Chapter 18
Kai
The warehouse feels like a sauna with the metallic tang of blood hanging heavy in the air. I lean against the wall, watching Ry work with a precision that's both terrifying and beautiful. The look in her eyes is wild, unhinged in a way I haven't seen since Dead Devil's Night two years ago.
Our captive whimpers as she circles him, her knife dancing between her fingers. She's been at this for hours now, methodically taking him apart piece by small piece. His face is barely recognizable beneath the blood and swelling, his shirt in tatters, skin a canvas of her rage.
"One more time," she says, her voice deceptively soft. "Who hired you?"
"I told you," he sobs, words slurring through broken teeth. "Just a guy. Called himself Bren Cade. Paid cash. I never saw his face."
Ry sighs, as if disappointed in a child who keeps making the same mistake. Then she presses the tip of her blade against his eyelid, just enough pressure to dimple the skin without breaking it.
"I don't believe you," she whispers.
I shift my weight, adjusting myself discreetly. I really shouldn't be rock hard watching her like this, but fuck if her crazy doesn't turn me on. Always has. The way she moves when she's like this—all deadly grace and controlled fury—makes my blood burn.
Rev catches my eye from across the room, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He knows exactly what I'm feeling. He's probably in the same state.
"Please," the man begs, blood bubbling from his lips. "I swear I don't know anything else."
I didn't realize how close Ry had gotten to the puppy in such a short time, but watching her now, it makes perfect sense.
She saw something of herself in him—that same desperate need to belong, to matter.
Now he's gone, and she's channeling all that grief into the man strapped to the chair before her.
"I think," she says, pressing just a fraction harder until a bead of blood wells up beneath her blade, "that you're holding out on me."
The man screams, the sound bouncing off concrete walls as Ry makes another precise cut along his collarbone. Not deep enough to kill, just enough to maximize pain. The manic energy just below her surface threatens to break through with every slice.
Camden stands by the door, his face carefully neutral, but I catch him flinching every time the captive screams. He's been watching for hours, probably wondering when one of us will step in and stop her.
Earlier, he actually asked Rev if he was going to control her.
Rev just gave him a bland look and asked, "Why would I? "
The memory almost makes me laugh. Camden has seriously underestimated our girl if he thinks we'd ever try to leash her fury. We've learned long ago that Ry is at her most magnificent when she's unleashed.
Our captive jerks against his restraints, a strangled sob escaping him."Please," he begs, "I don't know anything else. I swear to god."
"God isn't here," Ry whispers, leaning in close. "Just me."
I glance at the clock on the wall and shudder. It's past midnight—officially Dead Devil's Night. Before we took over tonight would be the night when all the monsters come out to play, when the city descends into its annual chaos of violence and mayhem. The night that made us what we are.
"We're running out of time," I say, loud enough for Ry to hear.
She doesn't acknowledge me, too focused on her prey.
We've been at this since we brought him back from the docks, and while he's given up some information, I'm not convinced it's enough to matter.
Whoever is targeting us is smart—too smart to leave an obvious trail.
They've built layers to safeguard themselves.
This guy we're torturing likely doesn't know anything beyond the man who hired him.
But what bothers me most is how our attackers knew all the ins and outs of our operation.
The security protocols, the shipment schedules, the weak points in our defenses.
That kind of information only comes from the inside.
If I had to guess, the guy who hired this poor bastard won't know more than whoever hired him, and so forth up the chain. But I guess we have to start somewhere, right?
But Ry isn't thinking clearly. She's running on rage and grief, determined to make someone pay for Oliver's death. I understand. I do. But I'm also worried about what happens when she burns through that rage and has nothing left.
Hudson left a while ago to personally hunt down the guy our captive gave up during Ry's "interrogation." She insisted it be him or me or Rev who went, but there was no way in hell Rev and I were going to leave her like this. Not when she's balanced on the knife-edge of control.
The captive screams again as Ry makes another precise cut, and I see Camden flinch once more. Hudson really needs to reevaluate who he has as his second.
