Oaths and Omissions （Monsters & Muses #3）
Sav R. Miller
PROLOGUE
Twelve Years Ago Mama makes the best vegetable lasagna on Aplana Island.
Possibly the best in the world.
It’s blue-ribbon worthy, which is proven at the county fair each year when she takes home first place in the headlining cook-off.
People travel from the mainland just for a taste.
That’s what Daddy always says.
Daddy has a habit of exaggerating, though, according to my big brothers Cash—short for Cassius, which he hates to be called—and Palmer.
But I don’t think either of them really likes Daddy, so sometimes it seems like they make stuff up just to get me on their side.
Cash used to say that if he had to pick between wrestling a gator with his arms tied behind his back, or saving Daddy from drowning in the ocean, he’d pick the reptile, no questions asked.
I would rather die myself than let either of our parents drown.
Palmer says that’s my problem.
Siblings are supposed to stick together, the twins tell me. Even though they have no problem leaving me at home every Friday night, taking the ferry to one of the other islands and staying out until the sun comes up.
Ever since I was pulled out of school and we moved from Savannah to Aplana, the only people I see aside from our family are Primrose staff. Private tutors, housekeepers, chefs, and gardeners are the only ones allowed on our property.
So, why wouldn’t I side with the people I spend most of my time with? Cash and Palmer are practically glued at the hip, and Mama says I ate my twin in the womb, so my parents are my only other option.
My stomach growls as I glance down at my fingers, coated in marinara sauce and ricotta cheese.
Okay, so there’s one other option.
Food.
But I can’t really do this—stand at the kitchen island, shoveling cold bites into my mouth—every day. At least, not when people are around.
Which is why I’m up at midnight, hiding in the dark.
Everyone else is asleep, and I’m downstairs getting sauce on the bright-yellow Easter dress Mama made me wear to Sunday service.
There are probably worse things I could be doing.
Palmer always says no good comes after my bedtime, and stuffing my face feels pretty lame compared to the stories I’ve heard and the shows I’ve seen on television.
But for some reason, I still feel like I’m doing something wrong.
My fist is halfway to my mouth, a flat piece of pasta dangling between my thumb and index finger, when a dull thud somewhere on the other side of the house makes me freeze.
Glancing up, I catch my stained reflection in the giant mirror hanging across the room, and a hot, sticky feeling washes over me.
Gross.
Still, I don’t move, bracing myself for an intruder.
A soft glow spills in through the rounded archway leading out of the kitchen, and my heart smacks against my ribs.
Crap.
Voices drift down the hall, echoing off the tall ceilings of our far-too-big house.
They’re getting closer.
Double crap.
I’m in so much trouble.
If anyone sees that I’m the one always ruining Mama’s dishes the day before a fair, I’ll be grounded for a month.
And since I already don’t have many privileges, I’m not really looking to get more taken away.
Staring at the lasagna dish with its plastic cover half torn off, I scoop it into my arms and duck down on the side of the island. Balancing the glassware on my knees, I pull them tight against my chest, forcing a swallow through the dryness in my mouth.
The iron handle on the white cabinet door digs into my back as I press into it, trying to make myself as small as possible. My breaths come in quick bursts, making the plastic flap against my fingers.
My belly rumbles the second footsteps thud on the tiled floor.
Curling my fingers around the dish, I bite into my bottom lip, trying to keep my breathing soft.
Sweat slides from my hairline to the tip of my nose. I watch the droplet, eyes crossing, and for a second I forget that I’m in danger.
My vision blurs and the drop rolls, falling onto the plastic.
I stop breathing altogether.
A groan echoes through the air, and I lean out past the counter to peek at the source. The toes of Daddy’s favorite pair of loafers stick out from the other side, and I let out a little sigh.
He’s much less likely to punish me.
With a little grin, I decide to aim for cuteness as I reveal myself, hoping to sway Daddy’s anger with my best puppy-dog eyes.
But when I stand and set the lasagna on the floor, rounding the corner of the island, I’m met by a head of dark, graying hair as Daddy lies on the ground.
Bleeding from a hole in his skull.
1
A wire transfer has been made to your account.
Swiping the notification from my phone, I send a quick thumbs-up to Alistair and pocket the device, slightly more enthused about carrying on with the evening now that he’s paid me for it.
Some of my brother’s political adversaries put up more of a fight than others, and the city manager he fucked yesterday seems less willing to die than I’d anticipated.
No matter, though.
The screams of my targets no longer deter me.
My house sits on a stretch of green, grassy land on the north end of Aplana Island, a little patch of rock floating just outside the Boston Harbor Islands, with a permanent population that’s grown from a mere couple hundred to several thousand in the last few years.
Before that, we were mostly relegated to a tourist region where rich families could hide their illegal activities in mint and crab exports, or work on developing the infrastructure to attract more residents.
Essentially, Aplana acts as an independent, partially impoverished version of The Hamptons. With far more crime, its own little airport, and sprawling acreage split by small roads.
It’s not the kind of place I would’ve picked for myself, but my family moved here from London when I was a boy, and I never left.
My house is separated from the buzzing array of attractions and shops downtown; with no neighbors for miles, things can get as loud and messy as they want.
Normally, I try to avoid loud and messy. Clean hits mean clear consciences, and I’m not a man who wants even a modicum of guilt weighing down his shoulders.
There will be time for guilt on Judgment Day, and not a moment sooner.
Switching off the faucet, I spin on my heel and dry my hands on a dishrag. Kevin glares at me from behind the packing tape I’ve wrapped around his head, his mouth accessible through a tiny gap left in the binding.
“It’s a shame things have to end this way,” I tell him, eliminating any hopes he may have of leaving this earth with dignity.
Slowly, I approach the chair he’s tied up in, noting the beads of sweat percolating along his hairline. Flames from the stone fireplace lick at his back, heating the room and turning the exposed skin at the nape of his neck into a web of purple welts.
Crouching down, I slide a metal rod from the wall-mounted fire iron hook, holding the shaped end against the flames. It flares orange, sizzling, and I can’t stop the excitement from thrumming through my veins when Kevin whimpers.
Standing up straight, I pull the rod from the fire and shove it toward his face. It skims his cheek, and he squeals like a stuck pig, rocking back until his chair almost tips over.
“Have you anything to say for yourself?” I ask, even though there’s no way he’ll answer. “I’ll admit, I’ve no idea why Alistair asked me to take care of you. It’s been a while since he had me do any eliminations, so he must be planning something grand.”