10. His Masks & My Cracks
10
HIS MASKS & MY CRACKS
GHOST
I don’t know where it comes from, but there’s a power within me. It’s a deep well of something dark and sinister, a tool I can call upon whenever needed because it’s never too far from my surface. Maybe it’s reachable because I have so many cracks in my puzzle and my hand reaches through unhindered, or maybe it’s just who I am when I’m not trying to hold my mirage together. Whatever it is, it’s kept me alive, out of the Sauder curse’s clutches, and let me walk off Death’s doorstep more times than should be allowed.
Right now, it’s keeping Misfit Hall from falling.
Warm blood bathes me, soaking through my clothes to rest against my skin like war paint. My fight-or-flight instinct is firmly planted in fight, and every step I take is made with purpose. My knives are an extension of my hands, causing as much carnage as my body position does. Because I won’t fucking let them through.
With Lockan Tate at my side, we defend the fortress. Not because I give a fuck about it, but because I don’t want Reaper Corp to have it. They can have Yates—that dumb fuck is the reason for all of this.
Lock hooks his leg over the porch railing, wrapping his arm around a man’s neck. He hauls him over and throws him at me, my blade piercing his windpipe before I shove him back at Lock. With another stab to the heart, Lock throws him to the grass, and we stand our ground.
“I need to get in there and check on my guys!” Lock shouts, blades flashing.
I rip a dagger free from my belt and fling it at another man pointing a gun right at us. It hits his shoulder, making him falter for a second. Long enough for me to get to him, but before I can, a fucking lion comes out of goddamn nowhere and barrels him over.
“Fabrizio!” Kyd runs up the street in his pink mask, goddamn katanas criss-crossed on his back. “Thank you, Fabi!” He huffs, stopping right in front of the porch. “Hey, boys!”
I wish I could see his smile because it’d be stupidly beautiful right now. I’m unmasked, so I’m not allowed to know who he is, so I nod at him and point inside.
“Yates has had Reaper Corp members living in Misfit Hall for a week. Hidden.”
“The fuck?” Kyd cackles, thinking that’s funny. “And he thinks he’s gonna live through it?”
He won’t. Actually, he will. Because I’m going to ensure he does just so Lockan can have his way with the leader who ruined his gang. I’ve suffered through him enough, so maybe I’m the one who deserves to dish out vengeance.
“Oh, he’ll live,” Lock says, voicing my thoughts. “Because I won’t fucking let him die until he knows how big of a piece of shit he is.”
“What’re we waiting for?” Kyd asks, looking in the direction his lion ran. “I’m feeling extra-extra warrior fae tonight. In the mood for a little cosplay.” He steps up, patting my chest before he roars loudly, ripping his swords free and charging into the hall.
Lock looks at me with a weird grin on his face. “You know that guy?”
“Nope.” I laugh.
Inside is worse than outside. Reaper Corp found a weak point in Moros and this is how they plan to establish their first stronghold. Misfit Hall was the target. Yates let them right in the front door, and they’ve been biding their time to strike while Vile House is distracted.
Because they’re studying us. Learning how we work. Witnessing how we respond to threats and work as a team, and tonight proved that we have no loyalty to The Misfits, because other than me in my real face, no Vile member was here to aid them.
“Kyd!” I shout, drawing a look from Lock, who is piecing everything together all on his own. “How’d you know to come?”
“Director,” Kyd shouts, his katanas working together to behead someone. “Couple more are coming, too.”
“Director?” Lock asks. “Director of what?”
Fucking fuck. His eyes narrow behind me, and then he pulls me back, his fist flying over my shoulder. I spin, grabbing the sides of a Reaper Corp’s neck, and with Lock’s help, we snap it.
“You belong to Vile House, Sauder?” he asks me.
“I’m a Misfit.”
“Fucking sure you are. You know Killian called me to come here tonight?” He shakes his head, letting it go for now. “Where’s Yates?”
Why the hell did Riot call him? Is he trying to give himself away? I nod upstairs, knowing Yates is probably locked in his office with Tom because they’re both too pathetic to fight for their crew.
We head up the stairs, only having knives in what is turning into a gunfight. Some of the Misfits have guns, and all of Reaper Corp’s first surge of soldiers do too, but I’ve always preferred a blade. I like the feel of blood running down my arms and working into the creases of my fingers.
“How many of them are there?” I ask one of the Misfits. “A number?”
He shakes his head, aiming at a man coming up the stairs behind us. His gun fires, but so does the other guy’s, and the crew member accomplishes killing him, but he dies, too.
“At least thirty,” Lock says. “We’ve taken out maybe half. Maybe.”
Halfway there then.
I look up the stairs, ready to fight my way to Yates and his son. Reaper Corp is not getting this building or overtaking this gang, and when I’m through, there won’t be anyone left standing. Their legs will be broken, and I’ll haul their asses to Axel myself.
