Chapter 6 Cuckold of fate

Thaddeus Quell knew one thing for certain: to elude Echo, he had to stay on the run. The warehouse slaughter had bought him time—three angelic harvests, three billion wired silently into his accounts, but Echo’s face still scratched at the edges of his mind, faint but persistent, like nails on a distant chalkboard. 

He ditched the forest on foot, hitching a ride with a trucker who didn’t ask questions, eyes flicking nervously to the shadows outside the cab. First stop: a used-car lot on the city’s edge. Cash in hand—no questions there either—he bought a nondescript white van, loaded it with basics: water, protein bars, a burner phone, a laptop. 

He drove for hours, no destination, just an endless highway under a gray December sky. The ledger stayed silent, no new targets, no hauntings beyond Evelyn’s fading echo. But his heart raced at every passing car, every flicker in the periphery, wondering if Echo’s smoke was curling closer.

As night fell, he circled back toward the city. Gregory’s neighborhood. The two-day clock was up. 

He parked a block away in the shadows of a strip mall, engine off, slumping low in the seat. His breath fogged the window as he prayed under his breath, voice trembling. “Echo, don’t find me yet. Not until she’s safe.” Silence pressed in, heavy and accusing, broken only by the distant hum of traffic.

While he waited, he checked his accounts on the burner phone, balances bloated beyond comprehension. A billionaire. He stared at the numbers, a hollow laugh escaping his lips that turned into a choked sob. 

The life he could have: no more warehouse shifts, no more slaps for clean floors. But his eyes stung with unshed tears. What good was money if it came from this? He wasn’t that man.

“I will save her, yes. Put her in a good orphanage, anonymous, safe from Mara’s weakness and Delores’s poison. And the money, two billion in a trust, unlocked at eighteen.” His fingers trembled as he set it up, imagining her future: college, freedom, no chains like his.

He pulled up a photo on the phone, one he’d saved from an old social media scrape. Lily at her birthday last year, gap-toothed smile wide and innocent, cake frosting smeared on her nose like war paint. 

His chest tightened, a sharp ache blooming. Why would anyone sell this girl? Even though Gregory was the father, that cruel bastard. What kind of monster traded innocence for cash? Thaddeus’s eyes blurred with hot tears, and he wiped them roughly, jaw clenching against the rage bubbling up.

A sharp crack split the night. Gunshot.

The ledger flared crimson in his vision.

REAPER’S LEDGER  

HARVEST COMPLETE  

Delores Hargrove - $650,000 claimed.

“Fuck!”

Thaddeus was out of the van before the text faded, sprinting toward the condo building, breath coming in ragged gasps, fear and fury twisting his gut. 

The front door was ajar, security bypassed, or maybe Gregory had gotten sloppy. He burst inside, the metallic tang of blood hitting him like a wall.

The living room was a slaughterhouse. Delores lay sprawled by the kitchen, chest a red ruin, eyes vacant and staring at the ceiling in eternal surprise. 

Mara huddled in the corner, bound at wrists and ankles, mascara-streaked face lifting toward him with wide-eyed desperation. “Thaddy! Babe, please save us!” Her voice cracked, body trembling, hands twisting futilely against the ties.

Lily was beside her, tiny wrists zip-tied, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, her little chest heaving with suppressed sobs. She looked at him with those big eyes, hope flickering through the terror.

Gregory stood over them, revolver still smoking in his hand, smirking with that same smug curl to his lips. “Well, look who crawled back. The hero returns.” His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement, gesturing lazily with the gun.

Thaddeus charged without thinking—fists clenched, a raw roar tearing from his throat. Gregory sidestepped easily, clubbed him with the gun butt. 

Stars exploded behind Thaddeus’s eyes. He hit the floor hard, ribs screaming in protest, blood filling his mouth with a coppery flood. The world spun, pain lancing through his side.

On his back, vision blurring, he saw it: Lily bound like cargo, her small frame shaking, eyes pleading silently. Daddy? The word unspoken but etched in her gaze.

Gregory loomed over him, kicking the air from his lungs with a booted foot. Thaddeus gasped, curling instinctively, the wind knocked out of him. Gregory’s laugh was low and mocking. “I knew you’d show. Always the pathetic knight. How’d you know about this, Thad? The sale? The cleanup? Are you a seer or something?”

Thaddeus gasped, tasting blood, his voice a wheeze. “Yes, I… saw it. And then I saw more.”

Gregory knelt beside him, gun pressed cold and hard to Thaddeus’s temple, his breath hot and sour. “Saw what?”

“How you'd die?”

“How do I die?” His eyes narrowed, curiosity mixing with disdain.

The ledger bloomed again—urgent, insistent. Not just text. A list scrolled:

REAPER’S LEDGER  

EXECUTION PROTOCOL  

Step 1: Feign submission. Roll left to evade the barrel.  

Step 2: Sweep leg—target right knee.  

Step 3: Disarm—grab wrist, twist counterclockwise.  

Step 4: Mount—straddle, pin arms.  

Step 5: Choke—forearms on carotid, squeeze. Hold 20 seconds.  

A small video overlay played in his mind’s eye: a shadowy figure demonstrating the moves, precise, clinical, like a martial arts tutorial from a nightmare realm.

Thaddeus realized then that he was in the heart of the system. The Ledger wasn’t just a curse or a tool. It was alive. Sentient. It wanted to survive. Wanted its host to survive. To keep harvesting, balancing, existing. His hands shook, but the protocol pulsed like a heartbeat, urging him on.

He followed the script, fear and resolve warring in his chest.

Feigned a cough, eyes squeezing shut in mock defeat—then rolled left. The gun barked, deafening, the bullet punching drywall inches from his ear.

Swept his leg—Gregory’s knee buckled with a sickening crack, his face twisting in shock and pain.

Grabbed the wrist—twisted hard. Gregory yelped, gun clattering free across the floor.

Mounted—straddled him, pinning flailing arms with his knees, Gregory’s eyes widening in panic.

Choked—forearms locked on the carotid, squeezing with everything he had, muscles burning, veins bulging in his arms.

Gregory’s eyes bulged, face purpling, legs kicking futilely against the rug. He rasped, gargling, “How…?” Spit flecked his lips, hands clawing weakly at Thaddeus’s arms, nails scraping skin.

Thaddeus leaned in, face inches away, tears blurring his vision as regret clawed up his throat. “Like this,” he whispered, voice breaking.

Twenty seconds. Gregory’s struggles weakened, body twitching, then going limp. His eyes glazed, staring blankly at nothing.

Thaddeus released with a shudder, slumping back against the wall, hands trembling violently as if burned. 

HARVEST COMPLETE

Name: Gregory Langford

Age: 34

Cause of Death: Manual asphyxiation (strangulation by host)

Time of Death: Immediate (20-second carotid hold)

Harvest Value: $1BN

It didn't matter. 

Regret hit like a tidal wave—hot, suffocating. He’d killed a man. Blood on his hands, soul stained. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, staring at Gregory’s still form, the silence deafening except for Mara’s muffled sobs.