3. Magnus
T he music is blaring. A heavy, hypnotic beat that fits perfectly to all the moving, gyrating bodies around me.
I’ve never been much of a fan of this part of the prison. My tastes run a little differently from the vanilla undertones of this particular section. But then, when one doesn’t want to be disturbed, this provides the ideal sanctuary.
This guarantees I can think without being interrupted.
To my right, a man is feasting between the legs of a woman who must be half his age. His grubby little hands hold her petite thighs wide apart and though she’s not fighting it, you can see from the hazy dullness in her eyes the reason why.
But then, the mask covering her face signifies what she is.
All the women on this level wear masks, as do some of the men. Black like the one the girl is wearing signifies that they’re a whore. Lowest of the low. They’re there to fuck, to be used and in truth, they hold little interest to me.
Above them are the bronze masks. Brethren Women. Ones who’ve fallen foul of our laws, or, more likely, have fallen foul of their husbands.
To wear a bronze mask means your time is limited. That your punishment is temporary. It adds a little fun to the mix, especially when you don’t know whose wife or daughter you could be playing with.
But it’s the people in red masks that are truly fucked. Man or woman, for those unlucky few, there’s no escape, no limit, both to their sentence or to what can be done to them. It’s a free for all.
As I sink back further into my chair, my eyes land on the figures in the distance and the little scuffle that’s taking place. A bronze masked woman, who clearly hasn’t adjusted to her new place in society, is surrounded by two men who force her to her knees as she struggles and jerks. She’s a curvy thing, with big, bouncing breasts and nicely dark nipples, the kind you can truly knead and bind up beautifully. Every time she jerks, her tits bounce more, and emphasise what a truly soft, malleable body she has.
One of them rips off the flimsy see-through excuse for a dress, while the other laughs before slapping her enough to force her compliance. In unison they fuck her. One in her arse, one in her mouth. The woman gags and jerks, but there’s nothing she can do but take it.
And when they’ve finished, she’s hauled off, dragged away, no doubt to be given a few lashes for her bad behaviour. If she’s smart, she’ll learn, she’ll adapt. But if she isn’t, the next few months are going to be a brutal learning curve.
My lips quirk at that and my hands itch to do something. Anything.
It’s been months since I’ve indulged. Months since I’ve played. Oh, I go to the lower levels every now and then but seeing as this is my prison, it’s not the done thing to be the one to break our merchandise in. A Lord will pay a small fortune for such an honour. I can hardly turn them down in favour of my own selfish desires.
And besides, work has been demanding, Brethren work that is. This place provides the means, and the Elders are more than happy to provide the fodder to fill it. Stupid Lords and Ladies who think they’re above the rules. All of them are collected and brought here to receive their rightful punishment along with the riffraff.
From the corner of my eye, I see the movement, I see my brother crossing the room, heading directly for me as a pawn darts about behind him.
“You’ve been summoned.” Conrad says quietly as he gets within earshot.
My eyebrow raises and I glance at the skittish man beside him. Pawns are usually more sedate, more controlled. It makes me wonder what shitshow is going down to elicit such a response. He rubs his hands like he’s barely holding it all together and for a moment, I relish that fear in his face.
I get up, following them both out to where more men, more Lords are stood, waiting for me.
“This better be good.” I state. I’m not one for theatrics. I’m not one for drama. And when I said I didn’t want to be disturbed, I meant it. Whatever is going on, it better be earth-shattering to warrant going against my explicit instructions.
“You need to hear this.” Conrad murmurs.
I shoot him a look that tells him to shut the fuck up. He may be my brother, but that doesn’t give him free rein either. He needs to understand that even our name doesn’t guarantee us a free ride. We have enemies, other families who would love to see us cut down. One stupid remark from Conrad, one careless action in front of the wrong eyes could spell our downfall.
He rolls his eyes, showing a flash of disobedience that I’m starting to notice more and more, but I don’t have time to deal with that now.
“What is it?” I bark back.
The men stood before me part and I can see up ahead a man fidgeting, clearly out of place. One look tells me he’s not a Brethren. And yet he’s been permitted entry all the same—that’s a breach I won’t take lightly.
“Flew him up here as soon as I heard.” Maxmillian murmurs into my ear.
“From where?” I ask. Whatever this is, it has to be big for such an action.
“London.”
My eyes narrow on the figure and then they land on the man behind him, the one with the smirk.
Anthony Wallis. Another reaper. One I know by reputation as well as face. This night is getting more interesting by the minute.
He’s not quite as tall as me, and though our jobs mean we’re meant to sustain a high-level physical fitness, it’s clear that he likes to indulge.
“I, I…” the man on his knees stammers as if it’s just sinking in exactly who he is talking to.
“You, what?” I ask.
He gulps, ducking his head, revealing a bald patch on the crown where his light hair is thinning. He’s at least a decade younger than me, at a guess I’d say mid-thirties, but nothing about him suggests he’s anything of worth. His suit is cheap, his shoes are at least polished but nothing to note. This man is a nobody. Nothing. I could pull out my gun, blast his head off, and no one beyond his family would even notice his passing .
He pulls out a folder, shakily hands it to me and I snatch it up, half expecting there to be little of interest, but what I see makes my jaw drop.
Apparently, some journalist is writing an expose, planning to reveal to the world not only that we exist, but that half the world’s leaders alongside CEOs, actors, hell even the US President himself is a damned part of it. And the information she’s got is good. Too good. No way she stumbled upon this by herself, no way she just figured it all out. No, she had help. Inside help at that.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask.
“We found it on her computer.” he half-whispers.
“We?”
