With a quick motion, he grabbed the back of Gerard’s head and slammed it forward, cracking his skull against the polished edge of the desk.
Gerard’s forehead split down the center like a melon grown too big and too soft.
“Father!” Alex said, lunging his chair toward the desk before Viktor sprang into action, pulling him back. They tussled for a moment, and I feared the wheelchair would topple.
Gerard fixed his gaze—now cross-eyed—upon me. “Get my son out of here,” he pleaded, before Julien struck again.
I turned away, screwing my eyes shut, powerless to stop the burst of violence.
But I still heard the sounds.
The sharp smacks of bloodied flesh.
Julien’s grunts of exertion.
Alex’s raspy breaths of horror.
Finally, the dull thud of a body falling to the floor.
Then, silence.
Silence wide and yawning.
Silence so big it felt as if we’d been swallowed into its void.
The air brightened, cooling quickly as tempers subsided.
“What have you done?” Alex whispered.
I dared to open my eyes.
Gerard’s body was blessedly hidden away behind the desk but its surface was covered in blood and other things I did not want to acknowledge.
Julien remained perched on its edge. His chest rose and fell heavily. He was wrung out, but his face was blank once more as he studied the mess left behind.
Viktor gripped the handles of the wheelchair, as if preparing to hold his brother back but any trace of fight had left Alex. He stared at the scene, eyes wide, mouth open with surprise.
“What was needed,” Viktor murmured.
I’d expected him to sound triumphant. He’d wanted this revenge. He’d wanted to make Gerard suffer as he and Julien had.
But his voice sounded hollowed out, as empty as Julien’s expression.
“He was picking up the letter opener. You saw him do it. He would have hurt Julien. He would have hurt me. Ver,” he snapped, bringing me into their morbid tableaux. “You know what he was capable of. You know he would have done it.”
From his seat on the table, Julien silently turned his hands over, as if just now noticing the spray of blood across them.
“But not like that. Not like any of—” Before Alex could finish his sentence, he turned to the side, throwing up.
Viktor’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “He was a monster. He was the monster in our little story, and in fairy tales, the monster must always be slain.”
He stepped out from behind the wheelchair, crossing to the desk. He leaned across it, studying Gerard’s motionless form. After a moment, he nodded.
“You did what you had to,” Viktor murmured, pressing his forehead to Julien’s, squeezing his arm with commiseration. He turned back to us, drumming his fingers against the desk, careful to avoid the congealing puddles. “Long live Duke Laurent.”
“Long live the duke,” Alex recited vacantly, his words nothing more than a flex of muscle memory.
I noticed the tip of Gerard’s shoe sticking out from the side of the table, saw drops of blood spattered across the patent leather. “How are we going to explain this?”
“We say exactly what happened,” Viktor said, as if it were the most obvious of answers.
“No one will believe us,” Alex murmured, sounding small and lost.
For the first time since the attack, Julien stirred into motion, turning to stare at us. His eyes were too wide, too unblinking. “What did you make me do?” He rubbed at his forehead. “Your thoughts. Those images. They were so loud…” He scrubbed furiously, as if trying to wipe away the memory. A red welt rose across his skin. “I couldn’t hear anything but you.”
“Julien, stop,” I said, reaching out to still his fervor.
He smacked my hand away, the slap stinging. “What did you make me do?”
“Calm down,” Viktor instructed, and Julien’s hand fell back into his lap, still once more. “It was only ever self-defense.”
“Was it?” Alex asked.
“Self-preservation,” Viktor continued, nodding, convincing us. “And no one can fault you for that, dear brother. For protecting your life, your security and sanctity, and defending it, using whatever means necessary.”
“I suppose, but—” I began, then gasped as Viktor took up the letter opener himself and plunged it into the hollow of Julien’s throat.
Everything seemed to slow down into impossibly long seconds that stretched and expanded, allowing me to see every detail of the horrifying action.
Julien let out a strangled, airy sound as he struggled away, flipping himself from Viktor’s grip. The letter opener went flying, spinning madly through the air like a sparkling baton. It landed at Alex’s feet, its edge slicked red.
Blood—droplets, then a stream, then a torrent—followed after as Julien crashed onto the desk. His eyes were open wide but flatter than usual, his life already ended.
Viktor stood over his brother, dispassionately watching the blood pour from his throat. It came in spurts, pushed by a heart wild with shock, before tapering to a slow ooze.
“Long live Duke Laurent,” he muttered again, a dark grin lighting his face. With a painful slowness, his eyes left Julien’s body, rising until they met our horrified gaze. “Now,” he mused, settling his attention on Alex. “What to do about you?”
I sprang into action, grabbing at the handles of Alex’s chair. There was no time for words, no time to beg for mercy. We needed to leave. Now.
“The lock! The lock!” Alex cried as I pushed him across the study. I barely paused as he flipped it to its side and flung open the door.
“We need to get to the lift. We need to get to a carriage,” I sobbed, racing us down the hall. Everything about me felt so small. My lungs had collapsed in on themselves, unable to draw enough breath. Black spots danced in the corners of my vision. “Help!” I called, my voice weak. This hallway had been full of footmen. Where were they now? “We need help!”
“Why isn’t he following us?” Alex demanded, his head wrenched back, looking over his shoulder. “What is he doing?”
At the chair’s front, one of the smaller wheels wobbled, its caster spinning loose, and I struggled to keep Alex from careening into the windows. “It doesn’t matter. We have to get to the lift.”
“Oh, little brother,” a voice sang out. Viktor’s words echoed down the hallway, unseen. “You can run but you can’t hide.”
“Frederick!” I shouted. “We need help… We need…Help!”
“Frederick! Johann!” Alex tried. “Anyone!”
Viktor’s laughter followed after us.
“Where is everyone?”
Alex shook his head mutely.
We turned left, fleeing down the short hall as fast as I could push the shaking wheelchair. My arms ached, muscles burning. When we reached the lift, I wanted to burst into tears. It was parked on the first level.
I slammed the button to start its ascent.
Nothing happened.
I struck it again.
Everything stayed still.
The lift remained motionless.
No steam grumbled up through the pipes. From deeper in the house, I could hear the slow, methodical click of Viktor’s shoes along the wooden floorboards.