Page 49 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)

Frank

I n my dream, I'm sitting across from my old man.

It’s strange to me as an adult, how much we look alike, how little I look like my mother. Staring into his face is almost like staring into a mirror.

We don't speak; we just sit in silence—a chessboard laid between us.

I watch, unable to will myself into motion as my father moves a shining black rook from space g3 to g7, claiming one of my white pawns and forcing my King into check—thereby initiating the first move in a brutal Windmill.

Though I know it is futile, I move my King from space g8 to h8; my father moves the rook one space to the left, claiming another pawn, while opening up the way for his bishop to push me into check once more.

And so, bishop and rook move, causing a cascade of discovered checks—gobbling up my pieces and leaving me with a nearly empty board before checkmate.

“I lose, again,” I grunt out tersely, losing my patience with this dream version of my father as he sets up for another game, pinning me again with the Windmill as I do my part to move my king out of check, allowing my father to move the shining black rook down the board—once more placing me in a discovered check from his bishop.

“Look!” he urges me, and this time when I regard the board, I see the bishop—the only one of my father’s game pieces that is not a gleaming black, but instead a brilliant red.

I look back to my father's face as if he might be able to give me some answer, but all he does is nod and tap the table.

When I look down again, there is no chessboard, but the single tarot card bearing the tower, just like that day at Kitty O’Leary’s.

Furious, I flip the table over—sending the card and the piece of furniture flying.

I want to ask the terrible apparition why he visits me now? Why do my dreams tell me what I already know to be true: that I have destroyed my own life—certainly with the help of the Windmill, but even if they hadn't intervened, wouldn't I have just ended up like my old man, anyway?

For a moment, everything is quiet and the quality of the air changes—like a spring breeze, sweet and cool.

I reach out along the bond to find Louise.

Over great distances, using the loops and ties of the bond to fold space and time—so we can be here together in this place—set apart from the rest of our horrible reality. I catch hold of her spark, and she makes the connection, warm and resonant.

I stand before her on the checkered board made of cold black and white stone.

Louise stands tall, her entire body swathed in a gown of rich cream-colored velvet, a crown of gold and diamonds perched atop her scarlet waves. Her hands lay folded over the jewel-encrusted pommel of her sword—a queen standing atop the pedestal of a white marble pillar.

To her right stands Quentin, another vision—an ivory satin-lined cape fixed at his shoulders with gilded epaulets, a spicate crown of gold and diamonds perched atop his copper brown coif, a spiked golden scepter cradled gently in his arms .

To Louise's left, Dennis stands in a crimson mitre and matching silken vestments—a heavy golden tome folded into one arm and a golden shepherd's crook in the other.

Bracketing me, Sébastien stands over me in his heavy gilded alabaster plate armor—hand closed around his spear while Caz, in his ivory and scarlet livery bears the pack banner; a red coin, a silver starburst, a white crown, and a black tower—a golden ring encircling them all.

“Please, if someone must bring me my end—may it be you,” the words escape my lips as I open my hands, raising them up to my queen. “Exact my punishment, for it is your right to do so, and I accept it willingly.”

“There will be time for that, and for much more. We still have a long way yet to travel,” Louise speaks, cold and authoritative.

Of course, it would be right that she should even the scales—that she should get her revenge. I have not yet paid my dues.

Louise lifts her chin—those cinnamon eyes catching in the light.

“Kneel,” she instructs.

I do as commanded. To take my life is her right.

It isn't until I lower myself onto my knees that I see myself in the reflection of the polished marble of her dais—plate armor as black as night, my own sword with its pommel like the crenelated tower of an onyx stone castle.

I watch as Louise lifts her sword high into the air.

It's right that it should be her.

And so I bow my head, awaiting the fall of her blade.

“Frank Stone,” she speaks, clear and true—allowing the tip of her shining blade to touch my right shoulder.

“Rook,” she calls again, her sword lifting up and over my head before once again touching down on my left shoulder.

“Francis Castle,” she concludes with certainty, her blade gently touching the crown of my head.

