lined with weapons. Guns of every shape, size, and caliber. Knives in all kinds of shapes and curves. Even...
"Is that a rocket launcher?" I squeaked, pointing to a scary-looking weapon with a long-ass tube attached.
Archer huffed a short laugh. "Bazooka. Phillip was a bit of a collector."
"Oh-kay," I looked all around me with wide eyes. "Will you explain this, or am I wasting my breath?"
Archer leaned his shoulder on one of the racks of weapons, folding his thick arms and giving me a considering look.
"I mentioned to you that Ana was purchased by my great-grandfather, Phillip's father." It wasn't a question, merely a reminder. I nodded. "He was a revolting man, crooked as they come, with his fingers deep in every type of crime imaginable. Gunrunning, drugs, sex trafficking, murder... nothing was out of his wheelhouse. It's where the bulk of the D'Ath fortune came from."
I raised my brows, processing what he was saying. But that was his great-grandfather, who could have died before he was born. "So, Phillip carried on the family business?"
It made sense. It explained the abundant wealth evident at D'Ath Estate, and certainly lined up with Damien D'Ath having founded the Shadow Grove Reapers. However, knowing how deep into the criminal world their ancestor was, the Reapers seemed almost small-time in comparison.
Archer shook his head, though. "No way. Phillip despised his father and everything he was involved in. Gregoric buying a kidnapped fourteen-year-old Croatian girl in a flesh auction was just the last straw for Phillip."
My stomach churned, thinking of Ana's kind warmth and how hard her life must have been. What horrors she must have endured. It gave some serious perspective to my own petty problems.
"He enlisted the second he was old enough to do so without parental consent," Archer continued, telling me his grandfather's story, his eyes locked on mine without blinking, "then quickly worked his way through the ranks. When he met Constance, he was working for some highly classified division of MI6." He gave a small, rueful smile. "We haven't decoded his files enough to work out what exactly his role was, but it isn't hard to guess." He gave a head tilt to the room full of weapons, and I nodded.
"Yup, this is sort of a big clue," I murmured, not finding the willpower to tear my eyes from Archer's. Not yet.
"Anyway. Long story short, Constance and Phillip married, and she got pregnant. Phillip had some... residual trauma from his time in the service and grew increasingly paranoid that his father would find out about his wife and baby. Possibly even do something to hurt them. Gregoric was a proud man, and hadn't taken his son's abandonment of his birthright well." Archer was delivering the story in a soft, emotionless voice, but I was hanging on every word. I was fucking invested and needed to know how it ended... even though I knew half the characters were now dead.
"So, what did he do?" I pushed, desperate to hear more.
Archer shifted his weight, giving me a humorless smile. "What any decent person should do," he told me. "He went home to his father's estate over Christmas and shot Gregoric in the head."
My lips parted in shock, but then... was I really so surprised?
"The rest, so to speak, is history," Archer broke eye contact with me, looking around the room with sad eyes. "Phillip's past haunted him. His upbringing under Gregoric had been cruel and sickening. It'd shaped his mind in a way that he could never have recovered from. Add into that all the horrors he must have seen—or done—while working in covert affairs for the British government?" He shook his head and sighed. "He and Constance moved out here shortly after Gregoric's death—bringing Ana with them, obviously—and tried to start over."
"I take it that wasn't a happily ever after for them?" I asked tentatively. I wanted that story to end in a happily ever after, even though I already knew it didn't. Phillip was dead, and Constance and Ana were still hiding their relationship after fuck knows how many years.
Archer gave me a short laugh, turning to run his hands over some of the drawers set under the counter top. Popping one open with a flick of his fingers, he revealed a padded drawer full of gleaming, colorful butterfly knives.
"Phillip fancied himself a Good Samaritan," Archer told me, running his fingertips over the gleaming metal like he was lost in his own memories. "He made it his mission to rescue kids