Liars and Liaisons by Sav R. Miller

39

The estate’sup in flames by the time we get there.

Not the entirety of it, but enough that the main portion of the house is barely visible. The barn’s engulfed, the lake reflecting the orange embers drowning out the night sky.

Priya’s no longer answering, and I don’t know if that’s because the cell service is shot or if it’s something else I don’t want to consider.

“What the—” Amelia gasps, taking in the scene before us.

“Where’s the fire department?” Kal snaps, pushing his door open before the car’s come to a complete stop. “I thought you said they’d been dispatched.”

Amelia and I shuffle out after him, staring up at the mansion as fire destroys it.

The house I’ve spent the last few months rotting in. The one I took from my father, who only wanted us to hurt here.

It’ll likely be rubble soon. The emergency response teams won’t come—either because they don’t want to visit the place where death is rumored to lurk at every turn or because my father has his disgusting hands in that too.

The scars on my back seem to throb in response.

Everything the man has ever come into contact with, he’s ruined. Just to spite me.

“Where’s Violet?” Amelia asks, scanning the yard.

I share a look with Kal, unease settling like concrete in my gut. “You two scour the grounds for her or any of my staff. The fire hasn’t spread everywhere yet; they might have found a way out.”

Leaving them there, I head around the side of the yard. Goats scatter as I stalk past, heading for the loggia off one of the parlor rooms, where some of the parties have taken place. One of the windows there has a trick lock, and I manage to shimmy it open, pushing the tall pane inward.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I grip the window frame and hoist my leg over. “That doesn’t sound like searching to me.”

“I don’t fucking take orders from you. Are you really about to head in there, unarmed? You said yourself, your father’s deranged. What if he’s got Violet in there, tied up with a knife to her throat? What if he’s already killed her? What are you going to do then?”

Pausing, I stare into the darkened room. My breathing grows shallow, a hollow, sickening sensation forming like a black hole where my heart is supposed to be.

“If she’s dead, burn the mansion down with me in it. I am not interested in a life without the sun.”

“Romantic.” I can hear his eyes roll, and he grabs my arm, jerking it backward, pushing a Glock into my hand. “But very stupid. If you want to be with my sister, then bring her to me alive. If she dies, I’ll personally see to it that your eternity is spent somewhere far worse than hell.”

I glance at the gun, then at him with a blank look. “I don’t like you.”

Amusement flashes in his gaze. “You’ll learn to.”

Swallowing, I launch myself into the room, and a part of me waits to see if he’ll join. But when I turn back to the window, he’s already gone, and I’m completely alone.

Only the ghosts of my past and the mirrors reminding me of them remain.

Before leaving the room, I stop in front of the door and listen for any signs of the living. The house groans, the foundation settling. I move farther into the belly of the beast, sliding my feet into the hall, my back against the wall. The gun is heavy in my palm as my fingers curl around it, and my back is taut, my body primed to spring into action.

As long as Violet is alive, I don’t give a shit about anything else. I’ll do whatever is necessary to get her out of here and try not to think about the fact that it’s my fault she stayed in the first place.

My fault she was brought to this world.

If I’d known my father was involved in Nathaniel’s idiotic plans, I’d have dragged her to North Carolina with me. Wouldn’t have taken no for an answer.

I should’ve just killed them both after they buried Sydney.

Not that any of that matters now.

A single gunshot rings out through the estate, and my body immediately goes in search of the noise. Down past the stairs, through another narrow hall. I pause at the east wing, noting the door is wide open.

It’s also cold as shit.

Liquid soaks the hall floor, some footprints and some just puddles. Swallowing over the fire raging in my chest, I follow the short path, creeping into the staff kitchen. I keep my gun in front of me, just in case.

The smell is abysmal. Hot and metallic, like lambs after a slaughter.

My hand slips as I reach out to turn on the lights, that same liquid smeared across the switch.

I’m not fully prepared for the scene that comes into view.

Blood. Dark red and still a little warm.

It’s everywhere. On the cabinets, pooled on the floor, spilled across the island countertop.

The only place it’s practically missing from is the headless corpse in the corner.

My heart plummets, a wave of nausea nearly forcing me to double over. I grit my teeth, steeling myself against it as familiarity hits me.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, beating my fist on the countertop. My next words are a whisper, rising to the sky above and the house around me. Meant for Micah if she’s still somehow lingering. “I am so fucking sorry.”

The only solace I’m allowed before I leave to go back to the main house is that she’s with her sister now. If there’s anything out there after this life, I’m certain they’re exploring it together.

As I make my way through the halls, past my study and the closed doors there, I pass the one to the southern wing, busted completely off its hinges.

