8. Promises Promises
8
PROMISES PROMISES
GHOST
The rain bathes my heated skin in relief, drawing a satisfied smile from behind my mask. I love the rain. I love the weather. I love the way it charges me, the webbed lightning in the air igniting my soul and turning me fiendish.
My feet are silent on the damp forest floor, the patter of the rain giving me cover and the rustle of the leaves providing kinship. Krypt met us here, so him and Monster are watching from the west, but I’m the Ghost of Moros, moving through Janie’s Woods as swiftly as the breeze.
Riot is my target. He got the better of me out here the other night, and now it’s my turn. He’s supposed to be the one watching me—keeping track of me. Didn’t he take over my brother’s bargain, agreeing to keep me so well monitored I can’t take another step in Death’s direction? He’s fucking failing. Miserably. Hard to keep tabs on a ghost, and I have no intention of making his job easier.
Yates and Tom are at the edge of the clearing, the glint of the moon reflecting off the surface of the pond Riot drowned me in not far from where they stand. Whoever they’re waiting for isn’t here yet, so I keep moving like a phantom, skirting around them until I come up behind Riot.
He doesn’t hear me. Because I don’t let him hear me. His back faces me, his black outfit blending in with the night, damp from the rain and sticking to his athletic body. He’s leaning against a tree, his chest pressed to it while he watches Yates and Tom through the forest. His white and black mask is strapped to his head, but the hood of his jacket is pulled up to hide his hair from me. I like his hair, dark and wavy, and a little long at the back for the style he wears it in, but suitable all the same.
Krypt is out of sight, but I peer up, seeing Monster in the treetop to our left, watching, but not caring enough to listen to what I’m about to do. Their masks are covered with a black bandana to hide the glow, and their hoods are up to shield their eyes as they watch from above.
Keeping my movements fluid, I stalk closer to him without making a sound. There's hypocrisy in what I do. I like recognition and attention, so being a ghost is detrimental to my need for fame. But it’s not all bad because no one can move like I do, and pride swells within me every time I get something done that no one else can do. I’m needed, prized, skilled, unlike the others, and I love throwing it in their faces.
When I’m right behind Riot, I slow my breathing, move in a way that doesn’t make my jacket rustle, and press up behind him. My hand clamps over his masked mouth as he startles, pushing the firm material against his face, and the majority of my body presses against his, pinning him to the tree. He stiffens in my hold but doesn’t try to break free. He sinks into me, as if he were the one who lured me here.
I don’t appreciate being deceived, so I ignore that feeling and bring my mouth to the side of his head. “You’re doing a shit job of keeping your side of the bargain. Remi will be so disappointed.”
He hums against the mask in the palm of my hand, his body pressing back against mine. He bucks me, then whispers, “I know you, Ghost. You think I don’t know when you’re tempting death or just doing something for attention? You’re the biggest attention whore I’ve ever met.”
I am, but I don’t like being called out on it. “Got your attention, didn’t I?”
He presses his ass back to find my dick hard. “Sure did.”
I debate pushing him away, but fuck it. My hard-on has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the adrenaline rush of being so casual in a dangerous situation. I’m a thrill-seeker by nature, and Riot always provides a savage thrill. Especially when he pisses me off.
“You think you made me hard?”
He huffs out a laugh, spinning in my grip. I press against him harder, unwilling to let him get the upper hand. I glance past him, making sure no one has shown up to meet with Yates and Tom, and when I look back at his face, his mask is up and he’s giving me one of those bullshit smiles.
“I think you get hard for the most sinister shit. And you’ve been repressed. Can’t find a fuck buddy who gets your level of depravity, and you have to be so careful because of your tats and The Misfits.” His hand comes up between our bodies while my stomach jolts at the truth of his statement. His fingers curl around my throat and he pushes my mask up so he doesn’t miss my facial expression. “Should I add another level to this deal we have, Ghost? See how close I can fuck you to death?”
My cock throbs against his hip, making him smirk. “Nah. I don’t get off on being the one fucked to death.”
His smile only widens at my lie. “Ah, you want the easy way out, yeah? Fuck a little doll to their death?”
No. “Yeah. Have my eyes on that sad guy with the dead dad. He seems like a nice, sexy little doll, don’t you think?”
