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Antonin Dolohov stood just inside the threshold of the meager social housing he’d been assigned to, running his warm, sweaty fingers up and down the soft leather strap bisecting his chest belonging to the small satchel that held all of his worldly belongings. He beheld the room before him, a scant living room complete with stained forest green carpet, a kitchen towards the back through a crooked swinging door, and two bedrooms with one bath upstairs. It was by no means grandiose but even so, the space threaten to swallow Antonin whole. For more than a decade he’d been incarcerated, remanded within a 10x10 cell, stripped of comfort and control. By the grace of a god he didn’t believe in, the parol board had at long last taken pity on him and approved his tentative release. Permitted him to leave his cell and live here. In a dwelling with heat, air conditioning… and windows for fuck sake!
Antonin ruthlessly pinched himself on the underside of his arm, a markedly reliant assessment he often used to verify he was awake, alert, and present in the land of the living and not merely trapped within his fracturing mind with only bleak memories and regrets to keep him company as he lay sprawled out and rotting on the cold-brick floors of Azkaban prison.
Gritting his teeth as the sting in his arm peaked, Antonin then rubbed the spot gently until the burning subsided and concluded that he very much was awake. He had been disencumbered from his sentence. He was as free as a man like him could get.
As the tension in his chest began to subside, the shuffle of a sizable frame lumbering up the walk grabbed Antonin’s attention and he stepped to the side just as his roommate, Thorfinn Rowle (who also happened to be Antonin’s best friend), muscled his way through the front door with his tree-trunk sized arms slotted through a dozen shopping bags and two blue nylon leashes that stretched to the ground and attached to the collars of two small black and tan puppies.
“You made it mate! Cheers! Take these guys will you?” Thorfinn said as he removed the leashes from his person and handed them to Antonin. He took them tentatively, rubbing the nylon between his fingers. Uncertain of what to do with them, Antonin cleared his throat a few times to prime himself for the speech that had long evaded him. There was no need to speak in solitary. No one was there to listen, not even himself. He opened his mouth but nothing happened. His words were stuck, or perhaps, he’d forgotten how to speak after all.
Perhaps his freedom, the house, and Thorfinn were just hallucinations. Cracks long festering in his mind that had finally shattered. It was completely plausible that he was so far gone he was conjuring from deep within his memories the bird song and the soft breeze coming in through the still-open front door. In the moments before death, the brain was ofttimes flooded with rapturous endorphins. Perhaps this was his mind's way of bringing his corrupted soul a semblance of peace before he passed on and was cast into the never-ending agony of the circles of hell he’d been doomed to ever since he was a young man.
“You’re alright, Toshka,” Thor’s bright smiling face appeared within his blackening, bleary sight, “You’re out. You’re free. You’re home.” Beefy hands steadily grasped Antonin’s shoulders, kneaded ever so slightly into the taught, shaking muscles. The welcome, grounding touch called him back from the edge before he could fully succumb to his hysteria. Willing away the slight quiver in his hands, Antonin heaved out a breath and looked down at the two puppies sitting patiently at his feet.
“What are these?” Antonin rumbled, his words barely intelligible through the thick drawl of his accent.
“Brother, I know you’ve been away for a while, but surely you recognize dogs?” Thorfinn quipped and patted him sturdily on the back then knelt down and mused the floppy ears of the stout K-9s.
“Da, tovarishch, I see they are dogs. What are they doing here?”
“These, Brother, are our emotional support puppies! I signed up for them when I got out and finally got the call last week. Bloody right timing I’d say! They are here to help us through our trauma! Aren’t you Mjolnir? Who’s a good boy? What about you Pelmeni? Who’s the best puppy ever?” Thor pursed his lips and emitted kissing noises as the puppies promptly stood on their hind legs with their hardy front paws on his massive chest and began to lick him in the face.
“Pelmeni?” Antonin scowled as he lifted a single thick, dark eyebrow.
“Don’t bloody give me that look Toshka. He needed a name! It could be worse, I could have named him Bailey! Or Spot!” Thor ribbed and then firmly told the puppies to sit, which they promptly did, “I thought you might appreciate something that reminded you of home.”
Looking down at the flop-eared mutt lounging sideways at his feet, the creature's long pink tongue hanging out the side of its mouth, Antonin sunk his teeth into his bottom lip to stifle what he’d been about to say. Instead, he amicably accepted that the dog’s coloring did resemble the little savory dumplings that were popular back in the country of his birth.
“Come Mjolnir!” Thor called after he’d recollected the shopping bags and shuffled towards the kitchen, “I’ll put these away then cook dinner yea? You must be starving. Your rooms top of the stairs, mines down the hall,” Thor announced as he pushed the kitchen door open with his foot, allowing Mjolnir to proudly prance through the opening before Thor followed and the kitchen door swung closed with a harsh squeal.
Staring down at Pelmeni, who was laying down with his nose tucked between his two front paws, Antonin sighed and started up the stairs. Two steps up he felt tension on the leash and turned back to find Pelmeni capsized, all four of his paws perpendicular to his body in the air.
“Come Pelmeni,” Antonin croaked then struggled to bite back a dimple-revealing, stubborn smirk as the puppy flopped over, sprung to his feet, and obediently followed his new owner up the stairs.
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Antonin had never been one to talk about, or even acknowledge that he had feelings. From a young age, his father had drilled into him that emotions were a weakness he would eradicate from his only son. As a result, Antonin grew up the strong silent type, assiduously keeping those enfeeblements under lock and key until he could no longer contain them at which everything would come bursting out in phenomenal displays of mayhem, and eventually, murder.
However, talking with Pelmeni was different.
After Antonin had quashed the delusion he’d foolishly concocted that since he’d been released he would thus be in charge of deciding simple things such as when he woke up, when he ate, and when he went outside, he found he quite liked his emotional support puppy. It took no time at all for Antonin to accept, and then appreciate that he was beholden to an outside force. Another creature still held dominion over his life, though this one was far cuter and much kinder than the malevolent guards of the prison.