A chill sweeps over me, and my skin breaks out in goose bumps as I move in that direction. My chest is tight, spun like a ball of twine, and when another gunshot rings out, it echoes around in my brain, rattling off the sides of my skull like a rubber ball.

I almost roll my eyes at the irony of winding up at Sydney’s door. It isn’t closed, and when I round the frame, I find an even bigger mess.

Crimson liquid is splattered across the bedspread, the rug on the floor, the dresser in the middle of the room. Willow’s slumped, face down on the floor, covered in what I can only assume to be Micah’s blood—or hope, rather, given the alternative.

A cloaked figure is sprawled across the floor just in front of the bed, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. More blood pools beneath them, staining their gray hair and the mask discarded near their head.

As I step inside, I feel a strange surge of satisfaction upon realizing who the figure is.

My father.

Moving on rather quickly when he doesn’t appear to be breathing, I sweep my gaze across the room and spot Violet huddled down against the other side of the bed. Just her black hair peeks out above the mattress, and I nearly drop the gun when I realize she’s alive.

Fuck. Fuck.

A ball of relief washes over me like a cleansing rain, and I dart around the bed, half-noting the blood and the disrupted clothing.

She makes a little noise that sounds a lot like how I feel, shock and respite from my presence.

“Jesus Christ, Little Echo.” I let the gun fall to the mattress and scoop her up, letting her climb into my arms and burying my face in her hair. I breathe deep, trying to cement that apple cider scent in my nostrils even if it is slightly obscured by the scent of her fear and blood.

I pull back, pressing my hands to her cheeks, her sides, her hips. Anywhere I can reach, I drag my fingers over repeatedly, as if simply trying to prove to myself that she’s real.

She’s slick with sweat, with dried blood around her lips, and I’ve never been more in love than at this exact moment.

My heart thrums happily inside my chest, finally whole with her in my arms.

But her eyes are wide, panicked. She opens her mouth to say something—scream, cry, I don’t know—when a blunt object whacks against the back of my head. I push Violet down, out of the way, and I spin on the assailant, unsurprised to find my brother holding our father’s walking stick above his head. A brief flashback to this exact situation when I was a kid, except back then, it was my father, who had two hundred pounds on me, and all I could do was lie there and take it.

My knee comes up, driving into his groin before he can land another blow. Then, I curl my fist and throw it into the side of his face, pouncing when he stumbles back. We roll to the floor, knocking over a bedside lamp; I snatch a shard as it shatters on the ground, holding it beneath Nathaniel’s chin once I’ve managed to pin him.

The walking stick rolls out of his hand, and he just grins up at me. “Aw, you finally decided to join the fun. Too bad you missed the little show your girl and I were giving Dad. I think you would’ve liked seeing her mouth fall open when I had my fingers inside her.”

I press the jagged edge into his skin, reveling in the little beads of blood that percolate beneath the sudden force. “I should’ve killed you the first fucking time you touched her.”

“Yeah,” he says, dipping his chin so more blood rushes out. It glides down his neck like droplets of rain racing to the finish line. “You should have. Maybe you’d still have your little housekeepers. Hell, you should’ve killed me when I started fucking your student—”

My fist launches into the middle of his face again, and the sickening crack of bone snapping under my punch fills the air. Frissons of excited energy buzz in my head, and I do it once more, ignoring the pain swimming through my knuckles and numbing my wrist.

I’ve never gotten into a fight before; since I was a kid, I always preferred to let someone else do the grunt work because fighting could mean the difference between being able to play music or not.

Right now, I would happily give music up altogether if it meant making my brother pay.

He’s laughing, all while I pummel him to a bloody, bruised pulp, and I think for a moment that he’s actually lost his fucking mind.

And then I feel it.

I can tell without even looking down that there’s a pistol flush with my ribs. I’m not sure where he grabbed it from; only that I can hear the safety click off as the glass cuts him deeper, and I freeze in place, my stomach rolling.

A blur of movement starts behind me, and Nathaniel tsks.

“Don’t be the reason I shoot him right now, Violet. We haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet.” He slides his dark gaze to mine, completely devoid of emotion. “Come on out, Sydney.”

The air in the room seems to tank thirty degrees, turning even icier than it was moments ago. Janus appears in the bathroom door, pushing a bound woman ahead of him. She’s got a mask on and a plastic bag taped over her head and painfully familiar white-blonde hair.

Big baby-blue eyes.

My heart ceases beating entirely.

Am I dreaming?

There’s no way ghosts are real. They’re… she’s a figment of my imagination. A memory I’ve kept alive the last few months, a constant reminder of my failure and subsequent guilt.

