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Terry had experienced quite a lot in his life. Things that would’ve destroyed most people. Not that he was any better or any stronger than them, of course. No, he was something much worse. It felt more like he’d been blown apart and pieced back together like a jagged puzzle of glass shards. He’d had to live through his father’s death twice, even if the second time around it had been a vampire the entire time. He’d had to watch his mother fall in love with a man that could barely work a microwave, let alone be a parental figure. He’d had to watch the light leave one of his best friend’s eyes after whatever the hell happened at the Supper Bowl.
No, no, I’m fine. I swear. Grant would say. Grant would lie.
He’d had to realize that the situation they were all in was quite fucked, and that getting angry at his step-father or any of the dads wasn’t going to help anything. His mother had always said support was the best medicine. Then he’d had to watch as the man he slowly let inch his way into his heart got beaten down by his own father. Ron, the bumbling, oafish buffoon, cowering away from his father like he was ten years old again. And all Terry could think was: At least my father never treated me like that. He’d felt horrible for the thought, so he’d reached out. Extended a hand. Offered that medicinal support that drew open his heart and let him see Ron as he was. A kind, caring, sometimes doltish man trying his best in a world that had beaten him down time and time again.
That rage he’d felt towards Ron became empathy. Terry had suffered, but so had Ron. More so than Terry really knew, and who was he to judge someone he had barely known? But his mother, wise as she was, had another piece of advice for him.
I know you’re upset, Terry. I know you’re angry. But save the rage for those that truly deserve it. Don’t ever let the innocent bear the brunt of your emotions.
Ron hadn’t deserved that anger, not really. None of them had. Except for one man that had almost single handedly ruined the lives of everyone he cared about.
Willy Stampler.
And right now, Terry had never felt more rage looking into the man’s cool, smug, blue eyes. Surrounded by his friends, sans Nick, he wanted nothing more than to strangle his step-grandpa with his bare hands. But he couldn’t. Yet.
“Really now, you can’t even control your own kids?” Willy cocked his head to the side disapprovingly, then tutted his tongue. “Pathetic, honestly.”
“I could say the same about you. Wasn’t it your own son that helped lock you away?” Terry spat, and shadows passed over the man’s expression. Shadows that did nothing to hide the flash of murderous anger he felt.
They vanished in the next second, and Willy just laughed. “He’s dead, I’m alive, so who really won in the end? Are you going to help or what?”
“On three.” Terry grit his teeth and lowered himself down, matching stances with Willy. “One. Two. Three.”
They both charged the door, heads braced as their shoulders slammed into the metal. The hinges groaned with the blow, and pain lanced up and down Terry’s side, but he did his best to mask it. He didn’t want to hear whatever sassy quip Willy would have prepared if he saw Terry wince.
“Again.” He said. He counted down, and the two men threw themselves against the door once more, their breathing picking up the longer they hurled their weight at it. He swore under his breath with each consecutive blow, knowing the complaints were futile. Nick was nowhere to be found, not that that was surprising. They had turned on him, of course, and this was the consequence. Lark and Sparrow were busy ensuring Grant was alright, and the twins rarely separated long enough to do much of anything. So that left it up to Terry to deal with Willy and this door, and right now, he was wondering what sort of injuries he’d sustain if he “accidentally” ran his shoulder through the man’s jaw.
But they needed to get out of this room. He folded his anger away for only a moment. He focused on the task at hand. And together, the two of them hit the door again, and this time, they heard the snapping of metal as the lock gave way. The door crashed outward, and both Terry and Willy went tumbling to the floor.
By now, their kids were likely long gone. Willy wanted them dead. Terry wanted him dead. The goal now was simple. Kill Willy, then find their kids. They had survived thus far, but if Willy managed to get his hands on them, they wouldn’t stand a chance. I know I hadn’t, Terry thought with a scowl as he picked himself up.
Willy dusted his hands off on his pants, grinning as he turned back to them. “Well, thanks so much for your help, Terry, but I’m off. See you never?”
“I don’t think so.” Terry took an offensive step forward.