When the inevitable nightmares started, haunting Antonin with fragmented visions of being sealed in one of the deepest cells of the prison where not even the rats ventured, he woke drenched in sweat, screaming, but not alone. Triggered by his distress, Pelmeni would army-crawl from the foot of the bed, dragging his wet nose up Antonin’s leg until the puppy's warm, furry mass was soothingly nestled against his chest. Stroking the dogs' ears, Antonin was able to root himself in reality. Pets were not allowed in Azkaban. If Pelmeni was there, Antonin couldn’t be back in prison.
It only took 3 nights for Antonin to stop insisting the dog sleep at the foot of the bed and on the fourth night, the two fell into a comfortable routine. When bedtime arrived, Antonin pulled back the dark navy blue sheets and waited for Pelmeni to jump betwixt them. Then Antonin climbed in and the two got comfortable (albeit fighting over the same pillow until Antonin bought Pelmeni his own). Pelmeni’s rhythmic breathing and sturdy presence was a succor that only another living being could provide and it gloriously kept his night terrors at bay.
Antonin was grateful that Pelmeni didn’t fight with him (though the dog did have a way of making his displeasures known, like his low, disgruntled moans when Antonin refused to give him another liver treat or let him outside so he could chase lizards for the 76th time that day). Antonin was heartened not to be Pelmeni’s cross to bear. The dog could care less that his owner carried both physical and mental scars, not only from his incarceration but from the life that had led him down that path. Though Thor never made Antonin feel like a burden either, he didn’t feel as comfortable baring his soul to a human (even one that was his best friend), as he did to his dog.
Pelmeni and Antonin did everything together, often with Thor and Mjolnir tagging along. The men and their faithful companions spent their free time hiking as the freedom the great outdoors offered was a welcome change from the stifling pipeline of their merciless childhoods, serfdom into a crime syndicate and resulting incarcerations had been. Even so, whether he was surrounded by wooded trails, vast lakes, and towering mountains or at home attempting to read a book, Antonin found it all but impossible to keep his simmering rage at bay. He would stew in unbending resentment towards his father and former boss.
After his untimely death, Antonin’s father had left his son broken, raw and unfinished. With no other family and no funds to care for himself, Antonin had no choice but to crawl straight into the claws of a man who’d enthusiastically taken to the task of completing his training, thus turning Antonin into an unscrupulous, ruthless monster he could use and dispose of whenever the mood suited.
His father taught him to be intractable, calculating. Tom had forced him to be cruel and ruthless. Yet, it was Antonin who paid the price for their lessons. It was he who would bare the scars of their thirst and incompetence for the rest of his life. His father's words, true as they were, needled him.
“Fair is an illusion, Antoshka! Life is not fair! You will get used to it!”
Using his special doggie intellect, Pelmeni could always sense when Antonin began to slowly sink beneath the suffocating waves of his fury. Be it his rising blood pressure or shaking fists the dog always knew. Just as his jaw would start to ache, spurred by the force in which he clenched his teeth, Pelmeni was there. No longer a stout, floppy-eared puppy but a tall, sleek, pointed-nosed hunter, Pelmeni would ignore his countless hours of training, jump up onto Antonin and lick him in the face until he had no choice but to smile affectionately. His owner's easy, rich, laugh and animated attempts at begging for mercy signaled to the dog that he’d done his duty at which he would relent and continue with whatever he’d been doing, chasing a squirrel, or chewing on his favorite bone.
Even Mjolnir would offer Antonin his support if Thorfinn was away at work. During particularly raucous thunderstorms (which had never caused Antonin distress before his incarceration), when the whole house would shake along with Antonin’s hands, both dogs would jump onto the couch and press their bodies against his, one head on his shoulder, one on his knee, where they would remain until the storm passed.
The dogs tactfully taught Antonin that, though he was far from perfect, he was important to something in this life. That he deserved happiness no matter his weaknesses, no matter his faults, no matter his past.
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As the dogs approached 11 months old, Thor insisted on throwing them a party, admitting that while it was an odd age milestone they could also take the opportunity to celebrate their human counterparts' achievements at making it so long in the free world without incurring even a parking infraction. Frankly, Thor would make up any reason he could to celebrate. Sure, a party for the dogs seemed silly, but what else were two barely employed, ex-con bachelors to do but slather their four-legged companions with affection?
On the night of the party, Antonin walked home from his shift at the factory with his arms full. The box he carried in his right hand contained the “cake” Thor had ordered especially for Pelmeni and Mjolnir, some pulverized mixture of beef and bison meat mixed with heart, liver, and kidney that had been shaped into a bone. In his left hand was a bag containing something for Thorfinn. Antonin was not one for extravagant declarations of affection. He found it easier to show people how he felt rather than tell them. Since Thorfinn loved receiving gifts, Antonin had gotten him something to show him that his larger-than-life, quirky, steadfast personality was appreciated. He hoped it would demonstrably declare that Thor was Antonin’s brother through and through and that he loved him even if Antonin couldn’t say the words.
He’d also gotten Pelmeni something (though, admittedly, he got Pelmeni something every week). No matter if it was a stuffed shark complete with an aggravating squeaker the dog would excise within hours or a fresh cow bone, Pelmeni would explode with excitement, and carry on, slathering his owner with wet, sloppy, adoring kisses. Every day was the best day of Pelmeni’s life when Antonin walked through the door. Antonin was the best human to ever grace the earth as far as his dog was concerned.
Turning to walk down the dimly lit path toward the front door of their home, Antonin felt lighter. Freer. Rage and melancholy had not consumed him for some time. He’d not slipped into himself since…since the first month after he’d been released. He’d finally begun to heal. Clicking his tongue, even though Pelmeni would not know the difference, Antonin felt guilty for only getting him a pack of fresh bison cutlets. The dog deserved the entire carcass for what he’d done for Antonin.
