13. Quinn
13
QUINN
I double and then triple-check my weapon, making sure my gun is loaded one last time before shoving it into the waistband of my pants. The familiar chill of the metal against the small of my back doesn’t completely get rid of my nerves, but it calms them enough for now.
“Everyone clear on the plan?” Nico’s voice echoes through the garage as he shrugs into his leather jacket.
“Crystal.” I grab my own jacket and trace my fingers over the Enigma patch before putting it on. Fuck, that patch—and everything it represents—feels like it weighs a thousand pounds tonight.
Nico methodically checks his weapons: backup piece at his ankle, his favorite Glock at his side, knife strapped to his other side. His movements are as precise and practiced as mine, and it occurs to me that he and Killian might be nervous too.
Maybe some other day, I’ll find some humor in the way we’ve all found ways to push through the bullshit. There’s nothing funny about it tonight though. Not with so much on the line.
“The address they gave us is right around Elmwood Cemetery.” I pull up the map on my phone. “Lots of trees, old statues and monuments, perfect spot for an ambush.”
“Or a clean getaway.” Killian tests the sight on his gun before holstering it. “Multiple exit routes, plenty of cover.”
I squint at my phone screen, studying the cemetery layout for probably the hundredth time. Somewhere in that maze of headstones and monuments, Atlas will be waiting. Probably as worried about us as we’re worried about him. Definitely hurting.
“Two bikes or three?” Killian asks. “Might be a good idea if someone is free to shoot in case we need cover getting out of there.”
“You’re not wrong,” I offer. “But one of us will have Atlas. I want plenty of options to get him out of there if shit starts to go sideways.” I let the words hang in the air for a moment in case anyone has a counter-argument before I make the final decision. “Three bikes.”
The familiar rumble of motorcycles fills the garage as our engines roar to life. The vibrations travel up through my boots, settling in my chest like a second heartbeat.
The suburban streets are dark and quiet as we head out, and the lights of downtown Detroit slip farther and farther away. The cemetery is far enough away that nobody will interfere with the ceremony, but that also means there won’t be anyone around to help us if we need it.
That’s the chance we have to take if we want Atlas back in one piece.
After a few miles, I can see the cemetery gates up ahead, the tall wrought iron making them look delicate and intricate but imposing as hell at the same time. We kill our engines at the entrance, rolling our bikes the rest of the way in silence. There’s enough moonlight to make out the marble angels and headstones around us, but not enough to feel completely safe.
Especially since we know exactly what kinds of monsters are lurking around in the darkness here.
My heart stops when I spot them. Ambrose stands between two huge oaks, flanked by four of his men. They’ve got Atlas on his knees, hands bound behind his back, with two guns trained on him.
“Right on time.” Ambrose’s voice carries across the graves. “I was starting to worry you wouldn’t show.”
“Let me see him.” I step forward, ignoring the way Nico and Killian tense beside me.
Ambrose gestures and his men drag Atlas closer. Even in the dim light, I can see the bruises on his face, the way he’s favoring his left side. But his eyes are clear as fucking day when they lock with mine.
“Atlas?” My voice is strained despite my best efforts.
“I’m okay.” His split lip twitches into what might be a smile. “Really.” But there’s something in his expression that twists my gut—pain, yes, but also fear. Not for himself. For me.
I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as I walk back over to join Nico and Killian. My fingers twitch near my gun while Ambrose’s men keep their weapons trained on Atlas. Every rustle of leaves has me on edge and searching the shadows between the monuments for any sign that shit is about to hit the fan.
Where the hell is Malcolm?
“Getting impatient here.” Ambrose shifts his weight, hand resting on his own piece. “You promised me an induction ceremony.”
“They’ll be here.” The words come out steadier than I feel. Minutes tick by, each one ratcheting the tension higher. Nico and Killian have spread out slightly, hopefully taking positions that will give them clean lines of fire if that’s what it comes down to.
“Really?” Ambrose yanks Atlas up by his collar. “Because right now all I see is you wasting my time. Maybe I should cut my losses.”
“Don’t.” My hand twitches but I somehow manage to hold steady without making any sudden moves. “Malcolm gave his word. The ceremony will happen.”
But the doubt has definitely started creeping in. What if Malcolm played me? What if this whole thing was just a setup to get us here, outnumbered and exposed?
Atlas catches my eye and gives a tiny shake of his head. No doubt he can sense the panic building. It feels like everyone here is about two seconds away from doing something stupid. The bruises on his face look worse up close, and I’m having a hell of a time tamping down the rage when I think about what they must have done to him.
“You’ve got one minute.” Ambrose presses his gun against Atlas’s temple. “Then we do this my way.”
Fuck.
If Malcolm doesn’t show, we’ll have to fight our way out. The odds aren’t great—Ambrose’s men have better positions, and Atlas as a hostage—but I won’t let them execute him while I stand here doing nothing.
“Thirty seconds,” Ambrose calls out, clicking off his safety.
Just as he finishes speaking, movement catches my eye. Dark shapes emerge from behind monuments and trees until it seems like the cemetery has come alive with silent figures in elaborate masks, their silhouettes barely visible against the night sky. My heart pounds as I count them. There are six people in masks—the Dark Lotus Syndicate members, I’m guessing—and at least ten others who are unmasked. The ones without masks must be security, because they form a sort of perimeter around all of us, their demeanors watchful and stoic.
Nico and Killian shift closer to me, their hands hovering near their weapons. Atlas’s eyes go wide as he takes in the scene unfolding around us.
“Well.” A familiar voice speaks from behind one of the more ornate masks—black lacquer with golden accents catching little hints of moonlight here and there as he moves. Malcolm. “Your marker. Are you certain you still want to use it for someone else?”