* * *
I’ve dipped into such brutal darkness that it feels enlightening. Closing my eyes to relish the blood soaking me, to listen to the fire of guns and the clash of blades, the screams of anguish paired with the war cries all around me, I sink into my shadowy self until it draws a curve to my lips. I’m happy here, as this bloodthirsty man, powerful in a building I’ve had to fake being weak in.
Misfit Hall is a mess of gore and bodies, but I’m finally the one haunting it. I’m unmasked, but I’m still the Ghost of Moros, and these halls are my playground. When I open my eyes, I see the playsets and the obstacle course, willing and eager to cut men in half to get to where I need to go.
Yates’ office.
Kyd’s twin katanas spin as he twirls, a severed hand flying my way. I dodge it as he laughs like a lunatic, caught in the same bloodlust as I am, but experiencing it differently. He laughs, and I delve deeper and deeper into the abyss inside me, hauling my evil parts to the surface freely.
“You don’t belong here.”
I spin, finding a Reaper Corp man at my back. My blood-red hands lift curved blades, and my legs crouch into a fighting stance. But my expression shifts into something that shows all my jigsaw pieces and how comfortable I am being so messily constructed.
“You’re not one of them.” He motions to The Misfits. “You’re something stronger.”
A swell of pride surges through me. Someone finally fucking noticed. “I am,” I agree, smiling at him.
“Where’s your mask?” he asks, not moving.
I take a page out of Riot’s book, merging my inner self with my outer self to don the mask I want him to see. Wicked. Unafraid. Ready to die if I get to fight my way there. Deranged.
“We doing this?” I ask, spinning my blades. “Or are we wasting time by chatting?”
His smile matches mine. “Reaper Corp has a message.”
“Don’t give it to me. I’m not a good middleman.” Another severed body part flies by, and the guy shifts to the side to avoid it.
“Soren Sauder.” He steps closer. “The Ghost of Moros.”
I tense all over. What the fuck? If he knows that much, what else does Reaper Corp know, and how long have they been spying on us? “You mustn’t be very high ranking if they sent you in with their first wave. They’ve gotta know you’ll all die tonight.” Pathetic crew of thirty isn’t going to take us down, but the way he smiles puts me on edge, making me think there’s way more than thirty, we just don’t know who or where they are.
“Here’s the message,” he says, his fingers nimble at his sides, not even holding weapons yet. “If you surrender the town, your citizens live. If you don’t…”
I laugh maniacally. “Really? A trailed-off threat before a duel? Where do you guys learn your battle tactics? Drama movies?”
He laughs with me like we’re old friends. “Old Westerns,” he teases. “We’re bred for this. Don’t underestimate us, Ghost .” He lifts his jacket, showing me a few guns holstered there, but he doesn’t reach for them. He pulls two knives that match mine from his lower back straps, fingers flexing around the hilts. “Shall we start this duel you speak of?”
“Gladly. What’re we dueling for? This building?” I balance on the balls of my feet, eyes zeroed in on his every move.
“The town, eventually. Tonight, how about we duel for death. I hear it’s quite the prize you seek.”
I funnel all this information into my mind, reminding myself to recall it later when I can think clearly. Reaper Corp already knows too much, personal details and sinister games, and if they know, it means they have other spies within Moros. It means they might know all the Vile Boys’ identities if he knows mine. They played Yates, making him think they’d ally with him if he allowed them access, even gave him the ‘homicide detective, kid’s dead dad’ story to get things moving, but they aren’t here for alliances—they’re here to take the only place I’ve ever called home.
“I’ve told her to fuck off a time or two,” I agree. “Deal.”
With another smile, he crouches. He doesn’t lunge for me right away, instead choosing to throw a dagger at me from where he stands. I shift my weight, listening to it thud into the wall behind me. I don’t dare look at it, unwilling to be distracted by near-misses. Inhaling through my nose, I become Ghost, the man capable of murder and mayhem and deals pertaining to Death. She hasn’t gotten me in her clutches yet, and tonight will be no different. This is yet another tango of ours.
His laugh is ugly and gorgeous, lighting me up from the inside. “Respect,” he says, nodding at me.
His men are mostly dead, but he doesn’t appear afraid. Well, neither am I. I smile at him, and then my body moves through the space like wind, morphing to the shape of the hall and the openings in the air. I lash out, impaling him on my blade before retracting it and moving behind him before he knows where I’m going to settle. He spins with me, and I lean back to avoid the arc of his knife. It slashes through my shirt, adding a warm, sticky trickle down my chest.
“Touché.” I bounce.
He presses his hand to where I’ve stabbed him, and my eyes drop to follow the movement. A second later, I see it for what it is: a distraction. His hand thrusts forward, his left blade piercing through the skin of my shoulder and retracting just as fast. With blood fully drawn and pain blooming brilliantly, I drop the act and give grace to my anger.
