Marked By Masks and Secrets (Everlasting Possession #1)

25

KYLO

E therdale’s underground had two different kinds of dungeons. Both were immensely fun for me, in their own ways. But the variation that I entered this evening was filled with screams of agony rather than pleasure.

Born spies were getting bolder. As my clan tactically infiltrated channels of the slave trade, assassinated born elites, and rooted out members of the Servants of Lillian cult, the born were starting to suspect that we weren’t as disorganized, youthful, and clueless as they’d originally assumed.

Turned clans in other regions tended to be severely politically and geographically disadvantaged. Etherdale was a university city positioned in a secluded valley with a long history of mortal-centric values. Along with our powerful witch covens, shifter packs, and vampire hunters and wards around campus, it was far harder for Lord Conrad to make moves against us.

Flooding the city with born would piss off the witches and shifters and turn mortals against the born even more decisively. And now that they were suspecting the clan’s true power and numbers, they had the fear of provoking a major uprising to consider.

Mortal uprisings meant a severe drop in the vampire food supply. This was why there were checks and balances in the kingdom of Ravenia. Born nobility, along with King Earle’s council, were supposed to work with mortal leaders to maintain basic codes of conduct and peaceful, reciprocal communities.

But now that a growing wave of born were chasing power and wealth through their hateful Servants of Lillian cult, the slave trade, and forced marriage rituals, the tides were turning. Mortals were looking to Valentin’s war for guidance—taking note of the way that Rune and his clan had united with mortals to overthrow the born from power.

The born spy chained to the wall in front of me was a man with black shoulder-length hair. He was already roughed up by the clan members who’d discovered him lurking somewhere he shouldn’t have been—on university campus, rooting out mortal sympathizers of the clan.

The worries that the clan controlled Etherdale’s university were, of course, entirely warranted. I smirked.

Surrounding me were dozens of clan members. Some were advisors, and others were onlookers who simply wished to see a born dickhead suffer.

Blade stood to my right, hunger swarming in his warm brown eyes as he grinned. He’d cut off the sleeves of his black top, exposing the massive shoulders and biceps capable of crushing a skull with ease.

To my left was one of my eyes, Phineas. He was a gifted wielder of invisibility glamours, floating around the city from the shadows, collecting secrets and watching for irregularities.

He was the one who trained me to use my shadows to conceal my presence, which had been a useful asset in stalking my vulnerable little fallen angel.

“Which building?” I asked Phineas.

“One of the witches’ academic buildings,” he said.

I kept my rage carefully concealed, refusing to show a single change in my facial expression. I didn’t want to give the bruised and bloodied spy an ounce of satisfaction before his demise.

In my hands was a plier forged with flecks of blood onyx, a poisonous, paralytic material to vampires. It was what the borns’ chains were made of, to subdue his magick.

Inside my veins, fury steadily rose. Because the borns’ persistent targeting of powerful witches—chaos witches—put my angel at risk. Even more so when she clearly had no control over her magick.

I fucking hated how far away from me she was right now. Even if this was no place for her. I almost prayed she stepped out of line, so I could finally mark her with my blood and be a part of her forever.

“What lovely fingers you have,” I said, letting my feral protectiveness leak into my voice, my demeanor.

The born’s eyes darted from my eyes to the pliers as he snarled. His black hair dipped forward, his hands limp where they hung, spread out on the stone wall.

I allowed myself to twist, to appear as something psychotic. Deranged. A creature of darkness without mercy, without even an ounce of sanity.

He was looking for her . They wanted to take her from me.

I cut off one of his fingers as he writhed uselessly, merely to show him how easy and quick it was to commit acts of violence. His appendage fell to the ground, and blood sprayed as the crowd laughed and made humorous, insulting remarks at his expense.

Next, Phineas and I repeated the same questions over and over. His refusal to answer was typical and expected. They trained their spies well. At the end of the day, the born were immortal demons. It was easy for them to reject all semblance of humanity and honor their sociopathic soullessness instead.

“Strange weather we had earlier today,” the born scum spat, missing several of his teeth now as blood spilled from his mouth.

I stared at him, unmoving, as the words pierced straight to my soul.

Animalistic, vengeful rage consumed me, even as I kept every feature the same as it had been before he spoke.

“Aw, do you want to take a brief intermission for small talk?” I asked with deceptive sweetness, grinning widely.

The born’s eyes flashed with satisfying alarm at my increasingly inconsistent displays of emotion and speech. I loved fucking with them psychologically even more than physically, to get inside their puny little brains and squeeze, poke, prod, utterly shatter them at their core.

Lillian’s demon spawn were addicted to sensibilities, to social rules and customs. They acted predictably, with an eye on tradition. They were disturbed by displays of erraticism and disarray. They fucking hated it.

And I got high off their hatred like it was my second-favorite drug.

My first being Evie, of course.

“A witch-conjured storm is a curious thing,” he continued, speech slurred. “But why? Such a strange, nonsensical display of raw power… Rare power.”

He was delirious from the blood onyx, spilling his unfiltered thoughts. It was the perfect time to question him again, yet all I wanted to do was tear off his arms and legs and stuff them down his undeserving throat.

Evie had put herself on the map with her outburst. All manner of magick-sensing powers would be hunting for her now.

I warred with my primal rage to defend what was mine against all threats. I released a breath, and I pushed my all-consuming obsession with Evie to the side.

My clan needed my effectiveness. I could not falter. I could not hesitate. I could not slip.

I feigned disinterest. I buried my need to tear out his tongue somewhere deep.

I continued the physical and psychological dance with Blade and Phineas, destroying the born from within and extracting all available intel. I riled up my clan, showcased my shadowed power, my skill.

All the while, I saw her face in the back of my mind. I remembered the way her heart had slowed as I ran the brush through her hair, each little sigh of contentment, the way she’d leaned into my touch instead of pulling away.

For my clan, I was impenetrable, violent—all sharp edges, brutality, and razored, competent logic.

For her, only for her, I was anything she needed me to be.