Grabbing the door handle, Antonin rolled his eyes as the door sojourned open before he twisted the handle. It had been left slightly ajar. Antonin slipped inside, making sure to shut and lock the door behind him and fell into a mental discussion with himself on whether to have a talk with Thor that night or the next morning on controlling his exuberance for just a few moments to make sure the exterior doors were shut so neither of the dogs would be tempted to roam.
“Pelmeni! Come see what I have brought for you!” Antonin called as he kicked his shoes off into the bin by the front door. The heavy thunk of rubber against plastic echoed throughout the painfully still house. It was oddly quiet. There was no Thorfinn whistling from the kitchen as he prepared supper. No high-pitched whines wafted from the kitchen as Mjolnir diligently sat and waited for Thor to “accidentally” drop a piece of meat. No paw falls thudded along the upstairs landing as Pelmeni soared off his bed and careened downstairs to greet him.
There was nothing. No movement. No sound. Only oddly familiar, acrid smells sent chills down Antonin’s spine.
Disquietude overtook him as his body switched gears, effortlessly reverting back to his training. His senses heightened, and his focus narrowed. Setting down what he carried, Antonin crept through the living room. As he pushed open the door to the kitchen all the blood drained from his face, and the breath left his lungs.
Viscous, coagulate blood coated every surface. The tacky, light brown laminated counters and cabinets were splattered with crimson liquid as if they had been the workspace of Jackson Pollock. A pot sat on the stove, fuming, a thick gray cloud of smoke hanging in the air originating from whatever sat charring in the unattended pan. When Antonin ultimately looked down, his strength left him and his shaking legs gave out.
Falling hard, Antonin's knees slammed onto the tile, in between the disjointed, massacred bodies of Thor, Mjolnir, and Pelmeni.
A violent shudder followed by a smoldering volcano of liquid rage built in his chest and pushed white-hot numbness into every extremity. Tentatively, he reached out to touch Thor’s hand and found it stiff, lifeless. Mjolnir was the same when he nudged his paw. The lump in his throat grew, choking Antonin as his gaze finally fell onto Pelmeni. He couldn’t bear to touch him. If he touched him and felt his deceased form, it would be final, real.
He didn’t know what to do. Did he cry? Did he scream? Did he cry and scream? Did he fish the 9mm Beretta they had hidden in the return duct for emergencies (against the terms of their parole) and hope he could join the only three beings he’d loved in blissful oblivion?
A single tear broke over his lashes, tracked down his cheek as he tipped his head back and a harsh, strangled gasp exploded out of him as his eyes caught what waited for him on the ceiling.
There, painted in the blood of his family, was the snake and skull he had tattooed on his left forearm. The mark of Tom Riddle, head of the Death Eaters. The gang both he and Thor had been a part of. The gang that had taken Antonin in, molded him into a killer, ordered him to take the fall for something he’d not done, and then left him to rot for years without an utterance of recognition. The gang that had now taken everything from him.
The single tear disappeared into the earthy richness of his beard, the salty liquid drying quickly. No other tears followed. Not tonight.
Now was not the time for tears.
Now was the time for revenge.
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The main headquarters of the Death Eaters had been Malfoy manor, the gaudy mansion in the middle of the woods outside of Wiltshire, ever since Lucius the sniveling snake had wormed his way into Tom Riddle’s good graces with nothing more than his duplicitous tongue and deep pockets. Tom’s predominant weakness was his unending yearning to amass more power. Though Tom sat at the head of the most feared crime syndicate in all of Britain, Tom’s weakness had severely diminished the caliber of his followers. It was impossible to properly staff and train the massive force needed to protect such a sprawling empire. Standards had drastically dropped since Antonin had been part of the crew.
Having effortlessly crept through the uncared-for forest surrounding the grounds of the manor, Antonin had snuck up on and eliminated the four guards patrolling the west gate, the 2 guards on the south, and the 4 on the east. He’d also shot Lucius’s prized peacocks for extra effect. An eye for an eye, though this night, Antonin had come for more than an eye.
Slung around his chest over the top of a black plate carrier was an AR-15, an 8-inch silencer protruding from the tip of the barrel. 6 fully loaded, extra-wide magazines were stashed along the pockets of the vest. On the back of his belt, stationed at 4:30 and 6:30 was his trusted 9mm Beretta and Thor’s favorite, a Kimber 1911. Strapped to his right leg was Thor’s Damascus steel hunting knife sheathed in a supple leather pouch. Lastly, he’d procured two flash bangs and a smoke grenade for some cover and distraction. He’d wanted more, but last minute and out of the game for so long, this haul was the best Antonin could collect and he would have to make do.
To round out his outfit of revenge, the dog tags of both Pelmeni and Mjolnir sat in his pocket and he rubbed them now, a silent promise that he wouldn’t stop until their deaths had been avenged.
Until every last soul inhabiting the manor was dead.
After adjusting the black beanie keeping his long chestnut hair out of his face, Antonin crouched low and stealthily moved forward through the woods. He avoided the pearlescence of the moon filtering through the trees and stuck to the path of deep shadow and inky blackness. His memory alone guided him towards the manor, having patrolled this forest for years before he’d been “graciously” promoted into Tom’s inner circle. The same inner circle that had sentenced him as their fall guy.
Antonin wondered who occupied the inner circle now, besides that sniveling, cack-handed cad Lucius. Drunk with power, Tom ruled with an iron fist. His only loyalties were to himself, and Nagini, the giant black python he kept as a pet. No doubt the inner circle remained difficult to fill. It took a special type of person to die for a man who wasn’t willing to do the same for his men.
