Page 140 of Kingmakers, Year Four

Sloane’s grip tightens on my arm, her fingers digging into my flesh. I’m not trying to break away from her. I’m standing perfectly still.

“Send her over here now, or I’ll put a bullet in this boy’s head,” my father snarls.

“I would,” Sloane sneers back at him, “but I don’t exactly trust you.”

I can hear Ivan, Rafe, and the others coming up behind us.

Likewise, a half-dozen of my father’s men have made it out of the collapsing tunnels. Some are limping, some are coughing, all are covered in bits of blasted rock, dust, and blood.

Our two groups face each other, each with a hostage.

My father is staring at me like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His fingers twitch on the gun, his body tense as he fights the impulse to shoot Kade or fling him aside, to run at me.

“What are you doing here, Nix?” he says, hoarsely.

“What areyoudoing, Dad?” I reply, my voice cracking. “What is this place?”

He shifts his bulk, his right eyelid twitching as it always does when he’s stressed or angry.

“You know the mine,” he says, gruffly. “I told you about this.”

“No,” I say, flatly. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well what does it matter!” he shouts. “I was going to show you. This is all for you someday.”

The thought of owning this dark underground place, those prison cells, makes my skin crawl.

“I don’t want this,” I say.

“What the hell are you talking about!” my father roars.

His whole hand is shaking now, the barrel of the gun jittering against Kade’s ear. Kade’s skin shines like wax.

“Don’t hurt him,” I say, nodding toward Kade. “Let him go. He’s my friend.”

“He’s yourfriend?” my father howls, outraged. “Have you lost your mind? These are your worst fucking enemies, Nix! That’s Ivan Petrov! It’s his fault your mother is dead! His fault she was never avenged!”

“You had your revenge,” Ivan says, his voice colder than frost and harder than steel. “We killed Taras together. Then you tracked down his wife and children and you slaughtered them, too. You killed his uncles and his cousins. There’s barely a Banderovtsy left alive.”

“AND IT STILL WON’T BRING HER BACK!” my father bellows, his face redder than his beard.

My stomach is churning.

We killed Taras together . . .

Then you slaughtered his wife . . . and his children . . .

That wasn’t part of the story, when my father told me how he tracked down the man who killed my mother, battled him hand-to-hand, then cut his throat and let him bleed out on the floor.

There was no Ivan Petrov in that tale.

I never heard the Petrov name before I came to Kingmakers.

And there was certainly no mention of murdering children.

Obfuscations, elisions, deceit, and lies . . .

Every moment that I look at my father’s face, he becomes less familiar to me, less the man I thought I knew. I begin to see the monster he is to everyone else . . .

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