I drop the file of intel I’ve gathered on my brother onto Cain’s desk and push it toward him. “His name’s Orion Carter Bachman. In a few days, he’ll have his Ph.D. in both civil and chemical engineering. He has an IQ of 160 and knows at least half a dozen coding languages. He speaks Spanish, French, Mandarin, Greek, and Hebrew. He would be an asset to the organization.”

  “Can he fight?” Cain asks.

  I shrug. “Who can say? But he watched me kill a man in the street and didn’t bat an eye. He’s unshakable.”

  Cain looks doubtful. “It’s often the unshakable ones who can’t be repaired once they’re broken, Eden.”

  My patience is wearing thin. “You think any of us have been repaired? I still dream about it, you know. You don’t have some flawless system here where you’re cranking out perfect, unbreakable soldiers. We’re just better at hiding it than most people.” I don’t have to tell him what I’m talking about because he already knows. There’s only one death I caused that ever made me cry, that made me shut down for weeks and retreat into a darkness I never really found my way out of.

  He looks at me with what I’m sure is just an imitation of compassion. “Eden… that boy was already dying. All you did was put him out of his misery.”

  “I was thirteen,” I say through clenched teeth. “It’s time to stop recruiting children. We aren’t so weak that we have to rely on indoctrination, are we?”

  The slackening of his fake expression is all the evidence I need that my words have struck home. “Fine.” He takes my brother’s file. “Just keep in mind this is your experiment, not mine. Don’t blame me when it all goes south.”

  I nod and stand. “It won’t.”

  “Well, if you’re sure…”

  “I am.” I walk out of his office before the doubt I feel can surface in my expression.

  * * *

  The Gate gives the House of David an unfair advantage in some ways. Our computer system, for example—affectionately nicknamed the Gift—is not any ordinary system. We have access to information not even governments have access to. Don’t ask me how because I’m not a computer guy like my brother apparently is. All I know is when I look up Whiteface’s files here, I get a shit-ton of information, while regular search engines only offer snippets and rumors.

  I already knew that Caldwell “Whiteface” Phillip grew up in Germany and that he’s since become Seditio’s deadliest asset. Nobody really knows what he wants, whether he’s an obedient little psychopath or just a dog Seditio has failed to control. He has teeth, though, and that seems to be all that matters. I scroll through his file and find newly leaked psychiatric information. Apparently, someone was worried enough to make him see a professional, and that professional got paid well to supply the House of David with information. The more I learn, the more disturbed I become.

  Caldwell spent his adolescent years obsessing over the serial killer John Wayne Gacy. Maybe it started as morbid curiosity, but once Seditio realized they had a brutally creative mind on their hands, they began to train him in the art of torture. That training must have been the crack that finally shattered his sanity.

  Somewhere along the line, Whiteface started to enjoy his job—and I mean really enjoy it—to the point where Seditio must have been seriously rethinking the monster they created. Now he tortures people just because he can. He paints his face white in imitation of his favorite killer clown, and he uses a ligature with remarkable skill. He can strangle a person for hours and keep them alive and conscious enough to enjoy it. He’s responsible for the death of at least one of the House’s Acolytes, and he seems to be one of the few members of Seditio who has a direct line to their leader.

  “You look like you’re gonna barf,” Joshua says. I hadn’t even noticed him come into the room. He’s sitting at the computer station directly in front of mine, straddling the chair backward with his arms crossed over the backrest.

  “You’d be nauseated too if you were reading what I’m reading.”

  “Well? Share the love.”

  “It’s Whiteface. He’s in Mobile, or at least his goons are.”

  Joshua grimaces. “But why? Doesn’t he usually operate in Europe?”

  I nod. “Definitely out of the ordinary, so I thought I’d learn more about what I’m up against.”

  “And?”

  “The man’s a true psychopath—has been his whole damn life. They had him seeing a shrink pretty early in his career. The House obtained his psych records.”

  Joshua laughs despite this being nowhere near a laughing matter. “So what’s he got? Mommy issues?”

  “A childhood obsession with John Wayne Gacy to start.”

  “Ooh.” Joshua leans in, and his chair flexes backward under his weight. “That’s the clown who hid his victims under his floorboards, isn’t it? What a weird serial killer to obsess over.”

  I knit my brow at him, unsure quite how to read his comment. “Which one would you recommend instead?”

  He shrugs. “Ted Bundy, maybe?”

  “He fucked dead bodies, Josh.”

  “Yeah, but people say he had some class.”

  “Jesus.” I rub my forehead and groan. “You’re all sick.”

  He laughs and rolls his chair back to his computer. “What’s the matter, Eden? Jealous? Would you prefer if I said you were the better option?”

  “I’m not a serial killer.”

  Joshua spins around and starts to type the phrase into an online dictionary. “Let’s see. Serial killer. Hm… It says here a serial killer is ‘a person who commits a series of murders.’ One after the other, after the other, after the other.”

