Page 69 of All Saints Day
I’m relieved, if not surprised, to see that I haven't been restrained.
If nobody from the Windmill saw me with a gun in hand—but rather only saw me once I'd played possum, laid prone beside the unconscious Louise as if I had fallen in an attempt to re-capture her—one might have been fooled into thinking that I had been an unwilling captive, uncooperative to the last.
It wasn't as if Lowry would be able to tell what had gone on since my capture—unless Louise had already decided to give me away since her recapture. Considering the circumstances, the Windmill likely had thought they’d regained their asset in taking me back to sickbay.
As uncomfortable as it is to consider, Lowry has clearly long considered me to be the powerful and ruthless alpha son that shehad never had, while Phil and her biological son, Josh, disappointed her.
There was something about Rook, about Francis Stone, that Lowry could appreciate—a reflection of her own brutal nature that she saw as worthy to inherit her legacy.
When I had been younger—when Francis Castle had first wearily stumbled into Susan’s warm and comforting embrace—I had thought of her as a second chance. Not just at having a mother, but a family.
It wasn't until recently that I began to see just how much damage Susan had done—the havoc she wreaked upon my life.
How she allowed me to split myself, to become the shattered man that I am now, because it served her purposes.
Would she have been so cold with her own child? After seeing the way she treated Louise, a surrogate daughter, I can't help but think that I'm not special in this regard, that maybe it's Josh and Phil who made it out of this whole thing with the better deal.
Still, I can't deny—it's likely Susan's protection, her misguided affection for me that has saved me from the higher-up’s ire.
A double-edged sword, as I will undoubtedly have to re-prove my loyalties to the Windmill while still making an effort to keep Louise safe.
There's no question that the other Saints are already furiously planning a way to rescue her, a way to help Louise escape this horrible place.
I'm not so foolish as to think that there's a happy ending for me, but I can hold out hope that I can keep her safe long enough for the others to get here.
Then I'll do everything in my power to make sure that she gets out—to make sure she gets away.
Far, far away.
As if my thoughts have become too loud, Lowry stirs from her slumber, running a hand over her mouth as she stretches away her stiffness and fixes hercool blue eyes on me.
“How long have I been out of commission?” My voice is dry and scratchy from lack of use, and I know before she says anything that I must have been under for a while.
“Two days,” she answers on a yawn, stretching like a cat in a golden beam of sunlight.
I know without having to ask that they grabbed Louise. I can feel it—like a golden thorn snagging at the edges of my consciousness; she's somewhere nearby.
The urge to seek her out—to wrap my arms around Louise and take in her scent—is almost overwhelming.
Thankfully, Lowry and the others still only believe my interest in Louise is purely carnal; they don’t know anything about us being fated mates.
“Did you manage to snatch Louise?” I ask as casually as possible.
“We did. Those cowardly Saints ran off to save their own skins once again—they managed to make their way out—but like you, she succumbed to the gas before she could escape.”
I give a noncommittal shrug.
“Guess I'm pretty lucky that you found us when you did. I don't think that the Saints were planning on keeping me around for much longer considering I wasn't giving them any information,” I lie coolly.
Susan reaches out and gives my hand that doesn't have an IV in it a pat.
“Honestly.” Susan shakes her head. “It was kind of Mr. Beckett’s old colleague to drop a dime on you—but even if we hadn’t, with that tracker you recommended we install, it was relatively easy to find you,” she smiles warmly, the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes crinkling gently.
My blood runs cold, and my stomach clutches. A tracker? When did I have them outfit me with the tracker? Instantly, I am suspicious that this is Rook’s doing.
Susan knows about my altars, about the faces and masks I have created to keep myself intact.
One could argue that Susan helped fashion Rook with her own hands in the days after my father’s death—when I first joined the Windmill. But I can't ask her which one of us came up with the idea without giving my surprise away now, so I just nod and follow the line of her gaze to a conspicuous scar on the inside of my left forearm that I had previously taken for just another battle wound.