“I,” he says. “I found it. I tried to talk to her, to make her stop…”
The look on my face silences him. That’s not his place. He’s not there to act on our behalf. He’s there as an informant. He’s there to help maintain the status quo. Stupid fuck has clearly gotten too big for his boots. Perhaps he’s convinced himself he’s one of us? One of the Brethren, when he’s so low down the pecking order even the black masked girls in my club hold more sway.
“Get out.” I say.
He blinks, looking to Anthony as if he has a say in this.
With a jerk of my head, I have him hauled out. I know he won’t do anything, I know he’s too much of a coward to say a word to the woman in question, but this is serious. At least, on some level. Oh, we’ve had threats like this before, stupid people who somehow think they can outwit us. But every time we’ve been quick enough to eliminate them before any serious damage occurs.
But the information here is extensive, the bitch has clearly done her homework.
I snap the folder shut, turning my back on the bunch of them.
Of course, this story will never be printed. The paper would have to have a death-wish to even consider it. But that doesn’t mean it can’t grow legs and as a reaper, it is my job to ensure that does not happen. I’m charged with keeping the secrets of the Brethren as just that—secrets.
In my office, I drop the folder, and pull up the woman’s details on our database.
Conrad sits opposite me. In many ways he’s the only one I truly trust. Certainly, the only one I’d be alone with. Enough of the Lords covet my position, enough of them would kill to be sat where I am.
“Well?” he asks.
I let out a sigh, we’ve only just cleaned up the mess from the Matiss debacle. I’d rather hoped I’d have a reprieve before I’d be off, reaping again, but I guess that is life.
“Name is Liliana Edwards.” I state, reading out loud. “Lives alone, both parents are dead, one brother but he’s in Sudan…”
“Sudan?”
“Medicines sans frontiers.” I reply, mentally appreciating how convenient that little fact is. If he’s abroad, I doubt they talk all that much. It’ll be far easier for her to disappear if there’s no family to shout out about it. And it’ll also be easy to remove him from the equation should he prove to be an issue. After all, no one bats an eye when someone dies in a warzone, do they?
“Well, I’ve requested her medical records.” Conrad says. “We’ll have the file within the hour.”
“Good.” I doubt there’ll be anything of note, but I like to have all my bases covered. I like to know everything about my prey, every tiny detail.
“No need…” Anthony says as he strolls in. With a thud, he dumps another wad of paper onto my desk. “I already sorted it.”
“We don’t need your help.” I reply. How the fuck he got up here I don’t know, but I’ll add that to the list of fuckups and someone’s head will roll for this .
“I’m not offering it.” he says, folding his arms. “I’m here to make a request instead.”
“A request?” I repeat. What makes him think I’ll agree to anything he has to say? He may be a reaper too, but we are miles apart in terms of power and ability, you can see that just by looking at us.
“I want the bitch.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard.” he says. “I want her. She’s not unattractive…”
Conrad snorts like he’s already made his mind up what this Liliana woman looks like.
Anthony narrows his eyes, glancing at him as if he’s beneath his notice. “Why don’t you let the men talk?” he says softly.
I shake my head before my brother can reply. “Conrad stays. He’s a reaper, just like we are.”
That makes the man smile, and that scar in his eyebrow seems to wrinkle up more. “Is he? What kills has he made? What contracts has he completed?”
I don’t know who the fuck he thinks he is by barging in here, challenging us, does he really think I’ll just let that slide?
As I open my mouth to put him back in his place, he places a photograph on the desk.
“I want her.” he says, jabbing his finger right into the centre of the paper.
My eyes drop and I take the image in slowly. The woman I see isn’t some frigid, dumpy old hag like I’d imagine most of her ilk to be, no, she’s far more pleasing than that. She’s late-thirties, soft in all the right places, but there’s something about the no-nonsense vibe she gives off.
She’s no wallflower, that’s for sure, but then, she’d have to have some balls to even dare write this expose in the first place.
“Why?” I ask .
He shrugs. “I’m not allowed to take a slave.” he states like that might endear me to him. Like I might just hold out my hands and congratulate him on such a sentence. That he managed to piss someone off so much that he got himself barred.
“I deserve a little fun,” he adds. “I’ll see that she’s punished, but I want to play first.”
I shouldn’t do it.
I shouldn’t give a fuck either way, but the thought strikes me and I let it take hold before I can consider the consequences.
Anthony is like me, a monster dressed up in a smart suit. We’re constrained, controlled, we get to occasionally feast on the nice little morsels dropped in front of us but even then, those feasts have a limit. Those feasts are under their terms.
It’s satisfying enough at the time, but it doesn’t fully scratch the itch.
And it lingers. It festers.
“Let’s both of us have a little fun then.” I declare. “Let’s make a wager. Whoever catches the bitch, can keep her.”
“Fine.” Anthony cuts across me, his eyes lighting up because he obviously loves the chase as much as I do, and adding a little competitiveness to this will only make it that more enticing.
“And…” I add.
He pauses, his eyes not moving from the photo before us. “And what?”
“The loser pays the fee.”
“What?” he snaps.
Oh, we both know the Senate will demand a fee when we don’t produce her head as proof. But to make the loser pay the ten million will certainly add insult to injury, especially when I’ll be the one enjoying my prize and he’ll be the one coughing up the dough .
He grunts out, straightening his jacket. “Alright,” he says as though such an act can magically fix his sudden dip in self-confidence. “Loser pays the fee.”
I watch him leave with a genuine smile on my face.
“We need to find out who her source is.” Conrad says as soon as the door shuts. He’s right of course. It’s as necessary as hunting this woman down. There’s a snitch in our ranks and we need to root them out.
But my mind already feels distracted, I pick up the photograph, and look at my new quarry in more depth.
If I lose, it won’t be the money that bothers me, ten million is neither here nor there. But to lose this opportunity, to lose the chance to beat a fellow reaper, yeah, that’ll sting for quite a while.