"Please," our captive gasps, blood bubbling from his split lip. "I've told you everything I know. I gave you the only name I know and the warehouse on Fifteenth where we were supposed to deliver what we stole."
Ry steps back, wiping the blade clean on a rag as she considers his words. "And who would you have delivered it to?"
"I don't know!" he wails. "I swear to god, I don't know!"
"But you've heard things," she presses, her voice dangerously soft. "Rumors. Whispers. Tell me what people are saying."
He hesitates, his one good eye darting between Ry and the door as if weighing his options.
"You're not leaving here," she informs him calmly. "But how you leave is up to you. In a body bag, or in pieces. Your choice."
Something in her voice must convince him because he swallows hard and nods.
"There's talk," he begins, voice trembling, "on the streets. People saying this year's Dead Devil's Night will be different. That it'll be returned to the way it used to be. That something will happen at the new club to kick it off."
Before we took control, Dead Devil's Night was a nightmare—a purge where the worst elements of the city ran free, where murder and rape and torture were just part of the celebration. We changed that, imposed our own order on the chaos. Made rules. Consequences.
"Who's saying this?" Rev asks, stepping closer.
The man licks his bloody lips. "Everyone. It's spreading through the ranks. People who've been waiting for the old days to come back. When there were no rules, when it was every man for himself."
"And who," Ry asks, her knife tracing idle patterns in the air, "is going to make this happen?"
The captive's eye widens, fear making him hesitate again. Ry sighs dramatically, then plunges her knife into his thigh. His scream echoes off the walls as she twists the blade.
"I asked you a question," she says pleasantly.
"Silas!" he screams. "They're saying Silas is back! That he's going to bring back the true Dead Devil's Night!"
We all freeze at that name. I feel like someone's dumped a bucket of ice water down my spine. Beside me, Rev has gone completely still, his face a perfect mask of control that doesn't fool me for a second. I can feel the rage radiating off him in waves.
"Silas," Ry repeats, her voice eerily calm.
The man nods frantically. "That's what they're saying. That he's been planning his return for years. Waiting for the right moment to take back what's his."
There's no way. No fucking way that Silas is back. Our father—if you could call that monster a father—is dead. Rev and I killed him ourselves two years ago. I remember the way his blood felt on my hands, the sound he made when Rev cut his throat. The satisfaction of watching the light fade from his eyes and knowing he couldn’t return to hurt us.
"You're lying," I say, pushing off the wall and approaching the chair. "Silas is dead."
"I'm just telling you what people are saying!" he protests, shrinking back as far as his restraints will allow. "I don't know if it's true! Please, I'm just repeating what I heard!"
The door to the warehouse slams open, cutting off whatever bullshit our captive is about to spew next.
Hudson strides in, his expression grim and posture rigid—the way he gets when things have gone sideways.
Blood spatters his jacket, none of it his from what I can tell.
His eyes lock with Ry's immediately, a silent conversation passing between them.
"Well?" Ry asks.
Hudson's jaw tightens. "Camden," he says instead of answering her, "finish this." He nods toward our bloody captive.
Camden straightens, already pulling his sidearm. "Yes, sir."
"Wait," Ry protests, stepping between Camden and the captive. "I'm not done with him."
Hudson's hand wraps gently around her upper arm. "Yes, you are. We need to talk." His voice drops lower as he adds, "All four of us. Now."
Something in his tone makes her relent. She tosses her bloody knife onto the metal table with a clatter, then follows as Hudson leads her toward the small office at the back of the warehouse. Rev and I exchange glances before falling in step behind them.
The office is barely more than a closet—a desk, a few chairs, and walls thin enough that we'll hear the gunshot when Camden executes our captive. Hudson closes the door behind us, then runs a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of someone else's blood in the dark strands.
"Bren Cade is dead," he announces without preamble. "Someone got to him before I did. Professional hit—two to the chest, one to the head. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing."
"Fuck," Rev mutters, leaning against the wall.