“You are all these men, and all these men… are you. With joy, with hope, and with no small amount of fear, I accept you. All of you. Rise anew, Frank Rook Castle. ”

Unable to contain my joy, I spring to my feet—the chessboard and the other players, our fated mates, momentarily disappear from view, leaving Louise and I alone inside a tranquil golden sphere.

For the moment, we are neither hunter nor hunted—simply allowed to be. While I know it won't last long—that more likely than not, we will become lost to each other at the hands of the Windmill, sooner rather than later—still, I clutch desperately to Louise, and this moment of peace.

“You’re too good to me—to allow me this. It’s far more than I deserve,” I sigh against her skin, warmed by the golden light—scented with creamy iris, that juicy green apple tang, and sweet-spicy pink pepper.

Louise cups my face in her golden hands, her eyes soft and sad, but wet with love.

“I can allow you nothing if you don't save yourself. If you don't save us,” she murmurs sorrowfully before pressing her lips to mine.

“I'm sorry, Frank—but there isn't enough time. Whatever happens, I need you to trust me. No matter what you see I need you to promise me you will get the others out… Even if there is no hope for me, I want you to promise that you will take our omega and the rest of our pack and get them far, far away from the Windmill. Do you understand?”

“I-I swear to you, from this moment forward, I am blade, made only for your hand.” I clasp her wrists and turn my face so that my lips press into the palm of her hand.

She brings her face to mine once more—our lips barely grazing one another.

“Lucifer, my Morning Star,” I whisper against her lips as we join together in one last tender kiss.

I awake to the rattling of my chains. Compton, along with two of his minions, has come to fetch me from my dank room, deep in the research facility.

I’d heard rumors about the Alaskan facility since I joined up as a teen, about what was kept here.

It isn't until I’m herded down the corridor with an electric cattle prod—as my handlers do their best to keep me from peering through the tiny viewfinders of bulletproof glass at my soon-to-be-neighbors—that I really begin to understand the extent of what is going on here.

Men, women, and everyone in between. Old and young, those who don’t even resemble humans anymore—the shadowy figures in corners that seem to stretch the limits of what it means to be human.

I am hurried down the corridors, so I can't look too long at any of my compatriots, but I am certain that this place… is where Compton has brought me to die.

As such, I am somewhat unprepared when Compton appears, his face florid with rage and drink.

I nearly gag at the fumes of whiskey on his breath as he pulls his face in close to mine.

“Alright, Frankie, time for you to take your front-row seat to a little show I've prepared just for you.” His speech is just barely slurred, but I can tell from the fluttering of his eyelids and the slow tracking of his eyes that he's well and good into the territory of intoxication, even if his voice and his hands are somewhat steady; the sign of a true functioning alcoholic.

Panic grips me as I reach across the bond to find Louise and the others echoing behind her; all of them bent on a suicide mission into the facility at which I am kept.

The Alaska facility is nothing like the Country Estate—these terrible walls hold sinister weapons, and even more deadly secrets.

The entire place is armed to the teeth; guards, alarms, and even automated security defense systems that Louise and the Saints simply lack the manpower and firepower to penetrate.

Such a dangerous fortress, and yet I can feel down the bond that they are staying their course.

Compton has his goons escort me down the hall past the other ‘residents’ of this sad and twisted place toward the empty mess hall—where perhaps once in the past, or some day in the future, the Windmill intends to socialize us monsters with one another; the large open room is reminiscent of a high school cafeteria and auditorium merged with an old school panopticon prison yard.

All around the circular room, automated laser tracking systems lay dormant, waiting for the slightest word from Compton to swing into wakefulness.

The stage has been set with an inversion table and surgery bed—a small table of tools positioned between the two.

As the guards muscle me onto the inversion table, belting me against its cool metal surface, my eyes fall onto the table of tools; forceps, a scalpel, several hooked instruments, along with a selection of filled syringes lay on a bed of pale blue paper.

A cold, creeping fear bubbles up from my stomach as the pieces fall into place.

“I'm sure you already know, pesky mating bonds and all of that,” Compton grouses as he unbuttons his shirt sleeves and rolls them above his elbows. “But that sigma bitch, and her little Saints are already on their way.”

I strain against my bindings, but it's no use.

“Lucky for you, I've saved you a spot right here, where you can watch it all.”