Swiping his legs out with mine, I knock my elbow to his face and draw blood from his nose, but he flips me off and rolls to get out from under me, his knee connecting with my groin in the process. I tackle him back against the wall, making us spin and stab and snarl. He headbutts me in the bridge of my nose, making me leak, so I snarl at him, kicking my foot to his gut. When he thuds against the railing, I charge, but he puts up a blade to stop me.
“This is how our training is different,” he rasps, circling me. “You give in to anger. I don’t.”
Anger gets me places a clear head won’t, so yeah, I sink into it, letting it fuel me. The only way our training is different is that I don’t have to get into knife fights as often as he does. I’m at a disadvantage because I’m rusty, but I’m advantageous because of my unwavering need to be the fucking best. To win. To get the credit and feed my pride.
He’s trying to take something. I’m trying to protect something. Our motives are different, and mine is more powerful.
His shoulder rams into my gut, lifting me high enough to throw me onto my back. Knives slash and knees are thrown. My head rings out in dizziness and pain when he slams it against the ground, but it gives me a chance to stab my knife into his kidney. He cries out, eyes narrowing and body tensing. I attack again, stabbing him over and over until he backs off to gain his composure. I rip the guns from his holsters, sliding them down the hall.
But as I climb to my feet, I realize I’ve been stabbed again, too. His right blade sticks out of my thigh, blood leaking in heavy rivers. I know I should leave it where it is, but I can’t risk the chance of him getting it back, so I rip it out and toss it over the railing.
The rest of Misfit Hall settles as the battle winds down, captives being taken. Reaper Corp lost, and this is their last standing man. He touches his eye, removing blood from his vision, but my head tilts to the side as his eyeball moves. He’s wearing contacts, and anyone born and raised in a corporation that breeds perfection wouldn’t wear contacts. He’d have perfect vision either through birth or laser eye surgery. They’re a video device, and that’s how they’re learning so much about Moros.
“Draco,” he tells me his name in a raspy breath. “Pleasure has been all mine.”
His final dagger flies, but I’m already charging at him. It embeds in the fleshy part between my neck and shoulder, but it doesn’t stop my hands from wrapping around his neck and holding him over the railing. He’s already half dead, and my temper got me here, so I lean in, nose to nose with him, and watch the life filter out of his eyes as I strangle him.
“Soren,” I tell him. “A cursed man has killed you. See you in Hell, Draco.” I drag my blade across his throat and hold his body over the railing to feel his blood coat my hands. It rains down on the first floor like a crimson shower, and Draco smiles as he dies, content to leave this world. I’m lost in a blood high, but there’s a part of me that envies him at this moment. This is that second or two between life and death, and I’ve always wanted to experience it.
“What’s it like?” I whisper the question at him.
His pupils move and I swear he looks at me, trying to show me what it feels like to straddle the line between here and there. As his blood soaks through my shirt sleeves, whatever spark I found in his eyes extinguishes, and I let him fall backwards over the railing.
Watching him fall, I see my Vile brothers. Ransom, Monster, Menace, Kyd, and Riot. They’re all bloody, but they’re also coated in black smudges and smoke. Menace is barely standing, and Riot… I swallow at the way he’s staring at me.
I can’t look away from him because he’s the one who chases me to the afterlife, and right now, I feel too close but not close enough as pain rushes forward now that the madness has settled.
“His eyes,” I rasp, gripping my shoulder. “Contacts. Take them. Where’s Yates?”
“Not here,” Lock says from beside me, blood dripping down his face. “Misfits! Outside, now!” His hand touches my shoulder. “You good, Sauder?”
Dying, but yeah. I nod.
“Get to a medic, yeah?”
I stumble back a step, but before Lock can steady me, Riot’s hand wraps around my throat to hold me up.
“Leave,” he tells everyone without looking away from me.
“Don’t fucking touch me right now,” I snap at him. Because I’m dying but so fucking alive. Every part of me feels something. Pain, pleasure, intrigue, wonder. I’m bleeding from so many places, but it feels rejuvenating, like a purging of this gang and the loathsome way I’ve had to fake it here. The fight with Draco drains out of me, but the fight within me only rises in temperature, burning me up from the inside as Riot stares at me wordlessly.
When the front door slams and Misfit Hall is silent, his hand loosens on my throat and he takes his mask off. His eyes sweep my body before he slides his fingers down the side of my neck, pressing them to the stab wound at the base. He trembles. In rage.
“Your blood belongs to me,” he seethes before ripping the dagger out, fingers coming away from my neck coated in red. He drags them over his lips, leaving three slashes of me over the lower half of his face. My eyes focus on those three lines, my exhale coming out long and hard. I lick my lips while staring at his, salivating for something that doesn’t make sense.