  “Shut up.” I try not to let my horror show as I close the window on my research. My mind is reeling by the time I exit the computer room. Am I really a serial killer? Even if I’m just doing my job? I can’t be, can I? No, Cain always assured me I was a merciful killer. Quick and quiet. I’m his Grim Reaper. I give the gift of death to people who’ve lost their way in life—people who would do it themselves if they had the guts. I’ve never hidden any bodies under my floorboards. I’m not crazy. I work with precision, damn it!

  And then I hear it, the way my own thoughts echo those of Poe’s insane narrator, and I shudder. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight…

  “Oh my god,” I mutter as I make my way back to my room. “I’m a psycho too.”

  Once in my room, I bury the book of Poe stories under all the others. Fuck that, anyway. I’m not reading some stupid horror stories. I have enough horror to deal with in my life. Instead, I pick up the book Sarah recommended I start with and hope to God it’s not about people hiding corpses under floorboards or fucking dead bodies or anything.

  Some hours later, there’s a knock at my door. “Yep,” I say, and Sarah enters. She has a file in her hand and tosses it on the mattress beside me.

  “Congratulations,” she says. “Orion Carter Bachman is officially authorized for recruitment.”

  I stare at the file as though it might bite if I touched it. For the first time in years, I’m not entirely sure what I want. I force a smile. “Thanks, Sarah. You can go. Nick Carraway is telling me a story about careless rich people and the poor people they run over on their way to parties.”

  She chuckles, but on her way out the door, she turns back and squints at me. “No… something’s wrong, and you’re going to tell me what.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  I sit up and lay my book face down on my bunk. No one can hide anything from Sarah for long. There’s no point in trying. “Close the door,” I say, and she does. Then she leans back against it, folds her arms, and waits. I sigh. “I’m worried I’m dragging my brother into something bad. I didn’t care at first because I hate him—part of me does, anyway. He doesn’t know what the real world is like. He’s so sheltered. I hate that we have the same damn father and our lives are so different. Mine’s all cults and blood and death. His is all love and family and… pastries, apparently. He’s got everything. He had a mother and a father, a nice house, a perfect education.”

  “Is that the real reason you’re suddenly interested in literature? Are you trying to give yourself a little of what he had?”

  “Maybe.” I lie back and cover my face with my arms. “He’s such a pathetic, golden boy. He should learn the truth about life. Hell, maybe he’ll handle it better than I did. Maybe Cain was wrong to pick kids with nothing to live for. Maybe the people with something to lose will fight harder and better.”

  Sarah crosses the room and sits at the foot of my bunk. “You’re overthinking this.” Her voice is not cold, but only those who know her best can ever hear the warmth in it.

  I groan. “Whiteface is in Mobile. He’s after the chains, and I think my brother’s family has them. I hate him, but he doesn’t deserve to lose everything to a psycho like that.”

  “Well, there you go. You didn’t drag your brother into this. Whiteface did. Now the safest place for him is here.”

  “And his family?”

  “The House of David protects its own. Once he’s one of us, his family will be under our protection.” She rests her elbows on her knees. “Come on, Eden. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You clearly don’t hate him like you think you do or you wouldn’t even worry about it. You’re just a bit jealous, but who wouldn’t be? The perfect life sounds nice.”

  She’s right. She’s always right. “Sarah?” I grimace. “Am I a serial killer?”

  She snorts and rocks back laughing. “A serial killer? Jesus, Eden, no you’re not. You’re just doing your job. You’re not killing for pleasure. What’s going on with you, huh? This isn’t like you.”

  “Something Joshua said got me thinking.”

  She pats my ankle. “Josh would say anything to get a rise out of you. You know that. It’s like a game for him.” Then she grins. “Should I get him fired? I bet I could get him fired.”

  I chuckle because I know she doesn’t mean it. Still… What if Joshua was right? “I thought about bringing it to you—the hyacinth. I’d forgotten that part after all these years. I just remembered it last night. I thought about cutting it and bringing it back to you.”

  “How sweet. You had the cutest little crush in those days.”

  She’s still smiling, but I don’t think she should be. She knows what the hyacinth is. I’ve told her and only her. What I haven’t told her is my “little crush” never really went away. There’s no one I admire the way I admire her.

  “Listen, Eden.” She leans back on her hands and stares at my blank walls. “The House’s kids have suffered more trauma than the average person can even dream of. We each cope with it differently. I think your coping mechanism is kind of sweet, actually.”

  I scoff at that. “It does make decapitation easier.”

  But she’s not joking anymore. “You’re not a serial killer, and you’re nothing like Whiteface. Don’t think I don’t know that’s exactly what you’re thinking.”

  “But how am I any different? I kill people, lots of people. I don’t even think about it before I kill them.”

  “That’s the difference, Eden. Whiteface does think about it. He thinks long and hard about it. He probably thinks about it afterward when he’s jerking off, too. That thing takes pleasure in what he does. He’s proud of it. If you’re death, he’s pain. Got it? Those are two different things. Death puts an end to pain.”

  I half sit up in my bunk. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Always manage to make me feel better. Ever since we were kids. It’s some kind of psychology trick, isn’t it?”