Clutching the grips of the AR, Antonin raised the barrel, finger poised off the trigger, and rested on the body until the moment called for it. Lowering behind a bush, keen black eyes scanned the terrain. 3 bodies, one stationary, two moving back and forth along a pre-designated path that passed right by the bush he crouched within. With a soft exhale he rose, pulled the butt stock firmly against his shoulder, peered through the red dot, and lined up his shot. His finger fell from the body to the trigger, and in 3 rapid pulls, 3 bodies lay crumpled in the grass, blood, and brains leaking from the fresh bullet wounds to their heads.
13 down.
A quick glance left then right and Antonin moved, AR still raised as he crept along the west side of the manor towards the servants' entrance. Even in his day, the servants' entrance had been a kink in the chainmail of their security. No matter how many times Antonin had suggested it be sealed off since it was a security risk and they could more adequately defend the manor with fewer entrances and exits, Tom had refused. He’d dismissed the idea that anyone would dare come for him.
After picking the lock, Antonin turned the knob and lodged his shoulder against the heavy wooden door. After a few steady heaves, the door gave and opened with a soft creak. He darted inside, and closed the door, plunging the room into complete darkness. Standing stock still, Antonin let his eyes adjust till he could make out the shadows of cabinetry and clutter along the edges of the room.
It was late but even still, Antonin heard the quiet chatter and shuffling of the patrols along the inner halls. Honing in his senses, he deciphered the differences in the cadence of the steps, and tones of the voices allowing him to count the bodies closest. There were 5 within his vicinity, at least one of which stomped up and down the stairs, the reason why escaping Antonin. It seemed that the man currently responsible for training Tom’s recruits had his head shoved up his arse.
Antonin wondered if Tom regretted having sent one of his best lieutenants to jail to spare the life of a coward?
No. That would be impossible. Tom didn’t feel regret. Antonin was quite positive the man didn’t have feelings.
But tonight, Antonin planned on making Tom feel something.
Antonin was going to be the one to incite the wisps of fear to flick into the man's eyes as he forced Tom to admit that his mistakes had finally caught up with him.
Antonin was going to cut the man's heart from his chest and feed it to him.
Easing open the door with the barrel of his gun, Antonin peered into the foyer. Two bodies stood at the foot of the stairs not 10 paces from where he hid. Footsteps echoed from both sides of the hall, and the fool on the stairs continued to trudge up and down the flights without any care for the nonsensical ruckus he was making.
Taking a long slow inhale, Antonin braced himself. Once he erupted from his cover, his presence would be known. He would lose the element of surprise. Every soul left in and around the manor would descend upon him and bring with them wave after relentless wave of firepower.
Touching the knife on his leg, then the tags in his pocket, Antonin let out his breath.
The master bedroom in the west wing. That was his destination. That’s where Antonin’s prizes resided. Everyone he killed along the way would be a consolation.
“I am deaths emissary”, he whispered then with a kick to the door Antonin exploded into the foyer, pulling the trigger in rapid succession, and dropped the two bodies at the foot of the stairs. Then he spun and put 3 bullets in the man running towards him from the east. Bullets struck the back of his vest and knocked the wind from his lungs as he whirled and put a bullet through the chest of the cad on the stairs before aiming and firing at the man running towards him from the west. 5 shots and the man dropped, slid, and came to rest in a pool of blood at Antonin’s feet.
Goyle. The man at his feet was Goyle.
No loss at all.
After a quick scan of the other faces, he lamentably found no one else he recognized. As Antonin tipped the AR to the side to check the level of ammo in the magazine, cacophonous sirens rang out through the halls. The bright white lights extinguished and were replaced by gyrating, flashing red. Shouts boomed and footsteps pounded on the floors above, to his left and to his right. Antonin sprinted towards the stairs, pressed against the backside railing as he climbed, gun tilted and aimed upwards. He would have a better advantage on higher ground.
A bullet whizzed by his head, and Antonin took out the man at the top of the stairs and continued pulling the trigger to eliminate the two bodies running to their compatriots' rescue. Reaching the landing, he moved left, followed the wainscoting wall, and whirled forwards and backward as he fired double shots to take down men as they exploded out of their rooms in various stages of undress. The red flashing lights were playing to his advantage. It was near impossible to make out a clear target through all the chaos and Antonin moved smoothly down the hallway firing as he went.
“He’s heading to a dead end, corner him! Take him out!” Someone screamed above the sirens. Antonin smirked, ducked into the bathroom at the end of the hall, slammed the door, opened the linen closet, and stepped inside. Dropping the AR onto its sling, Antonin began to climb up the foot and hand holes cut deep into the ancient wood as bullets tore apart the bathroom he’d just absconded from. With one last heave, Antonin pulled himself onto the ledge and rolled onto the floor of a closet in a guest room on the third floor.
Antonin knew this house like the back of his hand. These mudaks were not going to corner him.
After a quick physical check, Antonin was up and moving again. The west wing and his intended target were on the opposite side of the house from where he resided, but that was all part of the plan. He was toying with Tom, forcing him to send his men to slaughter until no one remained but Lucius and him.
Then Antonin would find them.
As the blaring of the alarms continued Antonin knew that Barty, the head of security, was still an idiot. Whatever discombobulation the deafening noise coupled with the flashing lights induced in him would be voided by removing the capacity of their home team to hear anything, most importantly, directions from their leaders. They would all be running around like chickens and would lose their heads.
Exiting the room, Antonin moved down the hall towards the stairs. This floor had mostly remained unoccupied during his time at the manor, and the closed doors along the hall told him that still held true. Unless the men from this floor were completely useless, no one busted out of their rooms to catch an assailant and closed their door on the way out.
Briskly heading down two flights, Antonin pressed his body back against the wall and peaked around the corner at the mass of men buzzing, shouting, and pushing one another. Pressing the magazine release, Antonin flipped his weapon to the side then slammed a new magazine into the vacated space, yanked the charging handle, and raised the gun to his shoulder.
Another advantage of the blaring alarms…it was difficult to hear the muzzled pop of gunfire over them.
