That does it. Lauren huffs a breath, climbs off, and turns to face the old lady in the doorway, who stares back at her behind her walker with enough authority to let me know she’s in charge around here. She’s short, with puffy white hair and a silk orange scarf around her head, tied around her chin. Her long, pleated purple skirt swishes around her ankles as she shuffles deeper into the room. I blink when I spot the purple gems on her walker.
This is surreal. Maybe the arrow in my back somehow caused brain damage, too, or maybe I’m sleeping and dreaming up crazy women and elderly ladies with blinged-out walkers.
“Hello, Darian Delacroix,” she says, turning her attention to me and studying me from behind her frameless glasses perched low on her nose, seemingly unfazed by my now flaccid dick. “I haven’t seen you in a very long time, not since you were a wee bairn in diapers.”
My eyes flare at the Northern English saying for a small child. I haven’t been called a “wee bairn” since my granddad wasalive. I still remember him puffing on his cigar on the armchair while squinting at me through a cloud of smoke, with one of his soft smiles reserved only for me. He could be a formidable man, but I worshipped the ground he walked on.
Every time he visited, he’d bring me candy, which made Mom roll her eyes. She’d take them away from me and glance at my granddad with a reluctant smile before telling me I’d get them back after dinner.
One rainy afternoon, Mommy sat me down to explain that Granddad had joined the angels in heaven, and I cried for weeks.
“Yes, I knew your granddaddy,” the lady says. “He was a good man behind that steel exterior.”
I’ve heard the stories of how my great-grandparents emigrated to England to escape, but no one ever leaves the Exodus. Once you’re in, the only way out is death. The Exodus caught up, and my granddad had no choice but to move back.
Greta turns her attention to Lauren and tips her chin in the direction of the door behind her. “Why don’t you see if the others need help with something? Let me have a chat with the young man.”
“Are you serious?” Lauren spits. “We can use him, Greta. He’s our best shot at revenge. Actualrealrevenge.”
“And you suppose stealing his sperm will further your agenda?”
“Not mine. The Antichrist’s.”
Greta’s face remains impassive. “Admittedly, we’ve all suffered great losses, but this isn’t the way. I won’t let you bring an innocent child into this war to be used like a weapon.”
Lauren turns red, her lips thinning as she glares at the old woman. “You think the Exodus shows mercy? They ruined us, Greta. Every one of us has suffered at their hands. We’ve all lost family members whose deaths were swept under the rug. Unless you’ve forgotten because of that dementia-ridden brainof yours, none of us have seen a speck of justice yet. The Exodus is stronger than ever, and we need to level up.”
“Get the poor boy dressed,” Greta orders sternly, ignoring her outburst.
Lauren glares at her for a moment, then makes an indignant sound before storming over to me and pulling my briefs and pants back up without meeting my gaze. When she’s done, she stomps out.
Sighing, Greta shuffles over to me, and seconds pass, maybe even minutes, while she studies me from head to toe, making me squirm. “I hear things,” she says finally.
My brows shoot up. “You…hear things?” I repeat.
“Telephone whispers, you could say, though more often than not, there’s some truth to rumors.”
“Okay? I’m clueless here, lady. Mind explaining what your point is?”
Her lavender smell scents the air as she leans over her walker and flicks my nose with her finger. “Rude boy!” She straightens up and gives me a disapproving look. “Don’t they teach your generation to respect your elders?”
That flick hurt. I wiggle my nose, wishing I could rub it. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Don’t youma’amme, boy! I might be eighty years young, but there’s life in these bones yet. Now…” She shuffles around, sits her butt on the walker, and rests her wrinkly hands on her thighs. “Rumor is that you’re one of the good ones.”
Now that makes me bark a laugh, but it soon dies when I see the serious expression on her face. This crazy lady isn’t joking.
“Me?” I ask. “A good guy? No, you’re mistaking me for someone else.”
Greta narrows her eyes. “Ain’t no other boy in the Exodus who’d dare marry the Bishop’s niece.”
I grow completely still. Greta smiles knowingly. “Don’t look so surprised.” Tapping her ear, she winks. “I hear things.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That girl isn’t just anybody, is she? She’s the Bishop’s niece. And she was promised to Dalton, the Bishop’s son, before she was born. But you know what happened, don’t you? Mr. van der Meer backtracked on the deal, so the Bishop murdered him in cold blood. The Bishop’s sister, Mrs. van der Meer, took Cecilia and ran, but they were hunted. It wasn’t a question ofifthe Exodus would catch up to them butwhen.”
Her wise eyes harden. “The Bishop’s son is a mean-spirited boy without a bone of empathy. He’s also prone to fits of rage, and Cecilia would’ve been in for a marriage from hell. That’s if she would have survived his beatings. But you found her first and stole her from under the Bishop’s nose, and it wasn’t about the money, was it? Darian Delacroix doesn’t need more pocket money. Nor was it a matter of pride like it is for the Bishop.”
