AUDEAMUS

Chapter 29

The heavy ticking of the grandfather clock positioned up against the wall made his shoulders tense by the minute. Collins stared ahead, his eyes flickering about the place as a million thoughts rushed through his head. Forster and Wilson were going over preparations for the ball in case Jacob Black and his father made an appearance. Even though Cullen was presumed dead—indeed, he had not been seen since the night of the garrison rescue—Jacob Black and all of his men were still at large.

He stood leaning over the dark mahogany table in the stuffy room. Dozens of wax candles were lit to illuminate the space. The shutters to the windows were sealed, not allowing for any prying eyes to peek through, in case they caught sight of the mayor plotting with the officers. The space grew confined and, thus, the air within became overbearingly stuffy. Irritating clouds of tobacco smoke mixed with the overuse of cologne. Embers of a dying fire emitted a stifling heat in the early summer warmth.

Collins had been in Wilson's office many times before, yet now, as he analyzed the place while trying to settle his jumbled thoughts, he came to realize what the interior of the room truly symbolized. It was an overflow of decadence and luxury, something about it screamed baroque to him. The paintings that dotted the rooms were certainly of that era, too heavy for Collins' more natural tastes. He had never liked the strange depictions of chubby cherubs or robust women. The furnishings were heavy too, all in dark warm tones, with damask or brocade patterns. The wood bent and twisted its way forward like a serpent in complex designs. The dark rug covering the floor followed the similar elaborate pattern, with maroons, burgundy and dark browns mixing. Wilson wished to show off his rather manly tastes. But Collins saw something more. He knew little of Wilson or his background. Was the man from an old family? No, for then he would have no doubt boasted of it. Maybe, by so richly furnishing his estate and townhouse, he gave off the sensation that he was not only rich, but his family had been so for a long while. By using furnishings from at least two centuries ago yet having them modernized, Wilson had designed a fake connection to the past. He wrote his own history, painted his own story by choosing how to present himself. Collins realized how smart the chubby mayor truly was.

Wilson seemed calm despite Athar's presence in Hayes. Indeed, the mayor and the captain believed to have him in their pockets. Collins knew what would happen to that man the moment he had helped them. Athar was living on borrowed time.

Collins wasn't naïve about his own fate either. But he was too full of doubt and ire to think rationally.

His jaw tensed as he painfully gritted his teeth together, watching both men as the candlelight cast eerie shadows across their faces. Their visages seemed grotesque; as if their impeccable daily masks had fallen aside and gave the disgruntled major a good view of the monsters he knew them to be. The sound in Wilson's office was thick; as if pushing through a fog. There was little he could make out besides his erratic heartbeat and his breaths; shallow and irregular.

Collins knew he had made a mistake in joining both men before him. But Forster had put it so well; he was nothing more than a thief—someone who had stolen a dead man's name for fame and fortune. He belonged with them now for there was nowhere else to turn. He had reached the point of no return all because he had cared for a woman. He was not angry with Bella, not at all. He was angry with his own foolish actions. Had he not been so easy to blackmail it could all have ended differently. Had he had more power in his grasp, more connections, he might have turned the situation around on Wilson even. He might have kept Bella and…Collins' fists balled up in his hidden fury.

The very thought of her sent a jolt of pain through him and he looked away from the table, from the ill-will of both men. Collins could sense the darkness within him, the jealousy, the lust for power. He had always known it was there. Indeed, was there not such a darkness in all men? Some might have more of it than others. And now, he found, as he was taken into the fold of Wilson, his own darkness grew and threatened to escape while he was still undecided whether he was going to release it or not. Collins was confused with himself, his feelings—his state of mind.

He pulled at his collar.

"Got that, Collins?" a distant voice asked, the tone irritated, hissing.

He looked up, caught unawares. "What?"

Wilson and Forster peered their eyes on him. Awful eyes, monstrous eyes. Orbs that did not belong to sane human beings. He had never seen so much malice in a pair of eyes before.

