Page 12 of Unholy

“I’m on my way,” is all I say being hanging up.

On Hell Fire Night, we were told the King was dead—Dalton’s father, Brad. Then conflicting information followed through stating otherwise. None of us have seen Brad, so to say I was suspicious would be a fucking understatement at this point. The fucker has been peacocking around town for weeks; this is the first town official he has taken out. What in the hell is he thinking?

Slamming my hands down on my desk, now is the only time I allow my frustrations to show. In the privacy of my home, in my office.

Next, I message Delacroix.

Me

Need you at the Hell Fire cabin. Call the crew. I’ll call E.

D

Understood.

I dial Elijah next;he picks up after the first ring. “What?”

“Son, I’ve missed you too. How’s Rain and the baby?” He hates small talk; it only drives my need to do it more knowing that.

“Fine. What do you want?”

“Can’t a father call to check in on his son? I am so proud of you. I don’t tell you enough.” He is gearing to punch me through the phone; I can feel it with the lack of response. Faintly, I can hear Rain laughing in the background. I really like her, love her even, for Elijah. She helps balance him, if that’s possible.

“Apologize to Rain for me, I need you at the cabin… Dalton,” I explain. And sayinghisname is all I need to do. My son isn’t one for formalities; the call ends, and moments later I hear him revving his engine from across the street and squealing his tires as he takes off.

Elijah has been keeping an eye on him casually since his cock-up at The Ranch. He tried to rough up one of the girls when they became uncomfortable, then he wouldn’t leave after the session was completed. Dalton pinned her against the wall, but she was able to reach one of many panic buttons calling for help. Security rushed in and threw him out immediately.

That little shit thinks too highly of himself.

And the police is my fucking territory, along with judges and hits.

After the incident at Greta’s, I asked if the Antichrist could do some digging, low-key. The King's son has always been an arrogant prick, but since Hell Fire he has amped up all efforts, which makes me believe that his father is truly dead.

Not many are aware Greta runs the rebel group; I don’t think her granddaughter is even privy to such information. For her to complete surveillance on him is a lot easier than it is for Elijah and I. We can observe, but she can get deeper. If we get close, red flags would go up immediately and would impact any efforts from the Antichrist.

Standing up, I turn around and pull on one of the bookcases. It swings open like a door, revealing a wall of weapons and a change of clothes. Quickly I switch out my sweats for black trousers and throw on a white button-up dress shirt and blackjacket. Reaching for my Glock, I slide that into the back of my pants and close the case.

Then, grabbing my phone, I send Greta a text before heading out.

Again. Tomorrow.

Pulling up to the cabin,my brother from another mother is waiting outside, looking thrilled. He and my son are so fucking similar. Yet they couldn’t be more different. It truly is an interesting dynamic to observe.

Parking the Range Rover, I jump out and meet Delicroux around the other side.

“Your kid is ready to slaughter. His pacing is making the cleaners uneasy,” he explains as we walk into the cabin.

“Ishestill here?” I question, taking in the sight before me. It’s fucking carnage. What in the hell went on here?

“Negative. The commoner who called you saidheleft shortly after his call to you.”

Walking through the entrance and past where goblets of blood would be resting on Hell Fire, we follow the sound of the commotion.

Elijah is pacing, twisting his bat with his wrist, and only stopping when he spots me enter.

He points to the wall and shouts, “The asshat is taunting us.”

My eyes go to what he’s focused on.

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