Working methodically, Antonin swiveled around the corner, pulled the trigger, then disappeared. He’d dropped 5 bodies before anyone caught on, the men painfully confused and lacking clear and concise direction.
“Stairs! Stairs! He’s on the bloody stairs!” Someone finally shouted above the sirens and the corner Antonin hid behind exploded into splinters. He ducked further back, breathed, then launched himself around the corner when the shots died off, pulling the trigger in rapid succession as he moved towards the men that remained after he’d dropped another 2.
Fire seared through his right thigh and his left shoulder as bullets collided into the metal plates of his vest, obstructing his breath, but he kept moving. Another man dropped and two more sprinted towards him. Antonin swung the butt of the gun, clocked one of the men in the face, spun, and fired, sending a bullet through the open mouth of the man attempting to shoot him in the back, then whirled and bashed the other man 3 more times before he dropped to his knees and Antonin shot him between the eyes.
Breathing heavily, Antonin tensely waited for another wave, more assailants, but they didn’t come. He’d defeated the first level so it seemed.
Cutting a piece of cloth from the shirt of the closet body, Antonin fashioned a tourniquet and winced as he tied it tightly around his thigh. The bullet was lodged, still burning him from the inside out. The shot to his shoulder had gone straight through, blessedly missing any bones or tendons but leaked substantial crimson into his black shirt. Antonin relished the feeling, and let it fill him up. This was the torture Thor had endured. Mjolnir. Pelmeni. His family had suffered this and worse. This was nothing.
Antonin ripped the beanie off his head, wiped the sweat from his brow then reaffixed the cap. After another re-load, he continued his avid pursuit, spurred forward by the searing lead disk embedded in his thigh and his barren heart.
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As Antonin made his way down the stairs, every twitch, every step sent jolts of scorching pain through his muscles but he kept moving. When he reached the foyer, the blaring sirens ceased. It seemed someone with a brain had finally taken control of the ship. Marvelous. Antonin lived for a challenge. Glancing up and down the deserted hallways, Antonin smirked. There were no more men rushing to take him out. That meant everyone had been pulled back and stationed around their boss.
This was the endgame.
Tom undoubtedly felt safe, protected, and powerful, but the move was invaluable for Antonin. Everyone was now consolidated into one spot. He wouldn’t have to go searching for them in the convoluted corridors of the manor.
“Antonin, it’s good to see you!” A rough, snake-like voice hissed through the speakers placed around the manor.
“Is it, Tom? Is knowing you are going to die good? Do you have that sniveling coward Lucius there holding your hand?” Antonin called, AR poised at the ready as he swiftly moved along the hallway towards the west wing. Towards his prize.
“Me? Die? My boy, you are sorely mistaken. It won't be I who dies tonight! It won’t even be you. We’ll be taking you alive. You’ll live for days under the worst torture you can imagine before I finally snuff out your worthless soul!”
Antonin laughed out loud, peaked then darted around a corner, “I live with the worst torture I can image every day! I have since you sacrificed me to save Lucius! Since you killed Thorfinn and my dog!”
“His dog?” An angrily whispered voice echoed throughout the mansion, then the speakers emitted a high-pitched tone and went silent. Creeping silently as a ghost, Antonin moved through the last remaining passageway and stopped just around the corner from the entrance to the west wing. Breathing deeply, he focused on the shuffling against the stone floors. It was a large group, too many to get an exact number. A cough, someone clearing their throat, a shush, a curse. The men were on edge. They were waiting for him.
Letting the AR hang on its sling, Antonin pulled the two flash bangs and the smoke grenade from the side vest pockets and pulled the pins with his teeth. He lobbed one of each around the corner, spit the pins, and braced himself as a percussion reverberated through him and a cacophonous shower of bullets and saw dust rained throughout the room. As the gunfire died down, he tossed the other flash bang and couldn’t help laughing maniacally as the storm of bullets picked back up. He could barely hear the shouting above the pandemonium, “Cease fire you bloody wankers! He’s teasing us! Stop wasting ammo!”
As if it had been planned that way, the clicks of empty chambers began to resonate through the quickly quieting room. When the men shouted for reloads, Antonin sprung, leaped around the corner, and began to return fire. The smoke from the flash bangs hung heavy, and the red twirling lights made it almost impossible to see his targets clearly, which meant they couldn’t see him either. Rapidly squeezing the trigger he sent bullets spraying down range, relishing the heavy thudding of bodies dropping, the cries of agony as muscles were pierced, and bones were shattered. A metallic clink sounded and Antonin dropped the AR, reached around his person, and whipped the Beretta from its holster, continued returning fire and moving forward. Bullets flew past his ears, the high-pitched whizzing adding to his tinnitus.
A body ran at him through the fog just as the Beretta clicked. Empty. Tossing the gun, Antonin ripped the hunting knife out of its holster just as the man collided against him, and they tumbled to the ground. He twisted, kneed his assailant in the ribs, threw him to the side, and climbed on top of him. Antonin twirled the knife and threw his body forward. The blade sunk into the flesh of the man's chest and then hit bone. Heaving forwards again, Antonin slammed the heel of his hand against the butt of the knife. A sickening crunch, a low, burbled groan, and the body sagged underneath him.
Ripping the knife from the body, he wiped it on his trousers before sheathing it, pulled a magazine from his vest, and reloaded the AR. The heavy metal clink of the bolt echoed through the now silent room. However, Antonin wasn’t alone. There were oppositions hiding in the swirling fog and dust.
“Come out come out little servants…” Antonin taunted, dry tongue darting out and licking dust off his chapped lips.
“Arrrrrgggggggg! You’re one to talk, Ruski prick! You wear the brand! Once a brother always a brother! Where does your fealty lie? Have you no loyalty?” A deep northern accent roared, generated across the room from him. Jugson. He’d know that swarmy bastard anywhere.
