11. Chapter 11
11
Graysen
S irro reclined in his chair, one leg hitched over the other. He didn’t offer answers or ask questions, simply content at this point to let the meeting unfold before him without interference. His fingers were steepled, forefingers tapping against each other as he listened.
I felt his attention slithering all over me. His arrogance tasted like a mouthful of rusty nails and his annoyance was almost tangible—he wanted to take a bite out of me, literally.
He didn’t like me.
No surprise. Not too many people did.
Get in line, motherfucker.
Sirro knew I hadn’t saved him from the wraith-wolf. He was a Horned God and had been one breath away from snapping the beast’s neck. He knew I’d done it for her. Sage’s death would have broken Wychthorn. I didn’t want her broken. Not yet. She was mine to shatter when I willed it.
No, this was all about Wychthorn and the Alverac.
He’d encountered someone he wanted and he couldn’t have her.
She was mine.
Byron was waiting, shifting in his leather chair with impatience. I ran my tongue across my teeth, changing my angle slightly to address him.
When I’d come across the wreck this afternoon, it was far too late to save them.
“They jammed the outside of the doors, poured wildfyre all over the truck, and burned it.” I’d come across the remnants of the truck—a shell of melted rubber and metal and bones. The residual emotion of those who’d died inside still coated the air around the burning husk. The thick tang of despair and terror raked against my tongue, the scent choking up my lungs. I’d almost hurled my guts up. “ They were caught in there. Burned alive.” Men, women—some of them young.
The only reply from Byron was, “We need a replacement.”
My jaw clenched. Not one single gesture showed he gave a fuck about what happened to those innocent people.
And no reaction from any of the Heads either.
What was I expecting? That they’d show some kind of remorse? No, those mortals died in a fucking furnace, metal blistering and buckling, with no way out. Although, I reminded myself, if they’d survived, they still would have died at the hands of the Horned Gods, or worse, lived.
Sirro leaned forward, dropping a hand to the armrest of his chair. “Wildfyre, not gasoline?”
I gave a sharp nod. Gasoline would mean mortal interference. Wildfyre said something else altogether.
His golden eyes narrowed as he tilted his head in contemplation.
I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, my gaze snapping back to Byron. “My father already has a new offering coming from the Widowmakers.” The Widowmakers were an Albanian gang with territory covering the eastern seaboard. “It’ll arrive a day late, but it’ll arrive.” My father added foot soldiers from our House to shadow the convoy for protection.
The world believed the crime lords resided at the peak of organized crime. Wrong. The crime lords worked for us, and the money that funneled from them to us continued upward to who we worked for—the pinnacle of the pyramid—The Horned Gods.
One of the cartels—run by a ruthless man called Gutiérrez—had been hit the week before, the product not intercepted and stolen, but wiped out. By who, though, was still a mystery. Their attacks worked against Byron, rocking his position as our leader. I might have wanted to congratulate those attacking our empire if what they’d done hadn’t churned my gut with the viciousness in which it had been delivered.
Yoran hooked a finger into the knot of his tie to adjust it. Curiosity filled deep brown eyes as they fixed on me. “Find out who?”
“There was nothing. No trace, no scent.” No lead whatsoever or clue who did this. It was as if they’d never been there. “Kenton and Caidan are still on the hunt.” My brothers kept in contact with me while I was here. I wanted to help them out, but I loved every opportunity I had to shove my undesired presence in Byron’s life—as a fuck you—even more.
“You?” I asked Yoran .
Yoran shook his head. His brow furrowed. Members of his House were trying to figure out who the hells attacked us too.
“A traitor? One of the leaders from a syndicate?” Ennio Battagli inquired before he puffed on his cigar, smoke curling from his fat lips.
“Possible, but they’re mortal. They’d leave a scent.” It grated on me I had to spell it out again. Wasn’t the fucker listening?
I stepped back to lean against the wall. They could duke this out until they finally realized what I already had.
“Children of the Harbinger.” Aldert Pellan offered in his quiet, creepy voice.
Everyone paused at that. The Children of the Harbinger were a sect that had hounded us since before the Final War. “We wiped them out centuries ago,” I answered in a dull, flat tone.
“Maybe we didn’t,” Aldert persisted.
“They wouldn’t kill those stolen souls. They’d try to save them,” Byron said, his rough voice bordering on a snarl. He’d already worked out, like I had, that it was Aldert who’d stabbed him in the back with Sirro’s presence. “And even they would leave something remaining, some scent the Crowthers could trace.”
The truckload of stolen souls was to be a sacrifice to the Horned Gods. This wasn’t a rescue attempt to save those people from a fate far worse than death. Whoever was behind it hadn’t stolen them to sell on their own behalf, either. They annihilated those souls in a declaration of war.
Yoran and I, and even Byron, understood the message given.
Sirro did too.
Whoever was behind this… this was a message to the Horned Gods.
I didn’t like the idea that some faction was out there that could disappear so effectively. I also didn’t like the fact that they knew about our shadowed society.
Then something moving swiftly, a blur of white, burst into the room—
Holy fuck!