Willy blew out a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes. “You really want to do this? Right here, right now? I’m happy to beat the ever loving shit out of you four, but I’m trying to spare your dignity. And your lives.”
Behind them, Grant and the twins approached, stepping over the threshold of the broken door as they took their places beside Terry.
“We aren’t little kids anymore.” Grant snarled, a light fading back into his expression that Terry recognized. He wanted to hurt something. He wanted to hurt Willy. “We aren’t weak.”
“One of those statements is true, and I don’t think I need to tell you which.” Willy clicked his tongue. “But fine. I guess I’ll fight you. And when I win, I’ll keep you alive just enough so you can watch me kill your kids. Sound good?”
“Sounds great.” The voice was sharp and deadly. Lark appeared behind Willy as if from thin air, having slipped away while they were distracted, and clutched tightly in his hand was a dagger. The same dagger he’d used to spill his father’s blood and let loose the Doodler. He aimed it up at a slight angle, angling to slide it easily into Willy’s spine, but the man was as perceptive as he was sarcastic. His hand shot out and batted the knife out of Lark’s hand like it was nothing more than a twig, catching his friend’s wrist in the process.
“A sneak attack? Really? I’m honestly a little offended.” Willy gloated, and he twisted Lark’s wrist back as far as it could go. Lark grunted but didn’t cry out, moving his own body to try and relieve some of the pressure. The other three descended, trying to use the momentary distraction to their advantage.
Casting spells meant potentially harming Lark, though they knew Lark wouldn’t care what happened to him so long as Willy went down. But they had practiced over the years. They’d been through quite a lot together, after all. They had their own tricks up their sleeves.
Terry took a step back as Grant held up a glowing finger. In the air, he drew what looked like an X, and the letter shifted and crackled in the air, then shot toward Willy. The mark sunk into his back like a brand. A target.
“Hold.” Terry murmured, splaying his hands out in front of him. Purple strings of magic appeared around his fingers, each of them trying to grapple onto Willy like he was a marionette, but the man turned his head, and his eyes were glowing the same purple that surrounded Terry’s hands now. He wrenched his free hand up like a blade, slicing through the strings easily, but the deflection had opened his defenses.
In Sparrow’s hand had materialized a vine whip laden with thorns, and he flung it outward. The end wrapped around the arm holding onto Lark, and in one swift movement, Sparrow yanked him free. Willy stumbled forward, grunting, but let the momentum carry him down. With both hands, he slammed them onto the ground, shattering the tiles as the floor quaked beneath them. Lark and Sparrow dropped low, keeping their balance, but Terry and Grant found themselves falling.
Lark’s gaze flitted toward the knife, and Sparrow raised his hands.
“Brother, move!” He shouted, and Lark lunged for the dagger, his body shifting into a roll just as Sparrow shot a cone of frigid air outward, aiming it directly at Willy. The ice struck him fully, but he only pulled his arms inward, bracing himself against the storm. Crystals hung off his clothes, but his skin was flush, his eyes beading nothing but hatred. Terry felt it too as he picked himself off the floor.
“So the dogs can learn a few tricks. How cute. I’ve got one.” He shook out his arms, then raised a finger. “Eenie, meanie, miney, you.”
He pointed his finger directly at Grant, and for an instant, they were all back at the campsite, time slowing down as Glenn Close lay dying in the grass, blood pooling from his mouth. The light had faded fast from his eyes, too fast, and the panic that surged through Terry froze his feet to the ground, just as it had that day. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t helpless.
He pushed through the fear, the panic, and rushed forward, lunging in front of Grant just as the magic from Willy’s spell hit, and he collapsed to the ground. His body writhed out of his control as pain like fire seared up and down his flesh, knives digging into him from the inside, and he begged them to burst free. End it, end it, end it, he screamed internally. Glenn’s heart had burst inside his own chest. Terry hadn’t a clue what that would feel like, but this pain wasn’t ending. His light wasn’t fading. His skin felt like it was melting off and condensing inward at the same time, and the stench of death met his nose.
