genetically superior trait. And the idea of our collective is to feed what starves us. My grandfather would soon find, over time, the mind’s hunger is far more powerful than that of the stomach.”
Lowering my gaze from his fails to shield me from the scrutiny burning in his eyes. I’ve no doubt he’s watching for my reaction, waiting for me to tell him those knives were hidden under my bed for the same reason. That I’m some fucked-up result of my great-grandfather.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because the experiment continues, Lucian.”
“I’m not like that. I don’t …. I’m not out to hurt people.”
“Not yet. As I said, it began with something simple for me. Bones. It wasn’t long before I was collecting my own.”
My gaze snaps to his, the cold tickle in my chest exploding with panic. “You’ve killed?”
“The purpose of Schadenfreude isn’t to kill, but a man doesn’t amass this much power without making enemies. If you knew how many times someone plotted to kill me, your mother, you, I suspect you’d never leave this home. Fortunately for me, I am genetically equipped to eliminate what threatens my survival.”
His words snake beneath my skin, absorbing deep inside my own bones, as the curtain of my life yanks back to expose the harrowing reality I’ve failed to see.
“You would kill, if someone threatened what you love, wouldn’t you?”
I’ve never thought of it. Do I, or have I, loved anything so much in my life? So much I would kill for it?
“Why did you bring me down here?”
“Because it’s time you know your place in this family. In Schadenfreude. There will be expectations in this role. Things you can’t elect to ignore.”
“Like what? Torturing innocent people?”
“Those people will come to you someday. You will not seek them out. They’ll hear whispers of us, and they will come in desperation. They will give themselves over to you for a chance to have the life you live.”
“And if I don’t want to help them?”
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”
I frown back at him, studying his eyes for any sign of amusement, or humor, but my gaze is met with the same austerity I’ve come to know from him.
“The men who make up Schadenfreude are some of the most powerful people in the world. You will come to know secrets that would destroy them. And therefore, they would destroy you. You will do the same. Protect our collective. Preserve generations of study. To observe the effects of environment on genetics. Your genetic makeup is changed, based on what happened to your great-grandfather. And it’ll be interesting to see how it manifests in future generations.”
“You said those men were Nazis. Why would I protect, or preserve, anything to do with them? Why would you?”
“This isn’t about them. They were eventually found out by the group, and let’s just say, it was a quiet matter of two individuals being consumed by their work. Poetic justice, I suppose.”
In not so many words, the Germans were tortured and murdered for their lies.
“It still doesn’t make it right. So you … you create generations of people who enjoy hurting others? How does that make the world a better place?”
Chuckling, he flicks the ash of his cigar and puffs on it again. “The world is filled with sadists and masochists. You either find pleasure in doling pain, or receiving it.”
“I’m not a psychopath. I don’t get off on callously hurting others.”
He lifts the magazine beside him, silencing my argument. “Your books would say otherwise. And it isn’t about callousness. You get off because you know how it feels. Because you’ve felt the blade slide across your own skin. You’ve felt the punch beneath your ribs as you fight for a breath of air.”
My muscles turn stiff.
The air withers inside my chest.
He knows about Solange. He’s seen the two of us together. There is no other explanation.
“It began that way for me, as well. Experimenting. Testing my limits. And soon, my boy, you’ll find joy in watching others discover what you now know to be true. That there is pleasure in pain.”
Chapter 17
Lucian
Present day ...
“Lucian! So good to see you!” Patrick Boyd reminds me of a cross between an evangelist and a car salesman. Bright goody-two-shoes smile in place, he wears his hair slicked back like a wanna-be gangster who can spout Bible verses while soliciting your vote. The thin-rimmed glasses are supposed to give him an educated air, but really, he just comes off as confused.
Thin, cold skin greets