"The warehouse on Fifteenth?" Ry asks, her voice unnervingly calm.
Hudson shakes his head. "Empty. Cleared out. Not a fingerprint, not a shell casing, nothing. Whoever we're dealing with is thorough."
I slam my fist into the desk, sending papers scattering. "So we've got nothing. Again." The frustration burns in my chest, made worse by the ghost of a name that shouldn't be possible. Silas. Just thinking it makes bile rise in my throat.
"Sixteen hours until the Playground opens," Hudson says, checking his watch. "Whatever they're planning, it'll happen there."
Ry says nothing for a long moment, her face unreadable as she stares at a point somewhere past Hudson's shoulder. When she finally speaks, her voice has that deadly calm that always precedes her most vicious moments.
"Fine," she says with a casual shrug that doesn't match the cold fury in her eyes. "Let them come."
Rev pushes off the wall, moving closer to her. "Ry—"
"No," she cuts him off. "We've been chasing shadows for days. Let's stop running and let them come to us. We know the battlefield now. We know when they'll strike."
"I can increase security at all properties," Hudson offers. "Double the men at the Playground, put snipers on the surrounding buildings—"
"No," Ry interrupts again, and now I see the plan forming behind her eyes. "Don't change anything. Don't show them we're scrambling. We rule this fucking city, and we're not going to roll over and show our belly for someone pretending to be a dead man."
The gunshot from the main floor punctuates her words, marking the end of our captive. None of us flinch.
"You want to use the Playground opening as bait," I realize, a slow smile spreading across my face. "Let them think we're vulnerable."
She nods, a matching smile curving her lips.
"It's about time they knew who really rules this city.
I'm not running anymore. Not from ghosts, not from shadows.
" She looks between the three of us, her eyes gleaming with that beautiful madness I love so much.
"We're going into Dead Devil's Night fully fucking armed.
And if the Devil himself shows up looking for a fight, we'll send him back to hell wearing his balls as a necklace. "
Rev laughs, the sound dark and appreciative. "That's my girl."
Hudson studies her face, something like admiration flickering in his eyes. "It's risky," he says finally. "But it could work. Draw them out on our terms, on our territory."
"Exactly," Ry agrees. "We've been reacting. It's time to force their hand."
The second gunshot makes us all turn toward the door. Camden must be making sure our captive is really dead. Thorough, at least.
"What about Oliver?" I ask quietly, watching Ry's face closely.
Pain flashes across her features before she locks it down. "We need to find his body," she says, voice tight. "Give him a proper burial. He deserves that much."
"He saved your life," Hudson says softly. "That means something."
Ry nods, a muscle jumping in her jaw. "It means everything. And whoever is behind this will pay for taking him. For taking all of it." She straightens, rolling her shoulders back. "But first, we have a club to open."
The door opens and Camden steps in, his expression carefully professional despite the blood spatter on his sleeve. "It's done," he reports. "Clean-up crew is on the way."
"Good," Hudson says. "Have them be thorough. Then I want you to coordinate with the team at the Playground. Business as usual, but I want eyes on everyone who enters that club."
Camden nods and retreats, closing the door behind him.
"So what now?" Rev asks, cracking his knuckles. "We just wait?"
"We prepare," Ry corrects. "We rest. We get ready for war." She moves to the small window, staring out at the city lights in the distance. "And tomorrow, we remind this city why they call us the current devils."
I cross to her, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind. Rev joins us, his hand sliding into her hair, grounding her between us. After a moment, Hudson steps closer too, not quite touching but part of our circle nonetheless.
"Whatever happens," I murmur against her ear, "we face it together."
She leans back into me, her body finally relaxing slightly. "Always," she whispers.
The night stretches before us, full of shadows and ghosts and impossible names. But for the first time since this all began, I feel like we're finding our footing again. Whatever comes for us, they'll find us ready.
And if by some miracle it really is Silas somehow back from the dead? Well, I'll just enjoy killing him a second time.