Then, just like that, it was over. He was sweating profusely, his clothes sticking to his skin, but he was alive. He rolled himself over, and his body protested with aches and pains that pulled on his muscles, but he was able to get up. Just a few feet away, Grant and Sparrow were hurling spells at Willy while Lark moved in with his dagger, but Terry didn’t have to watch long to see how Willy wasn’t really trying. He moved with the grace of a cat, dodging blows, twirling away from spells, and barely raising a finger to strike back with his own power.
It was infuriating. Terry sucked in a deep breath, and he raised his hand, imagining a larger, more spectral hand reaching out for him, wrapping itself around Willy, and crushing his bones in one squeeze.
“Drain.” He murmured, and his magic slunk forward to wrap around Willy, coating the man’s skin in an awful, purple haze. It dug in and burned his skin, earning Terry a wince and a grunt, rotting the flesh from the inside out.
When the haze finally dissipated, though, he saw that the spell, though it had clearly affected Willy, had barely done more than surface-level damage. His skin was paler, maybe a bit drier, definitely a little less alive, but the man himself was still moving and turning as though he’d been hugged by a cloud.
“I’ve felt deadlier magic from a rock.” Willy taunted, ducking under a shard of ice flung from Sparrow’s hand. “I mean, I knew my son was a fuckup, but you got magic, and that’s all you’ve got? Killing you is well and truly a mercy.”
Terry sneered. “That’s an awful lot of chatter for someone who’s got nothing and no one.”
“What, and you’ve got more?” Willy laughed. “Yeah, sure. Just some fucked up kids raised by fucked up dads raised by even more fucked up dads, trying to repair a world that you broke! Who’s the real villain here? Hm?”
“You!” Grant snapped. “It’s always been you! If you had just left all of us alone, none of this would be happening!”
Willy waved his hand dismissively through the air, rolling his head around like he was trying to shake loose Grant’s words. “Uh, sorry, remind me again who dropped that pyramid onto an innocent town?”
He raised a hand to his ear, waiting for anyone to answer, but he was looking directly at Grant. “That’s right. Your dad!” Willy clapped his hands, then turned to Lark. “And remind me again who released the Doodler? Oh, right, you! And who activated this Code Purple bullshit? Ding, ding, ding, right again! It was you! I got us to point B on this roadmap, but it was all of your dumbasses that got us to point Z.”
“Don’t pretend like you’re innocent in all of this.” Sparrow shouted, breathing hard as he lowered his hands. “You could’ve been content with your second life, but you chose to bring everyone there for your own sick, twisted desire for immortality. Greed is unbecoming. It was your downfall before, and it’ll be your downfall now.”
“Aw, how touching.” Willy wiped a fake tear from his eye and held a hand to his heart. “Really, I’m a changed man now, uh… What was your name again? Oh, right, I don’t actually give a shit.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lark said, “Say whatever you want, Willy. At least none of us tried to kill our own sons.”
“No, but you did try to kill one of your friends. Sweet, demonic Nick?” Willy turned his head to look at each of them in kind. “Well done on that front, by the way. I’m sure you had the best intentions trying to kill him, yes? Or are you starting to realize that maybe you four aren’t as perfect as you claim to be?”
“We never claimed we were perfect.” Grant stated, glaring sharply. “But unlike you, we’ll do anything to protect our kids, even if it means they hate us.”
“Well, if they’re going to hate you anyway…” Willy clicked his tongue, and Terry saw the corner of his mouth flick up into that signature smirk. “Maybe there’s a better use for you yet.”
His eyes blazed purple, and they had no time to move before he uttered a single word. “Stop.”
Terry felt the power wash over him, felt the magic sink into his skin, into his muscles, exerting a willpower that overcame his own… and in the next moment, Terry was standing just as he had been, eyes now trained on the wall where Willy had been not a second before. His brow furrowed. Grant, Lark, and Sparrow all stood around him, their eyes drawn in similar confusion, until they all flit to Terry, then to just behind him.
A hand came down hard on Terry’s shoulder, and he flinched. His heart stuttered, and he was about to whirl around when Willy’s suave voice hit his ears. “Ah, ah. Face forward.”