A million images flash before my eyes—getting the call that she was dead, overdosed at a party. The funeral I refused to attend so I wouldn’t see them lower her body into the ground.

The people I killed in a sick attempt at vengeance for a life snuffed out far too soon.

The rage.

The time lost.

The horrible, haunting melody.

I try to swallow, but my mouth is parched. I don’t fully understand what I’m looking at or what’s happening, and my mind starts to spin and spin until I think I’m going to vomit.

Nathaniel laughs harder, and a couple of tears leak out. “God, you should see your fucking face right now, little brother. How’s it feel to realize everything you’ve done over the last few weeks in this bitch’s name was for nothing?”

I stare at the woman as Janus rips the bag off her head, and she lets out a little sob. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and she’s thinner than I last saw, but there’s no denying that it’s her.

My mind goes blank as I stare, my brain no longer sending signals to the rest of my body. I can’t move, can’t think, can barely breathe as I grapple with the revelation.

She’s alive.

A beat later, Her sister isn’t.

“I can explain everything,” Sydney says, and her voice is the same lilted songbird type, soft and perfectly pitched.

It sounds like nails being scraped on a chalkboard now.

My eyes shift, noting the discarded instruments in one corner of the room. The ashes in the fireplace, the clothes in one hamper. All things she left behind, but slightly altered. As if she’s been here the entire goddamn time.

Anger surges through me, a tornado of resentment pounding inside of my chest. “It was you,” I say, disbelieving it, even as the words leave my mouth. “You’ve been here, making the noises at night, the songs carrying through the air vents. The… my ghosts are you.”

It takes a second, but she nods. “Your father wanted me dead. He would have killed me if he’d found out I—”

Janus clamps his hand over her mouth, yanking her back into him.

I glare at my employee. “What the fuck, Janus? You’re working with my brother?”

He shrugs. “You were getting out of control, and your father paid better.”

My father. Of course. There’s no way Nathaniel could mastermind anything.

“Sydney had to hide in her mentor’s house because she was afraid Dad would find out she was keeping his little mistake.” Nathaniel scoffs, rolling his eyes beneath me. “It’s a sordid, very boring tale really. And wait till you find out she lost the bastard anyway. So, both of you have made very poor decisions for absolutely no reason. Congratulations.”

My mind swims, and I tear my gaze away from her, too disgusted to look. Instead, I grab Nathaniel’s head and bash it into the floor; he winces, swearing, and drives the gun into my ribs, sending a spear of excruciating pain up my side.

“And what are your decisions for, huh?” I sneer, spitting in his face. “Why’d you fucking kill that girl downstairs? The same reasons as me, right? Because you’re a selfish, sorry sack of shit who got too used to getting whatever he wanted and getting away with murder. So, you wanted to see if you could get away with literal murder. Just for fun. Then, you’d move on to the big kill—your vindication.”

Shuffling off of him, I toss the shard of glass aside and hold my arms up, giving him a clear shot. “Go ahead and do it, Nate. I don’t fucking care. You’re right; everything I did was for nothing. I thought I was doing something good, clearing the world of your evil, but Dad’s dead, Micah’s dead, and the woman I love has sat here, listening to all of this. She now knows I’m no better than you, so even if you let me walk out of here, she’s not going to want to go alongside me. So, shoot me, for fuck’s sake. Put an end to it all, or I’ll drag you by your tongue out to the lake and drown you in it.”

The popping sound erupts by my ear out of nowhere. I didn’t even realize Violet had moved, much less picked up the gun I’d dropped on the bed and aimed it at my brother.

When the hole appears in the center of his forehead and his bits of flesh explode into the air, my head whips around to find her clutching the weapon between her hands. Staring at him with hard, emotionless eyes.

“You’re an idiot,” she mutters to me, and I blow out a long breath, scrambling to my feet and tackling her on the bed.

I forget about the other two people in the room entirely until the sound of a magazine sliding into place echoes through the air. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Janus has a pistol aimed at my back, and he clearly has no qualms about severing his ties with me forever.

He doesn’t get the chance to though because, in the next second, a bullet rips across the room, too fast to even track before it lands in his chest. He releases Sydney, who ducks out of the way with her bound wrists above her head, diving to the ground just as Willow rolls over with a groan.

It isn’t Willow who shot Janus though.

Instead, another figure steps out from the shadows. Two actually—one beaten bloody, her dark eyes bloodshot and her cheek swollen. I heave a breath of relief at the sight of Priya, even as she’s wriggling her hands from a zip-tie contraption.

Beside her is my mother, holding a gun with a big smile on her face.

“Well”—she tosses her brown hair over one shoulder, taking in the state of the room—“that’s better, isn’t it?”