Page 27 of All Saints Day
I knew Michael would never accept Rook, and Francis could never hack the duplicity—the manipulations, the lies, the cruelty required of the undercover job. So, I split myself a second time—the labyrinth winding deeper, further away from reality. Frank rose up to take the helm—rough and tumble, a killing machine for Uncle Sam—an ‘unyielding patriot.’
There were times that he pierced the veil, that he got Francis instead of Frank or Rook. We were fated mates. Should I be surprised?
I had run so long on my own hatred, on my own belief that the Windmill had been the best way for me to burn the world for what I had lost—for what had been taken from me; that I had been blind to their sights on Michael.
The highest level of leadership within the Windmill swore to the existence of a super serum developed by the government at the turn of the Second World War. According to legend—this serum had been developed and locked away by the government due to its potential to fall into the wrong hands.
Of course, no records of this super serum exist. Though there had been rumors that Margot and Landon Penny were involved in the development of just such a serum, they could never be substantiated.
I was undercover, doing my best to find anything I could about the Penny’s research—when Michael and I started getting too close to the truth in our investigations. Infections showed the Zeitnot virus cropping up in user populations in large cities and within the ranks of various illegal drug trafficking operations where tainted products had begun making the rounds.
Immediately, Michael began to smell the corruption—the rats lurking in the shadows.
I did everything I could to keep him safe, to redirect him from discovering the truth.
It wasn’t enough.
Lowry had warned me I was getting too close—that I could compromise the mission by being as sloppy as I was.
Back then I didn’t know about the Penny’s research. I didn’t know about the Zeitnot virus—about Louise—the key to the cure.
Even if I had, I don’t know if it could have turned the tide—if it could have stopped the axe from falling.
Michael figured it out, of course.
While he and I were meant to be undercover for a DEA operation, I had a meetup with Susan to discuss the Windmill’s plans. Michael confronted us—gave us the opportunity to turn ourselves in.
Susan refused, warning Michael that if he didn’t cooperate with us, she’d have to eliminate him.
We had bonded accidentally—just the night before. Though Michael and I hadn’t yet been fully opened to one another’s thoughts; I could feel him down the mating bond—as he reached for me and his gun.
I knew he wasn’t really going to shoot me as he held me at gunpoint—a bargaining chip to use against Susan.
Screaming and shouting down the mystical red thread—I howled and bayed for Michael to play along with her, or to cut me loose and run.
Typical Michael, he was certain that if anyone could find a way through this unfolding mess—it was him.
Susan Lowry shot him right between the eyes while we argued telepathically down the bond; his blood spattering across my face as the connection suddenly went cold.
Down, Down, I spiraled into the black abyss.
Everything goes dark for a long while after that. Rook took the wheel. I let him, and I have never looked back.
Just like now—the sensation of falling as I drop into the inky void as Rook once again takes the helm while I am doomed to wander the mirrored halls of my labyrinthine mind—until I can forget enough to soothe the pain.
Chapter 10
Louise
Acoldness seeps deep into my bones as I lock eyes with Rook.
I know this man, the one looking back at me with that wild, dangerous gaze. I saw him in split-second glances—that moment in the cabin where he was right beneath the surface.
Terror closes in on me, like a fist tightening around my heart.
“I know Frankie was really struggling to get the goods out of you, but I think you and I are going to get along like a house on fire.” He grins at me, violence glittering in his dark blue eyes.
I don’t know who to think of him as anymore. Frank Stone? Francis, the Windmill plant, or Rook the madman presented to me now. Who is the real man? Which ones are the fabrications? The splintered selves set up to act as shields fashioned from shards of a shattered psyche?