Against his own will, his body obeyed, a new sort of feeling dominating his senses, forcing his attention back to the front. Willy’s other hand rested on his left shoulder. In any other scenario, the scene would have been comforting. Had it been Ron with his hands on Terry’s shoulder, his heart wouldn’t have been hammering away at his ribcage like it wanted to burst free. He shifted his head slightly, and he felt a smooth stretch of leather brush against his neck. He was wearing a collar.
“See,” Willy began, squeezing Terry’s shoulders. “The issue with spells is that they have rules. They only last a certain time, you have to be concentrating on it, you can’t make the puppet kill himself, blah, blah, blah.”
“Willy--” Grant started, the rage in his eyes now replaced with cold, dark fear.
Willy’s fingers dug into Terry’s skin, just enough to make him wince, and suddenly he was back in that cabin again on Swankery Hill, watching Willy as he snapped at Ron. “Don’t interrupt me.”
Grant’s mouth screwed shut, and Willy loosened his grip.
“Good, you know how to listen. As I was saying, spells are so limiting, but I’ve learned that there are workarounds to everything. Loopholes. These collars here are a bit rudimentary, but you four can help me iron out the kinks, eh?” Terry was still facing his friends, but he could hear the shit-eating grin in Willy’s voice. “Terry, hold out your hand.”
Once more, out of his control, Terry’s right hand lifted, his fist opening to display his open palm in the air. One of Willy’s hands disappeared from his shoulder, then reappeared with a knife, and he handed it off to Terry.
“Place the knife against your throat.” His voice was cool and calm, like he was playing a game of Simon Says, not dangling Terry’s life on a hook in front of his friends. “Well, boys, should I ask him to do it? Dig the knife in a little, Terry. Draw some blood.”
He grit his teeth, and he bit back a short gasp as his own hand betrayed him and pressed the knife inward, cutting into his skin. A bead of blood bloomed under the blade, and the warmth quickly cooled as it rolled down his skin. His eyes flit to his friends, to each of their stone cold expressions, their tense muscles, and he silently begged them not to egg Willy on.
“See? Loopholes.” Willy chuckled and patted Terry’s shoulders. “So, since I have complete control over your buddy, here’s what you three are going to do. You’re going to put down any weapons you’ve got, kneel on the ground with your hands behind your heads, and let me fasten these collars on you. Otherwise, Terry’ll drive that knife into his gut and give you a nice, up close view of his organs.”
“And what’s to stop us from just killing you now?” Lark snapped, clenching and unclenching his fingers. “He can’t obey you if you’re dead.”
Willy snapped his fingers and pointed at Lark, a wild edge to his voice. “Thank you for asking, Lark. See? Isn’t this nice? All of us getting along? The answer is simple. Terry, if I die, you’re going to slit your own throat, understand?”
His head nodded twice, but more than anything, he wanted to take the dagger in his hands and plunge it into Willy’s eyes.
“He’s bluffing.” Lark called. “The magic won’t work if he’s dead.”
“You really want to test it?” Willy asked, a bored, yet amused drawl in his voice. “By all means, kill your friend! He’s not related to me, I don’t give a single shit about him. And I don’t really need you, either. This is just fun. The collars will spare your lives, but you won’t be leaving here without them.”
“Guys, maybe we should think about this.” Terry spoke up for the first time, breathing steadily against the knife at his throat.
His friends all met his gaze, and Terry prayed they could read the plea behind his eyes. Under normal circumstances, Terry would’ve said to hell with it and told them to kill Willy no matter the consequences. But these weren’t normal circumstances. His mind fled back to Terry, no, Scary, brave and stubborn as she was. Maybe she didn’t like him right now, or even want to be around him, but he would never stop fighting for her. He would never leave this world knowing that there was something else he could’ve done to protect her. He knew she didn’t want his help. His protection. She didn’t need it.
