Envy

Chapter 1

SILAS

Blood sprays as my fist collides with his face.

The familiar crack of bone against my knuckles vibrates through my leather glove as the piece of shit falls to the floor.

The concrete is new, the unimposing grey sheen of it glinting in the dim light cast from the single bulb overhead.

We’ll need to pour another layer after tonight.

Bleach can do a lot, but it’s always better to start with a fresh canvas.

I wonder how dark the pools of blood will be.

I wonder if I’ll be able to capture the beauty of it later with a brush and palette.

“Please,” he whimpers, scrambling away from the center of the ring toward the others. As if my brothers would let him leave. As if anyone escapes once we’ve decided their time is up.

Six figures clad in black, shrouded with warped skeletal masks, stare back at me, reflecting the demons inside.

Morality is such a fickle thing. It plagues only those who have empathy, weakening them against the onslaught of the apathetic.

I’ve had to silence the softer parts of myself, cutting and hacking away at the writhing soul inside to allow me to do what’s necessary.

I was innocent not too long ago, before the harsh realities of this world twisted and bent me into my true form—just like my brothers—rising from the carnage into the personification of the Seven Princes of Hell: Pride, Erik.

Wrath, Mavros. Gluttony, Bane. Greed, Adrian.

Lust, Dominic. Sloth, Noctis. And Envy—me.

Feel no pain.

Grant no mercy.

Take no prisoners.

Tension radiates from the six of them, shoulders taut and hands clenching. They’re itching for a chance to tear this asshole to shreds just as much as I am. We’ve been at this too long. Far too long. But my brothers hold back in respect for me.

“Who are your buyers, Tony?” I ask, stalking toward him. His left eye is swollen shut, bloated and discolored like a plum on the verge of bursting. Scarlet droplets coat the floor as he scampers back, searching the room for an escape. As if we’d be foolish enough to leave him an opening.

There are only two doors here. One leads to the showers, a necessary installment to wash away incriminating evidence once we’re done.

The other opens to the blistering wasteland of the Mojave Desert.

Tony must realize this, because the pathetic bastard turns, his grimy fingers gripping the pants of the masked figure nearest to him. Big mistake.

Red thread is stitched across the skeletal smile, matching the Xs embroidered across the eyes. The sight is made all the more menacing by the snarling bear threaded along the temple. Mavros, Wrath incarnate, glares down at the bleeding coward pawing at his feet, pleading for mercy he won’t find.

“If there’s something wrong with the drugs, take it up with the boss,” Tony cries. “I’m just the distributor. I swear!”

Mavros jerks his leg back and snaps his foot forward before Tony has time to blink.

Agonized wails fill the vacant warehouse, reverberating off the bare walls as the sole of Mavros’s boot connects with flesh.

My lips twitch as the squelch of muscles tearing and bones snapping rings out.

A few broken teeth fall to the ground, blood and drool dripping from Tony’s mouth as his hands move frantically, shaking as he feels the mangled shape of his face.

My smile fades as I take in the fucked-up state of his mouth. That’s going to be a problem.

“How is he supposed to talk if his jaw is broken?” I shoot Mavros a glare, one he feels even through the fabric of our masks. It took us months to track Tony down. Despite earning his death ten times over, the fucker is too valuable to lose. We need answers first. Then we can play.

Mavros lifts a bulky shoulder, shrugging as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“Don’t blame the big guy,” Erik says from behind me, sauntering into the ring.

He’d say he’s more easygoing than I am. I suppose all of my brothers would.

We’ve each had our own battles, but unlike Erik and the others, I can’t forget that I have to work for every inch I take, fighting my way through all the shit weighing me down.

Nothing is easy. Good things don’t come to those who wait. That’s just another lie the powerful want you to believe. Another pacifying notion they whisper to make you believe those who are deserving will receive.

I know better.

So do my brothers.

But somehow, each of them has managed to continue living—sometimes fucking or fighting through their pain—but they’re living. They laugh and joke, eat and breathe, while every expansion of my lungs, each beat of my heart pushing another wave of blood through my veins, feels like a betrayal.

She’s out there. My sister.

The world moved on—god, even Tempest, my little sister, is thriving in college, set on becoming a doctor and shit.

She was too young to remember. I don’t blame her exactly, but Morana is stuck in a cycle of abuse, being passed around by fuckers like Tony, while everyone else just kept going. And knowing that fucking kills me.

Erik is the one person who comes close to understanding.

I spare him a glance, noting the purple lion and matching stitches across his mask—Pride.

The sewing is rougher than the others, with harshly dyed twine used instead of smooth thread.

Just like mine. The imperfections of it are an eyesore, one Erik typically wouldn’t tolerate—the cocky bastard—but some things are more important than perfection.

My fingers were stained for weeks after dyeing and stitching Erik’s mask, the rich violet hue lingering long after I’d scrubbed my skin raw.

It was nothing compared to the emerald green marring his own hands.

It was a pact between us—the first two demons to claw our way out of the turmoil we’d been born into.

The rest of my brothers wouldn’t dare speak during interrogations, not when I’m seeking answers like these, but Erik and I grew up together. We suffered through hell, fought our way out, and established a pack, collecting the others until our evil little club of princes was complete.

I’d kill for each of the Seven, as they would for me, but unlike the other princes, I know Erik would die for me.

Erik was there when Morana was taken—the worst day of my life.

He’s been there at my side every step of the way as my death toll climbs.

And fuck if I don’t enjoy reaping the souls of the corrupted.

Especially those involved in the world of buying and selling women and children. Like the fucker whimpering at my feet.