I lift my chin, meeting the dark eyes behind his mask. “Yes. I’m certain. I want to use it for this man. Ambrose Pearce.”
Across from me, Ambrose nods, smug satisfaction radiating from him. God, he makes me sick.
The masked figures draw closer, forming a circle around us. I wasn’t planning on being impressed by the transfer ceremony, but I have to admit the costumes and the setting really make it feel like we’re doing something important. And possibly forbidden.
“The Dark Lotus Syndicate’s traditions stretch back for many years.” Malcolm’s voice carries easily through the still night air. “Tonight, we witness a transfer of membership. A rare occurrence, but one that will be allowed.”
He turns to me. “Quinn, you’ll be asked to speak the Oath of Fealty. To bind yourself to our ways, our secrets, and our brotherhood. The words must come from your heart, but they must include your vow to keep our secrets, to honor our traditions, and to put the Syndicate’s interests above your own.”
The masked figures step forward, and my pulse picks up its pace.
“You’ll kneel before us.” Malcolm gestures to the other five masked figures, all of whom are gazing at me. “Your hands will be bound with red silk—symbolic of the blood ties that bind us all. You’ll speak your oath, and if it’s deemed worthy, you’ll be one of us.” His voice drops lower. “Your first act as a member will be to choose someone to take your place.” He nods in Ambrose’s direction. “At that point, he will also swear the Oath of Fealty.”
I nod, trusting there will be some prompts along the way to keep me from fucking this up. “And the marker? We’ll still need to… to burn it off my body?”
Malcolm’s eyes glint behind his mask. “The marker must be removed, yes. Each member will either draw a line through your tattoo or burn away a portion with their brand.”
My stomach drops. I knew there would be pain and some kind of burning involved, but I didn’t realize it was going to be such a long, drawn-out process.
Nico takes a half-step forward, his jaw clenched tight. Even Killian’s usually stoic expression cracks, revealing a flash of protective anger. I shake my head at them both. We can’t risk anything going wrong, not with Atlas’s life hanging by a thread.
Malcolm leans in close, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Don’t count them all. Many here are simply guards. The Syndicate members alone will participate in the removal.”
I nod, taking one last look around before locking eyes with Malcolm again. “I understand. I’m ready.”
The first member of the Syndicate steps forward, their mask adorned with intricate silver scrollwork. As they reach up to remove it, the rest of the circle begins a low chant in Latin. “Sanguinem nostrum, vinculum nostrum.”
The revealed face belongs to a woman who looks a bit older than me, with auburn hair that gleams with hints of red. Her dark green eyes meet mine as she speaks. “I accept this marker and claim my portion.” The brand in her hand glows orange-hot.
I grit my teeth as the metal connects with my shoulder. The pain is white-hot, searing, but I don’t make a sound. My nails dig crescents into my palms.
The second member’s mask is black with gold filigree. When he removes it, I see a man who’s probably in his thirties, with a neatly trimmed beard, long hair, and eyes the color of storm clouds. “Sanguinem nostrum, vinculum nostrum.”
The brand he’s carrying isn’t glowing quite as much, but it still hurts like a motherfucker, and the smell of burning flesh—my burning flesh—makes me want to throw up.
Still, I stay strong. I’m not going to cry out. I’m not even going to flinch.
The third approaches wearing deep crimson lacquer with obsidian details. Beneath it is a man with a slightly crooked nose and cold, deep-set eyes. His brand sizzles against my flesh.
Blood trickles down my back, mixing with sweat. I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek raw, but I haven’t flinched once. Won’t give them the satisfaction. Won’t risk fucking this up for Atlas.
The chanting grows louder as each member finishes their part. Next comes a man with dark blond hair, brown eyes, and a smile that’s much too charming for the dangerous aura that radiates from him. Then a tall woman with platinum blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and angular features.
“Sanguinem nostrum, vinculum nostrum. Our blood, our bond.”
Malcolm steps forward last. The chanting reaches a crescendo as he removes his black and gold mask, revealing those sharp features and calculating eyes I remember from our first meeting.
“I accept this marker and claim my portion.” His brand glows brighter than the others, and when it connects with my flesh, the pain is almost unbearable. My eyes roll back in my head and I worry for a moment that I might pass out. But I lock my jaw and breathe through it, determined that even the leader of the Dark Lotus Syndicate won’t get the best of me tonight.
The chanting fades to silence as Malcolm offers me a hand to get to my feet. I ignore him, forcing myself to stand straight, chin up.
“Speak your oath,” he commands. “Then choose who will take your place in our ranks.”
I take a deep breath. The words I’ve rehearsed are on the tip of my tongue—the ones that will give my marker to Ambrose. That will make him a member and save Atlas’s life.
“I, Quinn Kent, swear to keep the secrets of the Dark Lotus Syndicate. I bind myself to your traditions, your brotherhood, and your ways.” The words flow easier than I expected, maybe because they’re coming straight from my gut rather than any script. “My blood is your blood. Your interests are my interests. I’ll protect our secrets with my life, and stand with my brothers and sisters against any who would harm us.”
The Syndicate members around us nod in approval. The Latin chant rises again, stronger this time. “Sanguinem nostrum, vinculum nostrum.”
Malcolm raises his hand for silence. “Your oath is accepted. Now choose who will take your place among us.”
I scan the faces around me, lingering on Atlas’s bruised features, then Ambrose’s expectant smirk as he takes that confident step forward. His chest is already puffing up with pride.
“No one.” The word cuts through the silence like a knife. “I’m keeping my membership.”