  “Guess I missed my calling.” She stands and stretches, and I can’t help noticing the way her shirt slides up her torso and shows off her shape. “Well, I’d give you a hug, but you know me.” She sticks out her tongue and makes a gagging sound. “Get some rest, Eden. You’re headed back to Mobile tomorrow. Cain says vacation’s over.”

  4: you must

  Orion

  A week after Eden gave me the flip phone, I still haven’t received a call. And Aiden’s appearances have become so scarce, I almost miss him. Life goes on without a hiccup. Witnessing a murder, the revelation that everything I thought I knew about my dad was fiction, and the fact that I probably have a brother who kills people for a living—it’s so unreal, I almost don’t believe it happened.

  Phoebe’s been quiet, too, but there’s nothing unusual about that. She sometimes goes days without talking to me. I’m not worried. It’s just that I could use a friend right now, and I can’t talk to Jacob and Remy the way I talk to Phoebe. I wish she would call out of the blue like she usually does. I’d give anything to hear her cheery voice berating me for some ridiculous etiquette offense she thinks I’ve committed.

  One night, after closing the bakery, I start up my car and finally hear Eden’s comatose old phone spring to life. The call is from a blocked number. I flip it open. “Hello?”

  “Hey, genius.” It’s Eden’s voice on the line. Strange how I can already recognize it. “Any news to report?”

  “None that you want to hear,” I say. “My mom doesn’t know anything. My grandpa has dementia, and none of my dad’s old boxes have anything of note in them.”

  There’s silence on the line. “Damn,” he mutters. “Well, at least things have settled down. Aiden reports that no one’s following you. It’s a good time for us to meet. I’ll tell you everything about my organization and the artifact we’re looking for. There’s no doubt in my mind it’s with your damn family.”

  “You mean our damn family,” I correct.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re supposed to be my brother, right? Isn’t that what you were trying to tell me last time we spoke?”

  His voice gets quiet. “Listen, kid. I’ve got nothing to do with your family. And if they knew me, they wouldn’t want anything to do with me, either. Trust me. I know where I stand with people like that.”

  “People like what?” I don’t want to let him off the hook. I want his prejudice on full display. I want to hear exactly what he thinks of my mom, my grandpa, my home, my life. There’s a bitterness in his voice when he talks about my family, and I want to understand its origin. But he doesn’t answer my question. He breathes deep and waits. “Fine,” I say after several minutes of his stubbornness. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “I haven’t really thought about that,” he admits.

  “So you just called me without any kind of plan?”

  “Yes.”

  I laugh because he sounds almost sheepish. “Okay then. Let’s meet at The Deck at 9:00. It’s a public place, and they have amazing drinks. You’re into alcohol, aren’t you?”

  Eden grunts. “Well, well, well. Look who knows me like the back of his hand already. It’s like we really are family.”

  I’m about to say something snarky back, but he’s already hung up. I close the phone and ponder over how this is likely to pan out. What all will he be willing to tell me? I can’t seem to keep the adrenaline from coursing through my body as I consider the possibilities. There’s one thing I know for sure. Whoever Eden Dowler is, he’s a man with power, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I wanted a taste of it.

  * * *

  At dinner, I can barely stomach my stuffed chicken and mashed potatoes. It’s delicious, of course. Everything Mom makes is delicious, but my nerves won’t settle, and I keep pushing my food around my plate like it disgusts me.

  Unfortunately, Mom notices. “Are you not feeling well, Rion?”

  “I’m just stressed out… over graduation.” God I hate lying to her. She deserves better than that. “Sorry.”

  “You don’t have to finish if you don’t want to,” she says. “I won’t be sore about it.” She smiles, and for a moment, it feels like she could fix everything with that smile. My mom is the most reassuring person I’ve ever met. She could convince a man on death row that everything was coming up roses for him. Maybe that’s why Dad fell for her after galivanting all over the globe in search of mysterious artifacts. Maybe she told him everything would work out despite the danger he was in, and he wanted so desperately to believe it he went ahead and married her. “Are you worried about what you’ll do after graduation?” she asks.

  I look up, a forkful of food halfway to my mouth. “I assumed I’d keep working at the bakery.”

  She shakes her head as Grandpa grumbles, “Gotta leave the nest sometime, boy.”

  Now I’m fully invested in this conversation. “But it’s the family business. I’m not going to leave you to run it alone.”

  Mom takes a tiny sip of wine before she responds. “Sweetheart, what did you think you were going to school for? You don’t need a Ph.D. to run a bakery.”

  “It couldn’t hurt.” Of course, I hadn’t planned on working at the bakery for the rest of my life, but the idea that I could just go—I could walk away tomorrow and they’d both be fine, like they never needed me at all—eats at my pride. “Don’t you want me to stick around for a few years, at least?”

  “Baby…” Mom stands and rounds the table to squat in front of me like I’m still a child. “You don’t want to waste your talents on a little shop like ours.”

  “It’s not a waste—”

  She shushes my protest. “I’ve seen the dissatisfaction in your eyes, Rion. You could do so much more with your life, and you know it. You’re only sticking around because you love us. You’re a good kid—too good sometimes. We’ll manage the bakery just fine. We can afford to hire more employees.” She sighs and stands. “You’re so much like your father, you know that?”