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PROLOGUE
LEON
aged fourteen
“What are we doing here, father?” I ask as we step out of the car, the air releasing from my mouth in little white clouds. It’s cold here in Devon, though not as cold as Scotland. It rarely gets warm there, or perhaps it’s just Ardelby Castle that’s always so bleak.
“We’re here to deal with a loose end,” he replies, staring at the quaint cottage we’ve pulled up outside of. It’s situated at the end of a long, winding dirt track and is surrounded by a copse of trees that hide it from the fields beyond. Frost dusts the neatly clipped lawn, the moonlight making it sparkle like the uncut diamonds my father acquired last week.
“Loose end?”
“Yes. Open the trunk,” he demands, adjusting his cufflinks and straightening the sleeves of his suit jacket before pulling on a pair of black gloves that he’d picked up from the dash of the car. You wouldn’t catch my father wearing anything other than an expensive tailored suit. An expensive, tailored,blacksuit. Everyone knows black hides the blood stains better.
“Yes, Sir,” I respond, nodding my head.
Despite the anxiety churning my stomach, I do as I’m told. I’ve learnt the hard way that disobeying a direct order from my father is a first-class ticket straight to a beating. I’ve suffered at the hands of his cruelty many times over the years, and taken a beating, or five, for both of my brothers, so I know how much it hurts.
I’d do it again. Better it’s me than Jakub or Konrad.
Swallowing down the bile burning my throat, I open up the trunk. There’s nothing but two gas cans filled with petrol and a pile of rags. I peer around the trunk, “Father?” I question, confused.
“Bring what’s in the trunk,here,” he barks, his focus on the cottage.
There are no lights on, no sounds coming from the building and no vehicles parked in the small drive just off the dirt track. I’m assuming that whoever lives here isn’t home, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Ever since he ordered me to accompany him on thisbusinesstrip to Cornwall, I’ve been on edge. I may still be a child, but I’m not an idiot, I know that phrase is used as a euphemism for something violent. He rarely deals with business, and has a raft of men who clear uploose ends, and do so on a regular basis in his name. Whatever this is, it’s personal to my father.
Malik Brov, The Collector.
A man who takes what he wants regardless of the consequences. It doesn’t matter what it is, if he wants it he’ll take it. Property, jewellery…people.
Especially people.
The Collector deals in diamonds and gold, bricks and mortar, flesh and blood.
“Leon!” he snaps.
Spurned into action, I tuck the rags under my arm and carry the gas cans over to my father, placing them on the ground at our feet. As I rise upwards, a sudden gust of freezing air lifts up the hair at the nape of my neck, scattering shivers down my spine.
I don’t like this.
Reaching back into the car, my father grabs another set of gloves, handing them to me. “Put them on, then lay out the rags, and cover them in petrol, ” he instructs.
“Yes, Sir,” I reply, pulling on the gloves. They’re soft, supple, and made of the finest Italian leather, but I know he isn’t asking me to wear them because he’s concerned about my hands getting cold. We’re here to do damage, and wearing gloves prevents any fingerprints being left behind.
“Douse them thoroughly, and make sure you don’t splash your clothes,” he warns me, before picking up one of the gas cans and pushing open the rusty iron gate. The squeak is carried off in the wind that is making the trees surrounding the cottage bend under its power.
I nod tightly, watching him as he walks up the path towards the cottage. He pauses at the front door, resting his hand against the wood briefly before opening the cap of the gas can, twisting on the nozzle attachment and pushing it through the letterbox. When he pulls it out a few seconds later, he steps back and pours petrol over the front door, making sure to cover it completely, then proceeds to splash more petrol over the window frames on either side. Looking over his shoulder at me, he jerks his chin, talking quietly.
“Bring the rags. Put a few through the letterbox, but leave one hanging on the outside so we can light it. Then meet me around the back.” He doesn’t bother to wait for me to respond, intent on completing the job.
Grabbing the now fully-saturated rags, I hold my arms out to the side so none of the petrol dripping from them splashes me, and push open the gate. As instructed, I slide several wet rags through the letterbox, then follow my father around the side of the house. By the time I’ve caught up with him, he’s standing at the back door pouring more petrol through a cat flap before discarding the empty can. It bounces a couple of times on the frosty grass, spilling the remnants of its contents before coming to a standstill. For a moment I’m struck by a large pond at the bottom of the garden, the full moon reflected in its inky darkness. What I would give right now to slide beneath its depths and never surface again.
“Put the remaining rags through the cat flap,” my father says, pulling my attention back to him and the job at hand.
I do as I’m told, relieving myself of the rags and grateful, at least, that I’m no longer holding onto them. Straightening up, I take a step back and wait for further instruction. I couldn’t tell you what thoughts are running through his head, but mine? I’m hoping that there isn’t a living soul in this house, least of all a cat.
“Take your gloves off unless you want to go up in flames,” my father says, looking pointedly at my hands.
“Why?” I’m not asking him why I should remove my gloves, I’m asking him why we’re here at the other end of the country, in the middle of the night, setting light to this cottage. More specifically, why he chose me to accompany him.