“He can still answer our questions,” Erik says, sounding almost cheerful as he stoops, crouching on his knees just outside the growing pool of blood. “Can’t you, pal?”

Tony lowers his shaking hands, face streaked with tears and snot and blood. “I didn’t touch the drugs—”

His garbled protests are cut off by a quick slap from Erik, the force jerking Tony’s head to the side. A surprised laugh scrapes the back of my throat, the unhinged noise sounding like something from a horror movie.

Keep it together, Silas. Can’t lose your shit now. Not when you’re so close to getting Morana back.

Erik would choose to slap someone rather than lay them out. The arrogant son of a bitch always thinks he’ll be able to get answers—the true embodiment of Pride if there ever was one.

“Shh,” Erik coos, gently tilting Tony’s chin up until he meets the stitched-over eyes of Erik’s mask. “We’re not talking about drugs, friend. And I think you know that.”

Tony stills, his face draining of color.

There it is, I think as a smile twists my lips. People always assume Erik is the kind one, but he’s just as vicious as the rest of us.

“That’s fucking right,” I say, voice low as my pulse spikes. I’ve done this song and dance before. We’re nearly done, and I can practically smell the mist of blood. Hear the click of metal. The blast of a bullet. And then—the blissful echo of silence.

“All this suffering is really unnecessary,” Erik muses, shaking his head as if he’s a disappointed parent. He sighs a moment before lashing out. Leather gloves wrap around Tony’s throat, hauling him to his feet. Erik forces his chin up to meet my gaze, pressing Tony’s back to his chest.

“All you have to do is answer the questions,” Erik says, cutting off Tony’s protests, “and the pain stops.”

“I—I don’t know…” Tony inhales sharply as I withdraw a Glock from my back pocket.

“Tsk, Tsk,” Erik taunts in a playful rebuke just before he pinches Tony’s distorted jaw. Bones grind, pulling a gut-wrenching whimper from his chest, but Erik’s other arm has him bound, holding him in place. “You aren’t lying to us now, are you, buddy?”

“Who runs the West Coast circuit?” I ask, glancing down at the gun in my hands.

I rest my finger on the trigger, admiring the picturesque sight.

It’s new, lightweight, and easily disposed of.

Just like everything else the Seven use.

I raise a brow, surprised Tony isn’t spilling all his secrets by now.

“I have no need for you if you won’t talk. ”

It’s a bluff, one that Erik knows well, but he plays his part perfectly, stepping back as Tony crumples in on himself.

“Last chance,” I warn, my pulse thrumming.

I want him to give me a reason to draw this out.

I crave the rush of adrenaline, the blast of power that comes from taking a life.

Yes, pulling the trigger is exhilarating, but every time I disappear one of these fuckers, a child gets to return home to her family instead of being siphoned off into the game.

“They’ll kill me.” Tony shakes his head, muttering to himself.

Wrong. Fucking. Answer. Or right, depending on how you look at things.

Because this means I get to play. I get to maim and punish and push.

I get to create art with a gun and the flash of a bullet, coating the ground in red, as if his blood were my paint and the concrete floors my canvas. What a treat little Tony has given me.

The pain, the cries, the look of hopelessness that descends when they realize this mask—this black cloth with green twine Xs across the eyes and a skeletal smile stitched shut—is the last fucking thing they’ll see before they die…

Fuck me, it’s addicting.

A harsh chuckle vibrates through my chest as I tilt my head back, basking in the carnage to come. It’s echoed by my brothers, the fuckers just as deranged as I am.

With a manic grin stretching wide beneath my mask, I pull the slide of the gun back, letting go as I take aim and fire.

Tony jerks, crying out as the bullet connects with his leg.

I wait until he curls over the blown-out mess of chipped bone and tendons that once was his knee before I adjust my aim a little to the left and shatter his other.

I cock my head to the side, allowing myself a moment to appreciate the sounds of his suffering before I remember all the shit Noctis dug up on him.

“You’ll be praying for death before I’m through with you,” I growl, barely suppressing the urge to put a third bullet between his eyes. “How old was she when you took her? Your wife.”

I spit the last word, knowing she was nothing but a victim—just like my sister. Erik stills, his fist flexing, and I know he’s contemplating reaching for his own gun.

Something about the situation must finally register, because Tony’s pleas shift into unhinged rage, the kind that only surfaces when you know you have nothing left to lose. He glares, panting for breath as blood seeps from his wounds.

“I saved the bitch. Even told her she could buy her way out if she wanted.”

“As if she’d be able to afford her exit fee,” Adrian snarls, his voice channeling the golden dragon embroidered at his temple. “I may be a greedy, selfish prick, but stealing children? Getting rich off their suffering? It’s something even the devil would condemn.”

“Not just condemn, brother,” Dominic says. Dark blue thread is woven into the demonic representation of Satan—the spiraling ram horns and vengeful goat eyes disconcerting for even the purest of heart. “Satan delights in eternal torture for assholes like him.”

Dominic’s mask tilts up, finding my watching gaze.

“Bullets are too quick, Silas. Switch to a blade. Carve off pieces of him until he no longer remembers his name.”

Nodding, I make a show of putting my gun away.

“I don’t know much about the girls,” Tony pants, face growing paler by the second. There’s too much blood.

Shit, I’m running out of time.

That’s what you get for letting your heart make decisions, Silas. Minutes. I have fucking minutes to get him to tell me where Morana is—all because I couldn’t control my feelings.

Dominic withdraws a knife, unfolding the blade as he strolls over looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Here, use mine.”