Page 28 of Paladin's Hell

“Help yourself.”

Hell was right. As Demon goes off to the study, I look around seeing the stove is covered with grease, the sink with the breakfast dishes in it. I shouldn’t live like this. With new resolve I rinse the plates, stack the dishwasher, then, gritting my teeth, fill the sink with hot water and start tackling the burned on stains. Once started, I’ve a new determination I’m going to beat this shit. I’m hard at work scrubbing, feeling I’m making progress, when I hear footsteps behind me.

Knowing it’s Demon, I don’t immediately turn, but as he waits without speaking, curiosity makes me swing around.

His face is white. His hands clenched around one of the old record books from the club. His eyes, unfocused, stare in my direction.

“Demon. Dave,” I try again with his legal name when I get no response. “Son, what’s up?”

His mouth works, no words come out. He swallows, and tries again, coughing to clear his throat. Suddenly in an agonised cry he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t I know?” His tone goes from high to low, then back up again.

An icy hand grips my heart. What has he found?

“Demon?” I ask again, my gut telling me this is the moment I hoped would never come.

Suddenly he’s moving. He shoves the book under my nose. “Why didn’t you tell me? You always told me Grandpa died in an accident. You never told me it was at the hands of his son.”

That’s all he knows? Okay, I can deal. Pretend ignorance. Tell him it’s club business. Send him to have it out with Hell. Is that fair? But what the heck do I say?

“It’s all here. Recorded in the minutes of the meeting. Blackie raped someone, Mom.”

I try to take the book away from him before he starts reading between the lines. But it’s too late. I hadn’t raised a stupid son.

“He raped Hellfire’s woman. Though he wasn’t a patched-member then. He was a prospect. Voted in only minutes before the vote to dispatch Black Plate, Blackie, was taken.” I move in fast, trying once more to pull the notebook away from him, but he’s quicker, and too tall, holding it over my head. “My grandfather was a fuckin’ rapist,” he snarls. “And my own father killed him. Why didn’t I know this?”

“It’s not the kind of thing you boast about or discuss over a family dinner,” I yell at him, still jumping up, trying to catch hold of his arm.

He stills. “You knew.” His eyes go wide. “You fuckin’ knew. You knew Hellfire killed him. And what he’d done.”

“You just told me.” I think fast trying to backtrack. Oh, we’ve both made mistakes here today. Club business. He shouldn’t have spouted everything he’d just read, but I can excuse him. What man can keep quiet once he’d discovered such secrets in the family tree? But me? I should have played dumb. Innocent. Blackie had disappeared. That was all I should have been told. Might have questioned my man, but never should have given away that I knew what crime had been done, nor from my easy acceptance, admitted that not only did I know, I had no concern about my husband committing patricide.

He’s shaking his head. His eyes flaring as brightly as the demon for which he was named. He stalks me. I retreat, all thoughts of grabbing hold of that notebook gone.

“What would I find, Mother? If I keep reading? What other fuckin’ secrets am I going to find out? Do you want to tell me yourself?”

What do I do? Tell him half the truth. Maybe that will satisfy him.

“It was me. Blackie raped me.” My hands cover my mouth as the words I never thought I’d ever admit to my son come out. “He raped me. That’s why Hellfire was voted in, that’s why he was the one who killed him.”

Various expressions cross my son’s face. Sadness, pain. Sympathy. As tears start to flow from my eyes, his hand begins to reach out to touch me, then his brow creases, and he pulls it back. “How much did I weigh when I was born, Mom?”

My voice, my whole body is shaking. “Eight pounds.” I can’t tell him a lie or contradict what I previously told him.

“Bit big for a premature baby.”

My head moves side to side, my eyes open in horror.

“You were seventeen.” He already knows that. It’s family history. I’d used it to stop my kids from making the same mistake.

“Got pregnant almost to the day you got married, I came along eight months later. That’s the story, isn’t it? But Blackie was killed a month before you got married.” His voice increases in volume. “I’m not stupid. Look at the fuckin’ dates, Mom! I’m not Hellfire’s son, am I? Fuck!” As a wail comes out of his mouth, I step forward to comfort him, he moves out of my reach.

His own head is shaking now as though with that action he can dismiss the implications. But it’s impossible, the thought has taken root. “I’m yours, but not his. He’s not my father. He’s my fucking brother.” The book drops out of his hands onto the floor as he leans over the counter, his head cradled in his arms.

I want to go over and say something, anything, to ease him, to take this new burden from him, but I can’t find the right words to use. Tentatively I move closer, putting my hand on his back, he shrugs it off.

“Why did nobody tell me?” he cries. Then, more sharply, “Who else knows? Who else is in on the joke?”

“No one knows,” I quickly correct him, “and no one treats it as a joke. Maybe they suspected, the old-timers in the club. It’s possible Bomber and Rusty put two and two together. But they can’tknow. They’ve never said anything, never hinted.”

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