Crouched low, Antonin stayed silent. He’d taken a chance with his initial taunt, and it had paid off. He’d narrowed down the location of a higher-up, a Lieutenant, and likely the rest of the men stationed around him. If he spoke now, Antonin would give away his new position, having crept back into the corner to the side of the staircase. He’d been wrong about his earlier statement. No one with any brains was in charge. Antonin had the strategic position now. He would poise up on the stairs and then…
“Boss says to pull back!” Another voice suddenly called out.
“We can’t pull back now, we’ve almost got the cunt!” Jugson gripped.
“Oi! You fuckin hear what I said? Bosses orders! Get moving! You bloody wankers can’t see shite anyways! Don’t even know where he’s gone off to!”
Antonin couldn’t believe his ears. Was he imagining things, possibly hallucinating due to the blood leaking from his body? Riddle had ordered a retreat? Impossible.
After a few groans, an indeterminate number of feet began to shuffle and foolishly pound up the stairs. Then, a series of muzzle flashes pierced the fog, and calls for help exploded into the quiet. Within moments, the percussions ended, and the last few heavy thuds impacted, rolling down the stairs, and came to a robust halt at the base of the stairs with muffled thunks.
His finger twitching against the trigger, Antonin dipped the muzzle of his rifle and peered over the red dot. It was not him who’d made those shots, but he had a good idea who had.
“That you, Rook?” Antonin spoke softly in the insulating fog, keeping his voice from carrying too far.
“OI! Tonin, what's with all the fuckin ruckus?” Augustus Rookwood appeared through the haze into the corner Antonin stood, an AK resting against his muscular left shoulder. Blood was smeared across his tattered white tank and mischievous face, his short light brown hair damp and sticking up every which way.
Antonin cleared his throat, the adrenaline having sucked his mouth dry of any moisture. Dropping his AR into its sling, Antonin returned the curt nod Rook gave him and adjusted the tourniquet on his leg.
“It’s true then?” Rookwood said solemnly, motioning to the knife attached to Antonin blood soaked thigh.
Antonin avoided Rook’s murky brown eyes, touched the hilt of the knife, and nodded.
While Thor had been Antonin’s only friend, he understood that Thor, being a social butterfly, had friends other than him, the primary one being Rookwood. They’d been thick as thieves up until Thor had gotten scooped up in a raid and was sent to prison. Of course, once Thor had been released, club members were ordered to shun him. Thor was a traitor in their eyes, having given up information in return for a reduced sentence (at the suggestion of Antonin, who’d provided him with said information). Thor hadn’t been made for prison, nor made for the life of a criminal. He’d simply fallen into it because that's the way his friends had gone and he was, contrary to the club's belief, fiercely loyal.
“And you’re sure it was…” Rook tousled his sweaty hair and wiped the drying blood droplets off his forehead.
“Da,” Antonin curtly cut him off, “The club mark was painted in blood on our ceiling and his left forearm had been de-gloved.”
While the Snake and Skull was the calling card of the Death Eaters and by extension, Tom Riddle, it was Lucius, the pale snake who had begun the ritual of cutting the club colors from those branded as Judas. Lucius maintained the position that no traitor should be allowed to enter into any semblance of an afterlife while wearing his precious master's insignia.
Rage flashed across Rookwood’s face as he swung and slammed his cumbrous fists into the wall, “Fucking manky Malfoy twat!” He rounded and stalked to the base of the stairs and heaved a kick into the back of one of the bodies that littered the floor, “Bastard swine, the lot of em!” Rook kicked the body again and the dead man's firearm clanked against the marble flooring. Rook heaved a breath and his gaze flashed to Antonin, ”Someone said something about a dog?”
Reaching into his pocket, Antonin pulled out Pelmeni and Mjolnir’s dog tags and held them up, “They killed our dogs too.”
A severe, daggered stare etched into Rookwood’s face. He pulled his weapon up, removed the sling, and began to slam the butt of the rifle against the skull of the closest body, muffled grunts, and moist cracking filling the stillness. “Barmy…piece’s…of shite…fuckin rotters…Thor loved…that fuckin dog!” Rook heaved until a heavy metal crunch signified his demolition of the corpse's head had been completed.
Rook had always had a bit of a temper. It was one of the reasons he and Antonin never spent much time together in the past. Rook was the match to Antonin’s can of petrol. A harmless prank soon turned into a week-long killing spree spurred on by Rook and his need to get even. However, like Antonin, Rookwood would die enacting revenge for those he cared about most.
With a satisfied breath, Rook began to move along the other bodies, placing swift kicks as he went, bending down periodically to pick up extra magazines and a handgun which he stowed in the back of his trousers. After he'd ripped Jugson's vest off and stuffed the pockets full of ammo, Rookwood turned back to Antonin, his face splattered in blood and viscera, murder set in his eyes, “Let's teach these minging fuckers a lesson yea? For Thorfinn!”
Swinging his rifle up, Antonin seated it against his shoulder and nodded, “Da, for Thorfinn.”
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
The two men moved up the stairs, Rook having taken point and Antonin following three steps behind, motioning to one another with silent hand gestures. Rook informed Antonin that Tom and Lucius were exactly where he’d thought they would be, upstairs inside the master bedroom surrounded by no less than 40 men. To their advantage, the CCTV in that wing of the house was down due to reckless scheduled maintenance that just so happened to coincide with Antonin’s raid on the manor. That, as well as no one knowing Rook was a turncoat, gave them staggering leverage over the situation.
They’d hurriedly devised a plan to get Antonin through the vanguard and into the room as smoothly as possible. It forced Antonin to put a mountain of trust into Rook and his fealty to Thorfinn but in the end, he’d agreed, simply because it was the best option. Even if Antonin didn’t trust Rook, Thorfinn had, and Antonin trusted Thorfinn with his life.
“You reckon you’re sure about this?” Rook whispered as he took Antonin’s AR and Thorfinn’s hunting knife, trading him an ankle holster, which Antonin fixed to the inside of his left calf.
