Page 91 of Pretty Lethal
The faceless man beneath him forgotten, Wilder barks to the King, “Let us the fuck out of here!”
Instead of answering him, the King bellows in his inhuman voice, “Sit down.”
I don’t know if it was an order for Wilder or the other man, but digging his fingers into Wilder’s dislocated shoulder, he succeeds in forcing him back into the chair.
As though gliding across the floor, the King’s cloak sweeps elegantly across the rough stone as he enters the chamber, and all of us watch with bated breath as he approaches Wilder.
“What the fuck do you want with us?” Wilder continues to spout. “With me? Just let us go. I’m not interested in being a part of this bullshit.”
The King stares down at Wilder—at least, I imagine that’s what they’re doing. It’s impossible to discern their eyes from beneath the oversized hood.
“Novus ordo seclorum,”the robotic voice responds.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, Wilder shakes his head. “What the fuck does that even mean?” he mutters under his breath.
“New order of the ages,” Emilia answers in a hushed voice. “The bringing in of a new regime. The changing of the tide.”
Looking even more pissed off than he did a moment ago, Wilder peers defiantly into the darkened hood of the King. “So? I don’t understand. What the hell does that have to do with me? With us?”
“Everything, my son.”
Wilder goes still.
We all do.
My son?
Wilder remains frozen in his chair as some of the murderous rage gives way to confusion.
By way of explanation, the King holds his arms out to his sides. “This is your legacy. Your birthright. You have more than proven thatthisis your rightful place.”
“My son?” Emilia squeaks, her eyes flashing to mine momentarily.
Despite her softly spoken words, she garners the attention of the King, whose focus snaps to hers. I swear I can feel the malice pouring out from beneath his hood, every ounce of it directed at Emilia. I growl at the asshole as I shuffle awkwardly over the uneven ground, closer to her to try and shield her behind my broader body.
Dismissing us as though we’re nothing but a mere inconvenience, the King returns his attention to Wilder—his son?
“I know about the darkness that resides inside of you. The craving to destroy. To hurt. To inflict pain. Unlikethem, I don’t want to suffocate it or bury it. Or pretend it doesn’t exist. I want to feed it, encourage it, coax it. You can’t continue feigning it doesn’t exist. It’s a part of you, Wilder, and you need to learn to accept that.”
Stepping closer to Wilder, the King’s voice softens somewhat as he says, “I can help you with that, my son.”
Wilder peers quizzically into the vacuous pit beneath the King’s hood, lips pinched and brows furrowed. “Dad?”
The King makes some sort of robotic-sounding snort. “That imbecile couldn’t blackmail a child. No, son, I am not your father.”
Lifting his cloaked hands, the figure pulls back his hood, revealing shoulder-length brunette locks, sculpted eyebrows, and thick eyelashes.
All features I recognize, because I’ve seen them on the face of one of Emilia’s fellow English professors. I wrack my brain, trying to recall their name as they remove the mouthpiece that distorts their voice.
In a feminine tone, she announces, “I am your mother.”
Carrie!
That’s her name!
The woman Emilia saw screwing Robbie at the Christmas party.
Fuck.