"The grand ball I am hosting at my estate was meant to draw Cullen out and take him down once and for all. But with his death, we can instead focus on his allies. Jacob and Billy Black will no doubt have rallied those who followed Cullen. I am certain they will strike, and we will be ready," Wilson said, motioning to some papers. "We anticipated Cullen's every move, I know Jacob will follow in his leader's footsteps."

"How will you know if we have enough men?" Collins asked, trying to shake the feeling of unease and nausea away. He had to prove himself long enough to figure out what he would do the moment Athar left for Safeira once more; when they would kill him. He had not yet solved how he was to survive once they shifted their attentions on him once more.

Forster sent him a cocky smirk. The scar on his forehead still stood out like an ugly red cross. The lines in his face grew more severe in the dark shadows cast from the candles. "We have more men than just the Royal Guard at our disposal. Many more," he assured. "But they will not be necessary if Black strikes."

Wilson drummed his fingers against the table, his foot tapping lightly on the dark Persian rug. He reached out for a small polished metal table with a glass server and some elegant cups and poured an amber liquid that Collins suspected was either brandy or whiskey.

"You will take charge of the Royal Guard, Collins. Forster will have a few other guards on standby at the perimeters of the estate, just in case. I wish to snuff out these annoying rebels once and for all." He downed the contents of the cup in one swig, pouring himself another one while turning to Collins. The gray eyes peered into him coldly as his chins bobbed. He had discarded the gray wig and ran his hand over his shaved head. "In two days, this will all be behind us and we can return to the life of leisure we used to know, without worrying about ghosts or bandits," he blinked.

However, Collins could see the slight shaking in Wilson's hand. Despite the confident appearance, he was still afraid something would go wrong.

The major nodded slowly, pressing his lips together.

"You may go and get some rest. Mr. Wilson and I have other more personal things to go over," Forster spat, turning his back to his supposed superior officer.

Collins knew that there was no reason to dispute with the captain. Forster enjoyed showing he had authority over him, and he was powerless to protest. Collins grabbed his hat and stepped out without a word. The moment the doors had closed behind the major, Forster grabbed a cup for himself and poured some of the amber liquid.

"Are all the preparations in order?" Wilson asked with a slight shake to his voice.

Forster stared into the cup and arched his eyebrow. "In two days, he will be gone, and you will have sent your message." He pressed the cup to his lips and unlike Wilson, Forster savored every drop of the alcohol.

"I cannot rest until I hear of his death, Forster. Things are getting out of hand and we must show that we are in control."

"We are in control. Cullen is dead and—"

Wilson turned around heftily, anger gracing his plump features. "Aye, but where is the body?"

"One of the lancers shot him, I saw the bullet hit him myself, as did Collins!" Forster argued. "He bled like any other man. Maybe his horse took him to the forest, and he bled to death there. I do not care. All I know is that we haven't seen him or had his antics irritate us since. His men will be weakened in spirit and we will take down Jacob and Billy Black." Forster soured at the last name. "Mark my word, Wilson."

Collins straightened the collar of his military jacket as he snuck out of Wilson's townhouse. However, whatever may happen at Wilson's ball, he could never truly return to how things had been.

Besides, rumors that Wilson had embezzled tax money and committed tax fraud floated around in Hayes. The suspicion would always remain, whatever Wilson did. And if Collins was suspected of working by his side, he too would be tied in with such rumors, despite the fact that he had never been involved in such an affair. He supposed it was defamation simply by association.

He repositioned the black hat over his blond hair and cleared his voice. Collins stared straight ahead of himself, disregarding the not so subtle looks he would receive as he started moving toward the garrison. Where he had previously inspired smiles and waves, his presence now made people turn their backs on him. As he walked on the side of the road, ladies and gents of all stages of society would whisper, some would frown, others would look away. They did not fear him as they feared Forster. But he saw the disappointment they held for him.

