjob.

Or am I? Godfrey doesn’t seem to do much for me these days.

“You know, Nathaniel, I could’ve kept her in a million different places and waited until Camden’s arrival. I chose you lot because it’s a test. You’ve always been a loose cannon. I reckoned it’d be wise to test the water before I threw you into the deep end, into the more important fields of my business. Are you going to fail me, inmate?” His chin drops down, inspecting me. I smooth my hand on my chest, smirking.

“Don’t test me, Archer. I’m not your fucking student.”

I turn around, about to leave, when his voice freezes me in place.

“I hope she didn’t mention her child,” Godfrey grunts. “Poor little Prescott can say just about anything to get her off the hook.”

Her child? I want to ask him what the fuck but know him better than to think he’d give me straight answers. She’ll be spitting the information tonight, all right. I turn around and veer back to my reason for being here.

“So you don’t protect me from the AB but still expect me to be your guard dog?” I summarize.

“I do protect you from the AB, to an extent. They are business.” He taps his fingers against his lips. Drugs. “You can’t expect me to jeopardize my business for you, Nathaniel. I keep an eye on them for you. But you are right about one thing—you’re still mine, still work for me, and the minute that changes, you’re dead.”

A cell phone starts ringing from the pile on the carpet and he sends a fragile arm, bending down to answer it. I’d pick it up for anyone else, but not for him. I stand, tall, young, proud, and watch him flailing his arms while leaning one hip downwards miserably, struggling to pick it up.

“Now, now,” he says, waving his cane in the direction of the entrance, finally gluing the phone to his ear. “I have some wedding arrangements to discuss. Off you go. Oh, and Nathaniel? Don’t switch teams. Ours is awfully powerful.” He winks before I shut the door behind me.

Bastard.

I spend my time reading his diary, holding the red notebook at an angle that allows a ray of sun to trickle through a crack in the boarded windows. Yellow light sheds over the pages. I’m getting to know Nate. Getting to like Nate. It’s horrible, to feel positively about your captor. But I do. Can’t help not to. He is broken, just like me. Life has fed him heartbreak, just like it fed me.