The Cult

I sat in the armchair in front of the fireplace, the cold night pressing up against the window that showed the rest of Paris in the distance. The fire released an occasional pop when the wood became too hot, and the sound was like a snap right next to my ear. With hooded eyes and an exhausted soul, I sat there with emptiness inside my chest, scotch my only true company, even if I wasn’t alone.

My phone rang and vibrated next to my glass. Over and over, it hummed, shifting slightly on the wood.

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t even look.

“Shouldn’t you get that?” Bleu sat in the other armchair, shifting his chin away from the fire to look at me. Until he spoke, I’d forgotten he was there. The tone of his voice conveyed everything he never explicitly expressed in words—his pity.

It rang again.

I still didn’t look at it.

Bleu kept his eyes on me, pausing in the hope that I would reach for the phone and take the call. “It could be for Claire—”

I snatched the phone and threw it hard against the large mantel over the fireplace. It thudded hard then landed on the floor, the screen cracking straight down the center, but the motherfucker continued to ring. “Cut the shit. She’s gone. She’s fucking gone, and we both know it.” I launched myself out of the armchair and walked to the fire, staring at the flames that were identical to the ones that burned in my soul. My heart, body, and soul had descended to the pits of hell. My skin had been seared, and all that was left of me were my brittle bones. My hands gripped the mantel, and I leaned forward slightly, feeling the heat burn through my shirt and jeans.

Bleu kept his mouth shut this time.

Grief lived in many different forms. In the beginning, it emerged as wet tears, as heavy sobs that racked my chest and ribs. Then it turned into hope, because nothing in this world would stop me from getting my daughter back—not even Satan himself. Then it manifested into a lot of other things, mainly potent rage.

“Are you certain this has nothing to do with the Chasseurs?”

I stared at the flames for a few more seconds, watching the way they moved inexplicably, nothing but the combination of energy and mass. My hands left the mantel, and I turned around to look at Bleu. “No.”

“This wasn’t a normal kidnapping—”

“I’ve been out of the game for seven years, Bleu. I said goodbye to that life the second I knew about Claire.” I didn’t even know they were missing for days after their disappearance. Beatrice was supposed to drop off our daughter so I would have her for the weekend. She didn’t show. And when that happened…I knew there was no chance. If a kidnapping wasn’t solved within the first three days, it would never be solved.

Bleu bowed his head and rubbed his hands together. “Then what’s your solution, Benton? To give up?”

My eyes narrowed on his face, wanting to rip off his head and throw it into the flames. “Never.” I reported it to the police, walked the streets, and asked strangers if they recognized either one of them. I did all the detective work when the police failed to do it themselves. I asked old contacts if they knew anything about a serial kidnapper in the city, and none of them did. Every time I found a new leaf to turn over, there was nothing underneath. And every time I felt a little hope that I might find my little girl, it was short-lived. My hope was repeatedly smashed with a sledgehammer, and every time I tried to regain hope, it was weaker and weaker.

“They might know something.”

“I didn’t leave on good terms.”

“Does it matter?”

I held his gaze and felt the hope in my heart once more, which was a dangerous thing to feel, especially for me…when my daughter was my whole life. I’d sell my soul to the devil for eternity to get her back. There was nothing I wouldn’t give for her. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. “No.”

The Catacombs of Paris possessed a dark history. In the eighteenth century, the cemeteries overflowed, so the dead were compacted in the network of tunnels that stretched over two miles deep underground, Parisians walking directly overhead without knowledge. The Parisian government turned it into a tourist attraction.

Until the Chasseurs bought it.

Now it belonged to one of the most ruthless criminal organizations in Paris.

The government lined their pockets with cash and looked the other way.

I entered the Catacombs through the secret tunnel Parisians were oblivious to and made my way through the graveyard of six million people. Crosses made of stone were in the walls, an arrangement of skulls permanently lining the pathways. Torches lit the way in the dark, casting shadows in the deepest crevices. Iron gates were still erected from where prisoners were kept, and the ceiling expanded over large rooms before they became confined once more. It was cold and drafty, the sun never piercing these deep caves.

Voices grew louder and louder as I approached, entering the large underground cavern that once held concerts long ago. It was the pinnacle of the Catacombs, the grand finale for the journey. Tables were placed in the room where the men sat and drank. Some held weapons while others held drugs. At the front of the room were two large thrones, made of skulls taken from the dead.

The men turned to look at me. Some recognized me, some didn’t.

One of the thrones was occupied, while the other was empty.

With his knees apart, one elbow on the armrest and his fingers resting against his jawline, he stared me down, his brown eyes stuck on me like a scope of a sniper. He was still, like the dead that made up his throne.

Conversations slowly died away as the tone of the room changed, as their leader wordlessly commanded silence.

My footfalls echoed in the cavern because it was so quiet. I moved past the tables and stopped a respectable distance from the man I’d once known as a brother.

Bartholomew.

He kept his position, regarding me with steady eyes, his dark hair perfectly styled like he could attend a dinner party at a moment’s notice. His long-sleeved black shirt was tight on his muscular body, his black jeans the same. Military-style black boots were on his feet, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. His eyes were just as dark as the rest of him, steady on my face, interrogating me with his look.

Then a slow smile crept on to his lips. Gradually, more of his teeth emerged, and his lips curled. A look of mirth came into his gaze, appreciating this moment because of how savory it was. “Benton, this is a pleasure. Truly.”

I had no pride—not anymore. “Not for me.”

His grin widened. “Yes, I surmised.” He rested both arms down on the armrests and gripped the skulls at the very ends, his fingers stretching over the face that had once been a person. He owned the dead in these Catacombs—and now he owned me. “Make your request. Just know that it comes at a price.”

I didn’t ask for the price because it didn’t matter what he wanted in return—if he could help me. “Claire was taken two weeks ago. No leads.”

He cocked his head slightly as he listened to my plea, his brown eyes absorbing everything I said—and didn’t say. “Ironic. You turn your back on us for your daughter—but you lose her anyway.”

I inhaled a deep breath and steadied the impulse to launch myself and snap his neck with a single twist of my hands. “Please.”

His grin was gone, and now his coldness remained. The seasons changed in an instant, the summer heat turning into frostbitten winter. “I allowed you to break your commitment and keep your life. Haven’t I done enough?” His tone deepened into an icy threat, echoing my betrayal as a reminder to me, as if I’d forgotten, and the men who listened in attentive silence.

My arms were still by my sides, my breath even, my heart running at a steady pace because there was no threat that could frighten me in this state of mind. The only reason I wanted to live was so I could find my daughter. “Get Claire back. My life will be payment for your generosity.”

Bartholomew let the silence linger for a long time, my offer floating in the air between us. He disappeared into the throne, becoming one with the stone, dead like the six million souls that lived in these walls, but simultaneously alive. “And if she’s already dead?”

I dropped my chin instantly, wincing in pain at the assumption that I never allowed myself to consider. My heart struggled through every beat. My lungs struggled to draw breath. My eyes watered at the image of my little girl in my head…my whole fucking world. “Then take my life…because I don’t want to live anyway.”