Page 60 of O'Mega's Revenge
“Are you sure about this?” Fell was at my side.
I nodded despite something telling me this was all wrong. Then decided to admit the truth. “I don’t know, Fell. I can’t feel him.” I clutched at my skin-tight black clothes near my heart. “I should feel him.”
“Sweetie. Keep looking. Let the men deal with the house.”
At her comment, I stopped to silently question her.
“I know you want to kill him. I could see it in the way you glared at him.”
“Are we talking about Wolf or —?” I couldn’t say a name. I never could. To me, he was always, “the Surgeon.” A man responsible for so much pain in my life.
“You know who. Your Voldemort.”
Shit.She nailed that descriptor.
She broke into my reverie. “Why are we out here?”
I sucked in my fear. “He kept my mother in an oubliette.” That wasn’t all, but I wasn’t completely willing to let it come out. I was extremely afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop the outpouring of pain and then be useless.
“Like those funky French pits of despair?”
“Good description. Usually, it’s a dry well. Sometimes there is a set of spikes at the bottom, so the captive is impaled as they’re cast in. You drop ‘em in and forget ‘em while they rot.”
“That’s sick.” Her words were an understatement.
My phone buzzed. “Jackson found him. Let’s go.”
I pulled up the message and showed Fell the directions. We wove through the main house to the wine cellar in the basement. Jackson and Nonno had the Surgeon tied to a chair. From the looks of things, they’d already started beating him.
“Motherfucker is wearing diapers. Do you believe that shit? Can’t even get the satisfaction of him pissing his pants because …fucking diapers.” Jackson rubbed his hand. The knuckles were bruised, and a small pressure cut graced his index joint.
“Where is my man?” Nonno tried again.
“Better question, where is everyone else?” Fell looked around.
“Took out two of the goons in the foyer. Sprout and team are trying to locate the rest.” Jackson filled her in.
“And the women?” I asked.
Fell wiggled a finger in the air. “On it. I’ll catch Trot on the sweep.”
Nonno ignored us and hit the Surgeon with a practiced fist. “Talk, asshole.”
The Surgeon didn’t. Instead, he stared at me. “Forget.” he whispered.
“Oh, that’s fucking creepy. My turn.” Jackson rolled a cask closer to the chair and picked up the wine maker’s logbook. “Hold his arm over the edge.”
Nonno pulled the man’s frail right arm over the barrel. His wrist joint balanced on the edge.
Jackson slammed the book down.
The screams didn’t cover the sound of breaking bone.
“Now, the other one.”
Instead of moving the barrel, Nonno spun the wheelchair around.
The Surgeon tried to maintain eye contact with me as he did. “She knows how to forget. He’s forgotten!”