Terry had felt the same way when he had sided with his “father,” a man that, deep down, he knew was a fraud. Yet Ron still came after him, still defended him, no matter the horrible things Terry said and did, and wasn’t that what a parent was supposed to do? Be there for their child no matter the consequences? With the collar on, maybe Terry would be Willy’s puppet. But with the collar on, he could get to Scary alive. He could warn her, maybe. She was smart. All those kids were. They would figure it out together. Things would be alright.
He couldn’t do that if he was dead. Grant couldn’t apologize to his son for all the lies. Sparrow couldn’t tell his son just how utterly proud of him he was, no matter what he did. And Lark couldn’t make sure that each of those kids was tougher than a bag of nails. They were already tough given how far they’d gotten on their journey, but none of them should have to lose a parent because of their own brash decisions.
“So, what’ll it be, champs?” Willy asked, tapping Terry’s shoulder like his fingers were counting down the seconds on an invisible timer.
One by one, he watched his friends’ postures loosen. Grant’s face fell, and he was the first to kneel, followed by Sparrow, then begrudgingly by Lark. From his shoes, Lark removed two smaller knives and dropped them on the floor, along with the dagger he’d originally tried to kill Willy with. They each placed their hands behind their heads, and only Terry heard the deep rumble of laughter that filled Willy’s chest.
He nudged Terry’s feet, and the two of them walked forward, first stopping in front of Sparrow. Seemingly pulling it from thin air, Willy produced a slim band of leather inscribed with glowing words. Do whatever Willy says.
Terry almost wanted to laugh at how utterly simplistic it was, and yet just how damaging it would be. The power to control four people, their every whim, every breath, every movement, held in just four words.
“If any of them make any sudden moves, Terry, I want you to cut your throat.” Willy spoke firmly, the laughter gone from his voice. His head bobbed once.
Willy bent over, his hands reaching around Sparrow’s throat to clasp the collar into place. Burning in the blonde man’s eyes was a hatred that often scared Terry. For the one who claimed to be a “love wolf,” anger was a rare, unmistakable occurrence. It took a lot to make Sparrow angry, and it took even more to make him outwardly show it, but here he was, glaring up at Willy Stampler with a look that could level a battlefield. At the end of the day, a look was just a look. Utterly harmless.
When he stepped over to Grant and wrapped the collar around his throat, the man wouldn’t meet Willy’s gaze. His expression was defeated, empty, resigned. Willy just laughed and patted Grant’s cheek with the palm of his hand. “Aw, buck up, Grant. The real fun hasn’t even started yet!”
He finished his rounds with Lark, and if Sparrow was a wolf, then his brother was a grizzly bear, his fingers flexing like the beast’s massive claws, but he contained himself. When Willy finally pulled away, Lark sank back onto his toes, letting out a deep, discontent breath.
“There, see, was that so hard? No need for all this fighting, magickey bullshit. Now the men can get down to business. Stand up.” Willy waved his hands at them, and like a squadron of soldiers, they each stood in unison. His smug, self-satisfied grin only twisted more as he watched the four men obey him, excited by the prospects of what he could make them do. “Terry, you can drop that knife now.”
His fingers uncurled instantly, and the knife clattered to the floor.
“Now, in the Stampler-family household, we’ve got two rules. One, what I say goes. And two, if you piss me off, there’ll be consequences. Any questions?” Willy glanced around at each of them as if this were a classroom, and he was their eager, studious professor. They said nothing in return, only fixed him with a cold, hard stare.
Terry couldn’t help but remember Ron’s memories. The ones he’d once described as smeared ink. He remembered Willy shouting at him to jump into the pool. He remembered the fury in his eyes as he put out the fire young Ron had mistakenly caused. He remembered the irritated, but decisively composed expression on his face as he forcefully held his son’s head under the water, not caring how he struggled. If you piss me off, there’ll be consequences.
Terry knew what those consequences were. Ron had been a child when he’d been left to face this man alone. But Terry wasn’t a child anymore. He was crafty. Intelligent. And he would figure a way out of this. He only had to play Willy’s game for now.
“Great!” Willy clapped his hands together again. “So Grant… What kind of guns have you got?”