Riot’s grey eyes storm. His smile never falters, though. The moment stalls, building in intensity as the rain picks up and thunder joins the lightning. A new game has just been declared, and I hate that I don’t know what will win me my victory. Poor kid might become the rope between us, and when we’re through, he’ll be so frayed and strained he’ll snap in half.
When thunder cracks, my sanity splits away from my personality, letting my true self shine. Because I am repressed. I do get hard for the sinister shit. I crave a level of depravity that has everything to do with the thrill of it, the danger of it, the sickening need to test myself and prove that I’m goddamn invincible. A suicide curse hasn’t beaten me yet, and I’m desperate to know what else I can get away with.
Riot’s charming smile morphs into something purely mephistophelian, enticing my jigsaw puzzle pieces that aren’t glued down as tightly as I thought they were.
“When this thing ends,” he starts, hand clamping tight around my throat to press against my arteries, “we’re both going to be dead.”
“Promise?” I taunt him again.
“Promise.” He licks his lips, drawing my attention to his mouth. “Mask on, Ghost. And I don’t mean this one.” He looks straight into my eyes, telling me to be myself around him. For some reason, it sounds like a cry for help. Because Riot is the one who wears so many masks, I wonder if he knows his true face anymore. I glimpsed the real him when I cut him, but it was only a tease. A peek, something I hope to strip away bit by bit to leave him bare. “They’ll be here any minute.”
Inhaling desire, knowing it’s full of depravity and death, I pull my mask down and become the Ghost of Moros again. We climb the tree, perch over Yates and Tom, and when the person they’re meeting shows up, everything changes.
Because Benton Wentworth, the billionaire funding Axel’s research and the man who tried to buy Moros, is back, meeting with Yates.
Greedy fucker didn’t learn his lesson on Initiation Night.
* * *
Death Row is vacant by the time we walk down the centre of it just before dawn. The crows and ravens are barely awake, and the sky is darker than it was at midnight now that the moon is gone, no longer peeking through the clouds.
The owner of the Neon Demon walks out, throwing a trash bag in the dumpster between the club and The Midnight Diner. She gives us a nod, touches her fist to her heart, and lights a smoke as she walks home.
It’s still drizzling, and the sky is webbed with the odd bolt of lightning, but otherwise, everything in Moros feels settled. Which is deceptive considering how much turmoil is coming our way.
Reaper Corp is a major threat. They’re an organization that plays by no one’s rules but their own. They breed their own people, basing their skill set on a gene pool they pluck from, and they hold so much power because they actually are stronger than everyone else.
“Why Moros?” I ask Riot during a rare moment of peace. It bothers me to ask because I don’t like to look uneducated, but… he’s broken, not perfect, making me feel less pressure to be perfect right now.If he calls me out on it, I’ll just remind him how inferior he is to me.
He doesn’t look at me. “Why does Reaper Corp want it?” he asks. I nod. “Secluded. Strong gene pool. Government and law enforcement don’t touch this place. Perfect spot to build a new stronghold and gain more control.”
“What control, though?” We turn down the street next to Cauldron, heading for Misfit Hall. “Like, what’s their actual goal?”
Reaper Corp is well-known, but there’s a lot of mystery surrounding them. Essentially, they’re Vile House, but on a global scale instead of a town-sized scale. They took over a whole city down south, turned it into a walled-off community they run, and somehow either bullied or convinced the citizens to become part of them. But Reaper Corp doesn’t just breed mercenaries and talented killers; they breed geniuses, scientists, mathematicians, soldiers, doctors, and leaders. They pick and choose the qualities in their new breeds through DNA sequencing, but I’ve never understood why.
“They breed the best, so they are the best. They’re stronger than any government, and whoever tries to challenge them loses. They control laws and politics, the medical industry, and the tech industries, so they’re greedy and just want more. Total domination is why,” Riot answers. “That’s their actual goal. They’re like you. Just do shit to see if they can.” He grins without looking at me.
It’s all too much to think about, and this calmness between us isn’t as settling as I hoped it’d be. “If Moros goes down, I’m going down with her.”
“Oh, you’re going down long before that,” Riot says, laughing. “Hurry up. Let’s get this shit done so I can go lure someone with a smile and fuck until I pass out.”
I hate his laugh so much that I slip away from him and move through the streets like the ghost I am, planting the rest of the audio devices in Misfit Hall without his help. Because it’s not his laugh I hated, it’s what he said.