He passed the main square, past Lucy's inn and saw the servers and patrons rush around within the establishments. Horses were tied to the long pole just outside. Some men sat lazily on chairs on the wooden terrace leading up to the tavern, right under the protruding second floor, keeping away from the hot rays of the sun. The dirt kicked up by passing pedestrians and horses irritated his lungs. It was a dry day. Collins aimed for the garrison when he suddenly slowed his pace.

Entering the square, in an elegant black vis-à-vis carriage, were none other than Edward Masen and Isabella Swan. The peacock was different. In the short course of their engagement, it seemed Bella had already managed to bring the dandy down to earth. He did not dress like a ridiculous butterfly anymore. His nose wasn't in the air any longer due to the lack of tall cravats and collars. His hair was pushed back, not lying flat in greasy curls, making him look like a buffoon. Indeed, Mr. Masen looked an accomplished gentleman, and Collins wasn't the only one to realize it.

Bella held a satin parasol in a soft blue, complimenting her dress in the same tone. Her face peered from under the straw bonnet and he saw Masen say something, causing a warm laugh to escape her lips.

Collins clenched his hand and stopped. He watched the couple, watched the warmth in Bella's eyes, her relaxed aura. She didn't seem to mind the fop. She seemed comfortable in his presence. Had it always been this way? Collins wondered.

She had never looked at him with those warm eyes. He had never made her laugh in that way.

Of course, it could be a façade, Collins supposed. The carriage stopped in front of Lucy's inn and Masen stepped down—awkwardly—the major noted. He turned and helped his fiancée step down as well. Collins wasn't the only one who watched them. Some pedestrians noted the couple as well.

Stiffly, Masen took her hand in the fold of his arm as they moved to enter the inn just as Sgt. Thompson spotted them and followed eagerly.

As Collins took a sharp breath and turned to his garrison, Bella and Edward sat down with Thompson at a table inside, ordering a bottle of wine and some venison stew. Lucy kept ordering her staff around as the tavern filled to the brim. Ted helped her at the bar and Joe kept an eye on the back, helping the cook with the fire.

It was a magical day in Hayes, Bella thought. As she took in the normalcy of the tavern, seated next to the man that was soon to be her husband, and Sgt. Thompson, a good friend, she imagined it couldn't get any better.

Thompson had downed his third cup of wine when Edward ordered another bottle. "I believe you will have to keep the bottles coming, my good sir, for here the wine flows like water," he remarked dryly to the waiter as he arched an eyebrow Thompson's way. The comment caused a faint grin in Bella while Thompson was happily unaware.

Lucy shook her head at the strange trio while she was restocking the liquor behind the bar. Joe passed through the crowded room, squeezing through the chairs and standing patrons until he reached Lucy.

"Ya've got someone here fer ya, Lucy," he shouted through the loud conversation.

Lucy cast a glance Ted's way. "Keep an eye on him, Joe fer God knows he'll raid the whiskey cabinet the moment I step away," she sighed, putting down a bottle with an amber liquid in it and drying her hands on her dirty apron.

The big woman walked away from the bar, past Bella and her company. "Maybe some grape juice would be in order?" she stopped to whisper in Bella's ear, eyeing Thompson. "I think he's had enough fer today."

Bella leaned toward Lucy. "He won't notice the difference," she agreed. "I'll ask Joe for a bottle and switch them."

"Maybe ya could let yer fiancé have at the wine, 'twould surely make him a better conversationalist," she chuckled.

"Oh, Lucy, Edward is anything but droll when he is drunk," she whispered with a horrid look that quickly turned into a mischievous grin.

Lucy straightened up and moved further back to the tavern. "…I must know what you two were speaking of, Miss Swan," she could hear the dry voice demand behind her.

"Oh, nothing, I assure you, Mr. Masen." The statement caused a smirk in Lucy. Yes, Bella Swan would know how to handle Edward Masen rather well she figured.

"I must get goin'," Lucy excused sending them all a nod as she hastened to the back of her tavern. She went past the bustling kitchens and to the back, shrouded in shadows as the light of day would not reach there.