“Da. They will think you’ve captured and disarmed me. You’ll create a diversion, and I’ll take out Tom, Lucius, and any other duraks unlucky enough to be in that room,” Antonin finished, stood, and flexed his burly forearms as he allowed Rook to bind his wrists in a false knot behind his back. Burning radiated through his shoulder as Rook finished and walked around to stand in front of him.
“We ready?” Rook asked, one dark brown eyebrow raised high and a sly, wicked smirk tugging the corner of his lips. Antonin gave a curt nod and Rook grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him down the hallway towards the fortress shouting, “I’ve got him. I got the traitor! Bloody rotter killed Juggy!”
The men standing sentinel in front of the master bedrooms parted and the doors of the room opened, flooding the darkened hallway with bright, searing light. Antonin winced, his eyes watered and vision blurred as Rook dragged him past the two layers of armed bodies posted at the entrance and just inside the fortress. His thigh ached as he tried to keep up with Rook’s convincing ruse. His shoulder throbbed under the strain of his false restraints. Antonin focused on blocking out the pain and scanning the room. He took purchase of who was where, how many guns, and how many bodies. Antonin was incapable of also noting that the ostentatious decor of the room had not changed.
Lucius, still the same pompous ass he’d always been, stood just in front of Tom, clutching the head of that god-forsaken serpent attached to his cane. He tapped the ebony wood against the floor rhythmically, a nervous tick Antonin had chastised him for every chance he got. Lucius wore his feelings on his face, and broadcasted them to the world, to his men, and to his enemies. In their line of work, being easily read made them vulnerable. Lucius didn't understand vulnerability.
Looking past Lucius’s arrogantly tight smile, Antonin locked on to Tom, the head of the snake, standing just behind Lucius in one of his meticulously tailored suits, this one a crisp plain black with his dark brown hair perfectly smoothed back in one conjoined mass.
“Antonin. It’s been a long time,” Tom drawled, as a slow smile spread across his thin lips.
Rook kicked out Antonin's knees and he couldn’t help but let out a hiss of pain and grunted loudly as he hit the floor hard. Fire billowed from his bullet wounds as fresh blood leaked onto the hardwood flooring. Gritting his teeth, Antonin forced himself to stay present and concentrate on the task at hand.
“12 years if I’m not mistaken,” Antonin said curtly as he began to tense and relax, the beginnings of slowly extricating himself from his restraints.
“We should have had you killed while you were in prison, foreign swine! You bloody killed my peacocks!” Lucius seethed as he took sweeping steps until he menacingly loomed over Antonin. Antonin kept his head down, refusing to give Lucius the courtesy of an acknowledgment.
With a strained chuckle Antonin said, “I can tell you continue to struggle with your halitosis Lucius. A man that cannot take care of his health can’t be expected to do much else. Maybe I have done your birds a favor?”
Muffled laughter broke throughout the room and Antonin didn’t have to look up to know that an indignant scowl had overtaken Lucius’s face. Lucius prided himself in the prestige the Malfoy name afforded him. Unfortunately, that prestige had been accompanied by genetically horrible teeth, something Lucius could not help, but Antonin would nitpick over all the same.
“Why you insolent Ruski bast..”
“ENOUGH!” Tom bellowed, his leather insoles echoing palpably against the wood flooring as he stormed nearer. Lucius bowed and took two large steps back, relinquishing his position to Tom.
It was then Antonin did look up to make eye contact with the man that had sacrificed him to years of phycological torture, asking him to do things no ordinary human should ever have to do and then dispensing with him instead of his precious Lucius, a cretin whose only talent consisted of filling his master's ears with silky, ego-stroking lies. Tom lived to be affirmed. Lucius did that for him while Antonin refused at every turn. A lesson from his father prevented Antonin from brown-nosing.
Tell the truth, or at least don’t lie.
Antonin looked Tom straight in the eye, refusing to blink no matter how badly his eyes burned.
“I told you it would not be me dying tonight, my boy,” Tom said glassily, a cruel smile twisting his thin, chiseled face as he no doubt imagined all the things he was going to do to Antonin as retribution for daring threaten him and his empire.
“The night is still young, d’yavol,” Antonin quipped as he felt the ropes of his bindings loosen substantially. His eyes flashed to Rook who stood to his right and he made his way behind Tom and Lucius without anyone questioning what he was doing.
“Honestly Antonin, you know how that unintelligible dog speech irritates my proper British ears,” Tom spat and rolled his shoulders.
“U menya yest' yeshche koye-chto, chto tebya budet razdrazhat’,” Antonin lifted his chin, leaned back ever so slightly, secretly aghast not a bloody soul was watching him or Rook closely enough to discern what they were up to. The men in the room herded closer, not wanting to miss what was about to happen to the treasonist. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel once the other shoe dropped.
A sharp palm thwacked against Antonin’s cheek and his eyes watered unwittingly but he didn’t move. Tom ripped off his beanie, gripped a fistful of his hair, and wrenched his head back, looming over him with a murderous glare, “What did I just say, wretch?”
His body bending back under Tom’s pressure, Antonin let the ropes tethering his hands drop, smoothly fished underneath his pant leg, grasped the handgrip of Thor’s Kimber 1911, and ripped it free. At the same moment, Rook began firing shots and taking out men, and the room erupted into chaos.
Gripping a profoundly startled Tom by the front of his button-down shirt, Antonin had almost swung the firearm around and leveraged himself to his feet when a fist connected with the side of his face. Knocking him off-kilter, his vision darkened and his prize slipped from his grip. Antonin spun, blinking wildly, willing away the discombobulation as the hazy sight of Tom protected under two bodies escaped through the open doorway.
