Page 1 of The Hitch
Prologue
Six months ago
Melody
A shiver runs down my spine as I yank the knife out of Charlie's. The last gurgling breath leaves his lips. His piercing blue eyes—those same eyes that used to terrify me when they stared into mine—go dull and glazed over. Heaving a sigh, I slump back on my heels and run a bloodied hand down my face.
It's over. He's gone.
My surroundings snap back into focus and my head is on a swivel. What time is it? Mom was supposed to be home around eleven. Shit. Shit! I only have an hour, I have to clean up, I have to stage this, I have to think of some kind of cover. I killed him. I killed my mom's husband.
My tormentor. My abuser. He's dead and gone, and Mom will ruin everything. Maybe I can scrawl out some kind of twisted suicide note. I leap up from the floor, kicking Charlie's head for good measure. Another splatter of blood sprays out and coats the ground beneath my feet. Oh, no. Oh, no no no no. My footprints areeverywhere. There's no way I could clean all of this up in time—there's just no way.
Slumping back down on the other side of the living room, I take in the scene. My stepfather's corpse lies at an unnatural angle in front of his recliner. His throne, where he sat and hurled abuse and disgusting comments at me foryears. I should burn the damn thing. But I don't havetime. A cold sweat runs down my back, making my shirt cling to me. My front is drenched in blood—Charlie's blood—and sickening dread roils in my gut.
I can't get sick. Not now. I can't do it. I have to think of aplan.I didn't have a plan in the slightest, not for this. All I wanted was to clean up some dishes, make myself a quick dinner, but Charlie couldn't keep his goddamn mouth shut for a second.Should you be eating that?His raspy words ring in my mind, along with visions of his lecherous gaze twisted into a scowl.
And I just… snapped. I didn't even know I could jump that far, much less with a chef's knife in my hand. He called my body disgusting while licking his lips, staring me down from that goddamn chair.
Blistering heat washes over me like a fever. Everything goes slightly out of focus, and I shudder in a breath. The coppery scent of blood strikes my nose like a dagger. I think I'm going into shock. Does anyone really ever know when they're going into shock, though?
As if possessed, my body moves on its own. I shakily stand, my own blood rushing to my head, and I slowly walk over to Charlie's body. The knife juts out of his chest. I have to make this look like a… different sort of crime scene. Yes, that'll work.
I yank the knife out of Charlie and turn it around on myself. Hissing out a breath, I slash my thighs and watch my blood run down to the floor, mingling with the dead man's. Now it's an attack—a random act of violence—not a crime of passion. I walk backwards towards the door, skidding my heels as I go.
"No, please! Please stop!" I cry out into the empty home, as if I'm being kidnapped against my will. I wrestle with the doorknob, leaving a nice big bloody handprint. Clutching the doorframe, pulling with all my weight, faking sobs into the nighttime air.
I take one last look at my childhood home. Photos line the walls showing us with our friends and family over the years. Parties, graduations, even a wedding or two. To a stranger, we'd look like a happy family. Me and my mom, with her loving, long-suffering husband. A Father's Day card stands on the mantle: "Not a stepdad, but the dad that stepped up."
From back when I thought I could make this work. He wasn't happy about me moving back home, and Mom always said we'd kill each other if I overstayed my welcome.
Joke's on her, I guess.
Dante
It'll happen soon. I stare down at my father's soon-to-be rotting corpse as he shudders in breath after breath. The smell of antiseptic assaults my senses; the persistent beeping of his heart monitor taunts me. Even the hushed whispers between my mother and the nursing staff offends me. As long as he is still alive, however weakened, he is still The Dantalion.
"Dante?" My mother's voice cuts through the air. I turn my gaze to her, keeping my face as neutral as possible. "Sweetheart, your father doesn't have much time. I know it would… I know it would ease some of his pain if you were to say something. Anything."
I'm sure it would,I want to say. Try as I might, I can't think of anything pleasant. He looks like a corpse. His sallow skin is nearly transparent, showing a map of veins right below the surface. For Mother's sake, I force a sad smile as I turn to stare the old man down.
He can't hear me. He can't hear anything. He's barely alive, just a sack of flesh and bones. Still fucking breathing. The malicious light behind his eyes has faded—he looks almost like a completely different person—certainly not the same man who terrorized me in my youth until I became strong enough.
Mother looks at me expectantly, laying a hand on my shoulder. Her vibrant green eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with tears, as she clutches onto me.
"Da—Father. I will make you proud. I will be the most powerful Dantalion the world has ever seen." I huff out another breath.Better than you.I won't say that out loud for Mother's sake.
"He knows you will, sweetheart. That's all we've ever wanted for you." Mother's voice cracks, and she bursts into tears again. I pull her into my side and run an absent-minded hand over her shoulder. My father's expression doesn't change. His eyesare closed, his mouth slightly agape with the oxygen tube in his throat. Just another piece of equipment keeping him alive.
How much longer will they keep this up? How much longer will they force this indignity upon him? It's disgusting. I may not like the man, but I can still be outraged at this position they've forced him into.
And the position they'll force me into. Not Mother, but the Goetic Consortium. After my father's death, they will force me to take a wife—produce an heir, a legitimate one. All of that nonsense in order to be recognized as the Dantalion. A ridiculous, archaic tradition that they insist on following.
The thought of it stokes a rage in me, and I don't even realize I've balled up my fists until my mother tries to slip her hand in mine. I can't be here. I can't be the bereft son Mother wants me to be. I can't pretend to mourn this corpse of a man.
With a few murmured niceties, I extract myself from Mother's grip and storm into the hospital hallway. I need to calm down. All I've ever wanted is my father's power, and yet I still have more hurdles to cross.
His death.