A premonition took hold of her. Something hung unspoken in the air as she discerned two figures moving toward her from the shadows. She saw two pairs of gleaming black orbs contrast against the backdrop of the small room past the kitchens. One leaned heavily on a crutch and another stood taller. Some lit candles in an old iron holder let some muted light filter through, where particles floated lazily in the air. The scent of musk, mud, and metal was the most prevalent.

"I would think it a stupidity that ya stepped out in broad daylight," she sighed as she placed her hands on her broad hips.

Jacob and his father stepped forward more so that they were positioned in the light of the dancing flames. Jacob had a serious look etched into his features; a look of revenge, a look of fatigue after so many months away from his home. His father appeared more reserved. Perhaps he carried the same fatigue as his son. He, however, did nothing to show it.

"Forster won't be looking for us when the sun's out," Jacob said.

"Then whatcha want?" Lucy demanded. "I've a full tavern in the front. Some of us still try to lead a life here. We can't all be rebels!"

"We did not choose this," Jacob spat as he curled his fists and let out a snort of anger. His father placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Mrs. Berg," he began, letting the raven eyes drill into hers. "It's time we set an end to all of this."

She swallowed hard, knowing what he was referring to.

"It's time we openly stood up against Forster. We know not what became of Cullen... if he is still out there. But we do know that we must take action. You saw the ledgers condemning Wilson. We aim to bring his affairs into the light and let justice—Ridge's justice—handle him."

"And whatcha want me for?"

"We need men. Able men who will help push the Royal Guard back as we enter Wilson's ball. The stakes are high, I understand this. But we have chosen this as our chance to strike, to take those men down. You heard me speak here in the Goose a few weeks ago, you seemed to agree. I am certain you wish for Ridge and Haste to have their suicides declared void."

The plump woman was captivated by the enigmatic orbs of a man who held more wisdom than she. "Twould be just like ya, Black, to speak out again." She scratched her head under the white cap, some graying strawberry blonde locks escaping its confinement. Lucy stood divided with the knowledge she held. She knew Cullen was alive. She even suspected who he was. But if he had not sought out Black and his men, then there had to be a reason. She trusted enough in him to realize he knew what he was doing. Revealing that he still lived might thwart some plan of his. Thus, she kept her mouth shut.

"I'll get yer men fer ya," she stated. "Joe'll see to that, he will. But ya will have to persuade them yerselves!" Critical eyes glanced at both men. "But come, lads, come into the kitchen with me n' have something to eat. You both look like you could use it."

Both couldn't help as the corner of their lips twitched while following her: the mother hen of Hayes indeed!

Carlisle had never known such uncertainty before. Hayes had not been what he had expected. Ever since arriving he had understood what the town was going through. When Isabella Swan had asked for his help with Jacob and Billy Black, he hadn't hesitated for a second. When Lucas Ridge had spoken with him and Judge Johnson regarding the Black trial, he had seemed so calm and collected. Carlisle still remembered the haunted look on Ridge's features as he had come to his house in the dead of night, a few days before his supposed suicide. And Lucas had made him swear to keep silent, swear he would never tell a soul of what he was to give him. For Lucas Ridge feared for his life.

Carlisle knew it was all culminating and that the rumors surrounding Mayor Wilson were true. He also knew that the more the mayor and captain were pushed into a corner, the stronger their retaliation would be. Someone—he suspected it to be Cullen—had gathered Ridge's information about both men. And Carlisle didn't doubt it one second that Cullen, whether he was still alive or not, had been preparing for the grand battle.

A sudden move from the corner of his office sent him flying from his chair. He had grown jumpy ever since Cullen had broken into his home. "Who goes there?" he demanded, reaching for the pistol he had hidden in one of his drawers.

"A friend, Lord Masen!" a voice called out as a figure stepped into the light. It was past most people's bedtime and Carlisle only had one light in his study. He discerned a tall man with glossy black hair tied at the nape of his neck walking up toward him.