“Tonin!” Rook shouted, tossed Antonin’s AR, then took out the two men raising their firearms against him. Antonin caught the flying weapon, slammed it into his shoulder, and began shooting, moving back to join Rook. He spotted a head of pale hair in the mayhem heading towards the door and he put two bullets into each one of his thighs. Pitiful screams for help rang out as Lucius hit the floor. Antonin continued to pick off bodies, head shots, body shots, blood spraying and painting the once crisp, clean room.
Head on a swivel, Antonin, and Rook moved as a unit as they committed to taking down the last of the men who’d foolishly stayed behind after their cowardly master had flown the coup. Three men ran at them at once, having forsaken their guns for large knives. Rook shot one between the eyes, and another in the chest, leaving Antonin to take care of the third. Dropping his AR, he unsheathed Thorfinn’s knife, deftly avoided the man's wild thrusts, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and forced the steel blade up through the bottom of his jaw, through the soft palate, and into his brain.
“Mudak,” Antonin hissed as blood sprayed his face from the man's last exalted breath. The man’s eye twitched and went limp and Antonin pulled the knife from his head as he collapsed into a crumpled mess on the antique throw rug.
“Showoff,” Rook clicked his tongue and put a bullet in the back of a body attempting to crawl towards a discarded firearm, “Fuckin Tom got away! Bloody rotter!”
“For now,” Antonin announced, then inclined his head towards the sniveling form of Lucius attempting to pull his body along the floor, streaks of blood smeared in his wake, “We are not completely empty-handed,” Antonin cleaned the blade of the knife, slid it back into its sheath then languidly limped across the room to where Lucius lay.
“No. Antonin, please, I didn’t have anything to do with Thorfinn’s death, I swear to you! I…”
“Silence, mudak! Ootebya nyet yayeesav!” Antonin shouted and kicked Lucius in the ribs. The man yelped and screeched in pain as he struggled to pull himself through the doorway. Rookwood grabbed Lucius by his posh shoes and dragged him back into the center of the room, Antonin shuffling closely behind.
“What’s you say we string him up by his bollocks, let the crows slowly eat ‘im?"
Antonin shook his head, swung the AR around to his back, pulled the dog tags from his pocket, and knelt over Lucius, “Do you know what these are?” The tags dangled off Antonin’s blood-soaked finger, swinging just above Lucius’s nose. The man shook his head wildly and attempted to speak but all that came out was a guttural, strangled cry. Antonin grabbed Lucius by the throat and pressed the tags into his face, “Look at them! They’ll be the last thing you ever see, gaduka!” Ripping his hand from his throat, Antonin fisted the two tags individually and slammed them down into Lucius’s eye sockets.
“Fuckin hell,” Rookwood barked over the ear-splitting screams, fisting the hair at the crown of his head.
Lucius flailed under Antonin, twisting and screaming. Leaving the tags embedded in his eyes, Antonin ripped the knife from its sheath and pinned Lucius' left hand under his knee. In one swift motion, he cut the snake and skull tattoo from the man's forearm and stuffed the flap of skin into his gaping maw. Dropping the knife, Antonin began throwing punches, every crack forcing the tags deeper into Lucius’s eye sockets, “For Thorfinn. Mjolnir. Pelmeni,” Antonin accented every blow with the name of his dearly departed, repeated them as he kept hitting, pounding, relishing the crunch of bones, the heavy scent of iron permeating his nose and gagging sobs as blood flooded Lucius’s windpipe. Antonin kept punching until he couldn’t lift his arms, till he didn’t recognize the man he hovered over.
When the body under him stilled, and his fists dripped gore, Antonin extracted the dog tags covered in blood and viscera, wiped them on his trousers, pocketed them then reached for Thor's knife. Staggering to his feet, Antonin collected all the moisture he could manage, spit on the lifeless body under him, then turned to face Rookwood.
“I think he looks better that way, never did like 'im,” Rookwood wagged his brows with a scampish smile, flashing his white teeth. He picked up his AK, and slung it over his shoulder, “Now what?” He asked as the two men slowly walked, Antonin limping substantially, towards the stairs.
“Now, we burn it to the ground,” Antonin pulled a silver zippo from his pocket and clicked it 3 times until a blue flame flickered around the wick. As he struggled down the stairs and through the foyer, he held the flame to the garish curtains and tacky furniture, the ancient, delicate material going up like dry tinder.
Smoke billowed out the front doors as Antonin and Rookwood emerged. Twenty or so feet from the manor, the two men turned and watched as golden flames exploded the antique windows and licked onto the roof. Within minutes the entire structure was engulfed. There would be no pinewood boxes for these men, only a cleansing amber inferno to consume and erase the horrors that had taken place not only that day but steadily throughout the years.
“Spasibo, for your assistance, Rook,” Antonin rasped, swaying slightly as his vision blackened. Just as his legs wobbled and gave out, Rookwood caught him and propped his shoulder under Antonin’s good arm.
“Steady mate. I’m gonna get you to someone that’ll fix you up right as rain.”
Nodding weakly, Antonin leaned heavily against Rookwood as the two of them made their way toward the hoard of cars parked by the gates. Every step pumped shards of glass through Antonin’s body and his muscles began to cramp and seize from lack of fluids. When they came to an electric blue Jaguar F-Type, Rookwood fiddled with the handle, wrenched open the door, and slid Antonin into the passenger seat. Rook tucked his long legs into the vehicle and patted his good thigh jocosely, “Try not to bleed on the leather will ya, yea?”
Letting his head drop heavily against the headrest, Antonin closed his eyes, too tired to muster a response, and instead focused on his rage, which had lessened but not yet subsided. Tom was still out there. Antonin wasn’t finished. There was more he needed to do.
“No dying on me yet, Azhdaya. We have Tom yet to find. I can’t bloody wait to see how you fuck him off!”
Antonin blinked rapidly and side-eyed Rookwood as he climbed into the driver's seat and started the car, “Da tovarishch, and I know exactly where the d’yavol slunk off to.”