if it somehow senses all of the pain and destruction I am about to cause with its sleek, cool, heavy form in my grasp.
It can’t know, though. How can it? It’s just a gun. It’s enough that I know what will happen over the next few hours, and days, and weeks.
Men will die.
Mothers will lose their sons.
Children will be orphaned.
Even more blood will flow, until the snowdrifts of the mountainside and the heaped white snowbanks of the winter city are marred and stained a brutal shade of red.
No matter the cold. The whole world will burn before I’m through with it.
There will be no rest.
There will be no hesitation.
There will be no mercy.
For the black-hearted few who took that most precious from me…I am the apocalypse. I am the darkness. I am the night.
I am the storm that will not be weathered.
CHAPTER ONE
ZETH
Once upon a time…
That’s how all good fairytales start. A princess lies asleep for a hundred years, awaiting the kiss of her one true love to waken her from her slumber. A beautiful young woman is cruelly oppressed by her evil step mother, only to be rescued by a fairy godmother and a magical glass slipper. A child visits her ailing grandmother, bringing her food and drink, only to discover an interloper masquerading as an old woman in her bed.
This story is far removed from those tales of whimsy. For starters, there’s no magic here. None of what follows hereafter is make-believe. Good does not always win out. The righteous do not always overcome. The vile and the wicked are not always punished.
Will there be a happy ending? Who knows? Our rough accounting of what happened in Seattle this winter has only just begun and not yet reached its climax. But one thing’s for certain: this story will deliver everything and nothing, depending on your heart’s desire.
Let’s start it off right, and in a true and proper fashion.
Once upon a time…
…there was a murderer named Zeth Mayfair.
******
All organized crime syndicates possess a figurehead. All gangs, mobs, and families are led by one power hungry, vicious tyrant who calls the shots and makes the decisions. And at that man’s side stands another. A right hand. A tool, both blunt implement and finely-honed weapon, carrying out their boss’ every violent wish and savage desire. I was that man, that tool and that weapon. I killed, I stole, I kidnapped, I broke bones, and I did not give a fuck about the consequences.
Many people would be ashamed of a past like mine, but sometimes I like to look back on those days with an abstract kind of fondness. Yes, it was a life of chaos. Did my lifestyle see me injured and hurt? Sure, every now and then. Was I in danger of losing my liberty and my freedom? Of course. Fuck, I did end up in jail once, though ironically not for a crime of my own doing (prison royally sucked. I wouldn’t recommend it). But that kind of a life has its benefits. You keep your fucking mouth shut. You do what you’re told, and you don’t ask questions.
Simple.
Easy.
No worrying. No making the hard decisions for yourself. Everything is black and white. Yes and no. A list of tasks that must be completed in order, and at the end of it all a hefty payday lands in your lap.
But then…I met her: a woman with hair the color of molten chocolate, honey, cinnamon and gold, and eyes as dark and incomprehensible as a bottomless pit. Some people might say Sloane Romera, resident at St. Peter’s of Mercy Hospital, saved my life. Others might say she ruined it. I suppose it all depends on your perspective. Either way, I fell for her, against my better judgement, knowing everything would change and nothing would ever be the same again. The man who had pulled my strings for so long no longer controlled me. The murdering ended.
And then, all of a sudden, out of fucking nowhere, I was a father.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
My breath catches in my throat.
He’s not breathing. He’s not fucking breathing. Leaping to my feet, I close the space between the chair I was sitting in by the window and the small crib on the other side of the room, my heart a pulsing, thumping lump of meat trying to climb its way up my throat.
The child lies on his back, hands balled into tiny fists, thrown up on either side of his head. His lips are parted, his cheeks stained a