Jacob Black.

The proud lord calmed when he realized it was not an enemy. "I could have shot you," he reprimanded as he sunk down in his chair. He moved for the glass of brandy he had been sipping on during the past hour.

Jacob neared with little decorum. "I am sorry to intrude, Lord Masen, but I am not someone you want to be seen with. Not at times like these," he said.

Another sip brought the burning liquid down his throat. "Why are you here?" Golden eyes sprang up to meet black ones. Carlisle knew who Jacob Black had been before his father's imprisonment. However, spending months living as an outsider—a fugitive from the Royal Guard, had the lord on the defensive, just in case.

Jacob neared. "Tomorrow evening Mayor Wilson is throwing the biggest event Hayes has seen in decades; most of the town and neighboring villages are invited to join in on the festivities. Everyone will be attending."

"You are going to go up against Forster and Wilson," Carlisle whispered, shifting in his seat.

"I know you held onto the letter Ridge wrote. You know everything Wilson has done," Jacob said, leaning in. "Cullen said you had already opened the letter when he got it—"

"Stole it."

"Borrowed it."

The brandy swirled in his glass as both men took a step back from the conversation. Mentioning Cullen's name brought a sort of melancholy into the room. Neither mentioned his absence, but both thought about it; that Cullen probably was dead.

"Wilson has to be shown for what he is, and Forster…" Jacob trailed off as his voice started shaking, the ire bubbling beneath the surface. "Forster will pay."

Carlisle's lips were pressed together as his brow furrowed. "Charging in with your men and killing the Royal Guard in front of witnesses will not help your cause. It will only show that you are as bloodthirsty as them."

"We are using what Ridge gave us," Jacob said. "Everything. We are not alone."

"Who—"

"I am not at liberty to disclose that."

The baron sighed as he stood up and walked around his desk. "I am to surmise that you wish for me, maybe also my family, to help you enter Wilson's estate that—may I remind you—will be more guarded than the garrison? And you then wish us to watch as you throw a letter and some other evidence in his face and expect him to admit to his crimes?" He walked up to stand face to face with Jacob.

"We will not be throwing anything into his face, neither my father nor I have the ability to condemn Wilson. But we have someone with us who can and will. It's your choice if you wish to help us in this endeavor."

"If this does not work in our favor, my family and I may end up in Forster's clutches. My son is to marry, for heaven's sake!" He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I know about Bella's engagement to Mr. Masen. Trust me when I say that I would never let anything happen to her, or those she cares about. She is very dear to me. I will guard her and her family as my own; that means the entire Masen household as well."

Carlisle looked at Jacob Black for a moment. "Even my son?"

Jacob sighed. "Obviously your son," he deadpanned. "She's marrying him for a reason, isn't she?" he continued. "For surely she wasn't forced into anything?"

No, indeed she had not been forced. Bella Swan had actively chosen to marry Edward, maybe with a small push and encouragement on their behalf. But he knew her type, she was determined and hotheaded. Had she not accepted by her own accord, there would never have been a chance of her marrying Edward.

"She…surprised us all by accepting his proposal," Carlisle confessed.

Jacob couldn't help the snort escaping him, nor hide the silly smirk such a sentence caused. "My lord, will you help us enter Wilson's estate? You have been there before, surely you know of a way to let us inside?"

The baron looked at him for a long time. "You are asking me to trust fully in you to do such a thing…" He grew pensive until a resolute sigh finally claimed him. They were working for the same goal. Jacob was right, tomorrow night was the best time to attack and they might not get another similar chance again. He was gambling a lot on Jacob Black's success, but it was better than just watching idly and do nothing. "Very well, I shall. However, I need you to show me the same faith. I need to know who will help you take down Forster and Wilson. That is my price to smuggle you into the estate."