Pain radiates, but anticipation is worse. I’m on the precipice of snapping instead of dying, but I don’t understand what my breaking point is. Him. Riot. Killian. He’s my fucking breaking point, and I don’t know how he gained that power. I bled for someone other than him, and now he’s here, taking it back, consuming me because he owns some sick part of me.
We’re not rivals because we’re not competing for the same goal.
We’re not enemies because we’re on the same team.
We’re not friends because friendships don’t make sense.
We’re not strangers or brothers or lovers.
We’re something morphed by his masks and my cracks, forced together out of some obligation to have a sinister partner in a dire game that pushes death upon the victor.
When he licks my blood off his lips, mine part on a shaky breath. I’m humming with energy that has no point, lost in a vortex of blood and lust and darkness. Unable to move, locked in place because of three slashes of blood on his lips and a stiffness in my pants that proves I like it.
“Who do you bleed for, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice so daunting it makes me shake.
I don’t want to submit. I don’t want to say him. But because I don’t want to, it makes me need to. To defy myself while toying with him. My nostrils flare with the strength of my demise, loving how it feels to break away from myself for him. Power thrums inside me, pushing out my chest to match his. I still have a blade in my hand, and I bring it up between our bodies, pressing the flat of it to his lips.
“Who do you bleed for?” I twist it, and when the sharp edge slices into his bottom lip, his blood trickles down to join mine.
Riot grabs my wrist, throws the knife, and licks his lips.
I try to stop myself. I really do. But my body vibrates and my mind snaps, and when his tongue swipes his lip again, I growl loudly as I press forward to taste the combination of us. Drawn to the way our blood mingles, enticed by the way we taste, enraptured in this game we play, and addicted to the way he chases me exactly where I want to go.
My lips slam against his, drawing more blood. Riot’s grunt is savage, his hand grabbing the back of my neck to imprison me exactly where I am. The metallic taste of his blood mingled with mine assaults my taste buds and hardens my cock further. Teeth clack and tongues fight, our mouths not even kissing, but consuming. His breath goes down my throat, reminding me of the night he drowned me, but this time, I’m not refusing his air. I’m inhaling him like he’s the sole thing glueing me together, holding me whole. He bites down on my lip, making me wince and moan simultaneously.
I don’t need him to squeeze my neck to get a blood rush because it’s happening all on its own. I’m bleeding out onto the floor of Misfit Hall, but I’ve never felt more alive. And angry about it.
“Fuck.” I grab his hair and yank his head back, watching spit and blood glisten on his lips. His eyes are two storms, warring with each other, but warring with me most of all.
“You fucking bleed for me, Soren.”
Soren.
Our chests heave together, breath fighting for space between our lips, hips pressed so close I can feel all of him. All. Of. Him. Hard and honed, aroused and toned. Bloody and warm. As affected by me as I am by him.
“This is never happening again,” I snarl at him, firming my grip in his hair. “If you ever fucking?—”
Riot takes control, slamming my back against the hallway wall. His mouth devours mine, and I fight it, but not to rid myself of it—to get more of it. His cock grinds against the stab wound in my thigh, sparking pain that makes my cock leak. My fingers weave into his hair and his wrap around my throat. Our bodies bump and grind, our mouths bleed, our souls fight for dominance, and the world as I know it tilts.
While locked in some purgatory with Killian Hallows, something shifts inside me. Because chasing a curse and a death wish no longer seems as appealing as taunting this exact devil. This one, right here—the version of him that snaps so easily but still somehow remains in control. The bloody, broken, layered man who kills easier than he feels and masks everything from the way he looks to the way he understands his surroundings. The charming bullshit is gone, and in its place is the raw, ravaged, bare Killian who hates himself but regards himself as a god. It’s the confliction of him that makes him so turbulent and addicting.
Because I’m just as conflicted.
“Fuck,” he groans, teeth sinking into my bottom lip. “Fuck, I knew you’d beg.”
“Beg?” I bite him and then shove him back, glaring at him. “You think this is begging?”
The tension deepens into something so dark I don’t even know how to cope with the light of the hallway. He glares, but there’s a smile on his face while he does it. Angry and charming and disgusting because he can morph the two together so seamlessly. He runs his fingers through the blood and saliva coating his chin, sucking them into his mouth. He hums in agonized pleasure, and I push off the wall, ready to fucking do something about it.
The front door of Misfit Hall bangs open, and Krypt’s purple mask walks inside, looking for both of us. His shoulders relax a bit when he finds us whole, but he shakes his head at whatever else he sees between us.
“Let’s go. You need Medic, Ghost.”
Riot licks his lips again, grinning at me like he’s won something. I’m so out of sorts that I push by him and limp down the stairs, unsure of everything because it really does feel like he’s won. I just don’t know what.
When I step outside, Kyd’s lion roars in the distance, the lunatic in pink roars back, and I finally feel pain.