Jacob had promised Athar that he wouldn't say anything. He knew Carlisle Masen was a man of honor and true to his word. He had held onto Ridge's letter. Ridge had trusted in him. But what if Ridge's faith in Masen was what had caused his demise? What if Masen was in league with Wilson? No, that surely couldn't be. Masen had called for the judge from Safeira and tried to get him and his father out of prison together with Ridge. And if Bella was marrying into this family it was for something. He trusted in her judgment of character, even now.

"Willard Athar," Jacob said.

And as Carlisle agreed to help them enter, another shadow slipped soundlessly past outside the door after having heard their interaction.

The small room had been silent for hours, the man within it sitting in contemplation while going over recent events. He had always had a perceptive mind—always known when something was amiss. Tomorrow night was the night of the grand ball, and he knew that chances of him taking down Wilson, despite the evidence he was to present, would be small to none. Lucas Ridge and Maria Haste may have presented good witnesses had they survived. Lord Newton, to anyone's better knowledge, was dead, and he suspected Wilson was behind it. For, if the lord of Cadherra was gone, the mayor of Hayes would have more freedom to do as he chose in the county. Wilson was good at what he did. He knew what people to push and what people to take into his fold.

But Wilson had been wrong about him, about Willard Athar. He was true to his family, to his name, and to his country. And he was true to the king, however inept and misguided he may be. When the king had taken the throne, he had ruled well at first, albeit some small lack of experience was expected. But that was why he had his advisors. But, indeed, a few years ago, around the time of the French terror, he had started making foolish decisions. He had started giving more power to certain lords at court and almost turned his back on the Athar family. The king followed inept advice. While he had, as a younger man, wished to bring the country into the future, he now ruled the country in such medieval ways that it had sparked rebellions in the north. Willard understood the leaders of the rebellion to a degree. He too would be tired to be dismissed and see the people of his home county starved for resources so certain lords at court could have their perks.

But at times like these, some village rebellion could spark a similar event like the one that had happened in France and General Adams, the leader of the rebellion in the north, did not understand that. And, to think that Hayes had been the inspiration for such an uprising... To think a ghost had started it all.

Willard scratched his head and put his face in his hands. The rest of Hayes slept soundly, many sensing the calm before the storm, many realizing that soon something was bound to happen. Willard had spotted Jacob in the tavern that same night, watching how he was gathering men to help them storm Wilson's feast. The official was not a fighting man, he had never been. But he had heard the horrors of Captain Forster and seen the fear in the townspeople's eyes.

Aye, fear had been there. But, strangely, behind that fear rested something else.

Hope.

And he knew very well who had invoked such hope. While many said Cullen was killed by the lancers, others still believed in the legend, believed that the ghost could never be killed for he represented the iron will and pride of Cadherra. He was the backbone of the people, the man who had given them the courage to stand up for themselves. They all nodded knowingly and whispered his name as their eyes sparkled. He had seen it in the tavern, seen the faint smiles, the clinking of cups as they drank to his name; as they mumbled Audeamus.

Edward Cullen was and always would be the will of the people. Edward Cullen was the people, one of them. Willard, after all his year in public service, could not fail such men and women, not now, not when so much was at stake; as his brother had told him right before his departure.

He settled further in his chair and sighed, sensing the intruder in his room. He wondered how long he had been there.

"I hope you will not stand in that corner all night, good sir," he said out loud as he moved to light a candle. Willard knew it not to be an assassin. If Forster or Wilson wanted him dead, he would not be breathing right now.

The stranger stepped forward. "No light if you please, Sir Athar," its low tone echoed eerily—as if it was the voice of the past speaking to him.

His hand hovered over the wax candles and Willard swallowed hard; hesitant yet understanding. "As you wish," he whispered back. Once he had heard the voice speak, his skin turned into gooseflesh because he understood who was in that room with him. Willard turned around and saw a dark mass in the furthest corner of the room.

Cullen.

He knew it to be him. It had to be him.

"The people say you died…again."

He heard him shift slightly in the darkness as the crescent moonbeams pushed against the shutters, faintly filtering through like silver beams.

"Maybe I did," the voice trailed off and evoked a sudden sadness in Athar that he furrowed his brow.

"As… an official for the kingdom of Angloa, I cannot overlook your vigilante acts against the authority of this town and county." He turned fully to face him, knowing there was little Cullen would be able to discern from his features. "Officially, at least. Whether you are Cullen—the real Cullen that died in Adelton Hall three hundred years ago—or not matters little to me. What matters is what you have done, who you have gone up against and who you aim to take down. Or aimed; for even your men think you gone."

"I came here, Sir Athar, because your family supported Cullen during the war of succession three centuries ago. I came here to understand who you are, what kind of a man you are—"

"You already know. I stand by my family's tradition. We will always be loyal to Angloa, to the idea King William Fell had of this kingdom. And we aim to push his descendants to a just kingdom. We want a bright future, but not the rebellion you are instigating."

"How are the people, of Hayes or any other town, to live freely when corrupt men like Wilson and crazed officials like Forster manage to rule so unchecked? How could I simply stand by and watch men—who stood up for what they believed without wearing a mask, like Billy Black—do nothing? Call me what you will; a vigilante, an outlaw, a bandit. Cast my name in the dirt as you please. I care little what you think of me, sir. But do not abandon these people that I've tried to help this past year. Men like Wilson need to be brought to justice. The man and woman who tried to do so are now resting in two coffins," he said with a tremor to his growling voice.

Athar took a step forward. "And what happens after?" he asked. "After Wilson is disposed of, if he can be."

"I am merely a man in a mask, sir," the deep voice said as he too neared, now standing in the faint beams of the silver light.

Athar paled as he saw the silhouette of the man before him; a man appearing larger than life, just as stories from old had described him to be. Was this truly just a man of flesh and blood? That could not be. This had to be the real Edward Cullen.

"I need to understand how someone like Wilson could ever manage to live as he has without interference from the capital."

Athar stuttered something intangible to himself, his nostrils flaring, his otherwise stoic and collected countenance faltering. Few things managed to alarm him, to budge him. Yet this man had done just that. But could he trust him? Trust was not easily earned, Athar thought.

"Wilson has known which men to bribe during the years. He knew so in Wessport as well as in Safeira. He takes a man's darkest desires, or his darkest secret, and uses it against him."

"Then he must have some powerful men in his grip," Cullen mumbled.

Something hung unspoken in the room. "I cannot say the extent, sir," Athar answered. "Tomorrow…your men will help me take down Wilson and Forster, if the proof Ridge gathered was enough."

"Tomorrow you will succeed, Athar," Cullen reassured.

"How can you be so certain?"

"I will make sure it is so."

"But how can you know if you have not even told your men of your presence there?"

Cullen shifted to the window, producing a black cape with a deep hood, placing it about his shoulders. "You will see," he said, turning around, his eyes glittering dangerously in the night. "Tomorrow."

He opened the windows and jumped out into the darkness of the night, leaving Athar with a deep frown on his forehead and a sigh escaping his lungs.

A/N: Hey! I am (finally) back from a drawn-out vacation. I initially wrote I would be gone between 2-3 weeks. I waited with posting due to life...work, all that good stuff. Working an 8 to 5 job and having a social life is more draining than I remembered so I didn't have time to go over my chapters, edit them etc. And then it kind of became a pain, something I "had to do", and that's not how it's supposed to be! Writing is supposed to be fun! So I decided to take a step back, collect my thoughts and return with a fresh mindset. Now I am back, excited to (soon!) reach the finish line :D I thank you all very much for your patience, I am sorry I made you wait, I hope you know that wasn't my intention, I usually follow my schedule religiously. But I feel I'd rather give myself some time than let the fic suffer and then have to re-edit a bunch of chapters (and not be happy with the end result).

Hoping you liked the chapter, the next one will be up next week! (This time there will be no drawn-out hiatus, I promise!)

Cheers,

Isabelle