Chapter 12
RYKER
After Sloane drove off, I went back to the bathroom to wash my hands and change my shirt. I should have done worse to Kyle, but I wanted to be able to play the game again if Sloane came back.
What I didn’t give a shit about? Claiming anyone else. Only her, and that was the problem. “Only” was a word that could ruin a man like me.
Mitchell mentioned Kyle had crossed lines before, but never enough to kick him out.
I fixed that. Once the prey was caught, the game was over.
No fucking exceptions. The Ritual ran on one rule: catch the prey, and they’re yours.
Everything else was negotiable. Number of hunters, number of prey, who played which role.
Mitchell kept it fluid. That was part of what made it addictive.
I offered to enforce it if Mitchell wouldn’t. He got the message. Mitchell was smart, and I doubted he wanted to lose what he’d built. A premium buy-in, quiet clientele, and the kind of money that came with dark secrets.
One thing was clear: Sloane Ramsey had gotten under my skin, and she was a welcome distraction.
I slid into my Audi, a low sound catching in my throat at the memory of Kyle begging. I’d left him breathing and made sure he understood the terms. Touch her again, and he’d beg me to put him out of his misery for good.
Flashes of what I wanted to really do to the motherfucker flooded my mind. Cut slowly and methodically as his blood spilled to the ground. My pulse tripped over itself at the idea.
Then, the memory of Sloane’s scent invaded my nose, and my cock sprang to life again. I turned on the car, and my phone buzzed. I read the message on my console screen.
Kip:
He’s in.
A wicked grin eased across my face. I tapped the button on the steering wheel, allowing me to voice to text.
Me:
When?
Kip:
Now. Destination six.
Me:
On the way.
“Yes! Finally.” I practically peeled out of the parking lot. Death was going to allow me to hunt with him. All thoughts of Sloane disappeared as I entertained myself with the ways to kill whatever pedophile or abuser Death was about to serve up on my fucking platter.
I blasted my playlist as “Jungle” by the X Ambassadors filled the car. My fingers tingled with the itch to run my knife down some sick son of a bitch’s cheeks as they whimpered and begged for their life.
Almost an hour and a half later, I pulled onto the hidden dirt road to one of the locations that Death occasionally took his victims to.
He didn’t use it often since it was close to Portland, and the cops were already searching for the serial killer who had left a bloody trail from one side of the country to the other.
They had no idea he was right under their noses. At least tonight he was.
One thing about Death was that he had very loyal friends who cleaned up after the kills, hid bodies, and scrubbed the scenes. This time, I wasn’t hiding behind a computer. The gates of hell had opened up, and I was walking right into the fire. I was going to get my hands bloody.
The warehouse squatted at the end of the dirt road like it had been abandoned on purpose with corrugated steel, boarded windows, and a roofline jagged with missing panels that let moonlight leak in.
The lot was nothing but gravel and weeds, the kind of place you could scream for help and only the trees would hear you.
My headlights swept across a faded loading dock and a rusted chain-link fence before I turned them off, letting the darkness swallow the car. Silence settled immediately—no traffic, no dogs, no distant hum of civilization.
I parked the car, grabbed my phone, and texted Kip that I was there.
Locking the doors, I shoved my cell in my back pocket so the light wouldn’t be an issue if anyone else was around.
Whenever one of us arrived at the scene, we checked the perimeter before we joined the group, ensuring that we were alone.
Cameras didn’t always work out in the middle of nowhere, so it was up to us to scout out anyone who didn’t belong there.
Once I’d done my due diligence, I rapped my fist on the door three times in quick succession before I heard the locks click and the door open a crack. I glanced over my shoulder again before I slipped inside.
“About time,” a deep voice said from the darkness.
“I got here as fast as I could without speeding.” I grinned.
Death stepped into the light, his grim reaper mask molding to his face for a perfect fit. He was dressed in a black shirt, black pants, and combat boots. It was his go-to for when he was chasing his victims.
“Hey, man,” Kip said, stepping out of an adjoining room. His devil mask fit him like a glove.
“Hey. What’s on the menu?” I cracked my knuckles, ready to fucking play.
“This stupid son of a bitch thought he could sell his underage daughters for sex.” Death’s tone was steely and calm.
The words landed like a key turning in my gut. My jaw tightened until I felt it in my back teeth. Sold his daughters. This wasn’t just a target. This was exactly the kind of fucking filth I’d been built to destroy.
Kip arched a brow at me. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
I scratched my chin, Kyle’s bloody and swollen face appearing in my mind.
“If you’re asking if I can handle some blood, the answer is yes.
” I didn’t want to share with them about what had happened to the motherfucker who’d laid a hand on Sloane.
Telling them meant explaining her, and I wasn’t ready to do that.
She was mine to deal with. Nobody else’s business. Plus, I needed to stay focused.
Death walked toward me, his expression unreadable, but most of the time he only had one anyway. Serious as fuck. He never cracked a grin unless it was around the one woman who owned his heart. Even then it seemed as if smiling was painful for him.
He reached around to his back pocket and presented me with …
My forehead pinched together as I looked at it, trying to figure out what the hell it was.
Death extended his hand to me. “A new mask for the new man.” He’d had all of ours made by the same professional who had created his, but this one was different from the old skull mask. This one was built for who I’d become.
For a second, I didn’t move. I’d taken things before—stolen them, hacked them, bled for them. I wasn’t used to being given anything that didn’t come with a leash. And Death rarely offered gifts, which meant this one had a purpose.
I reached out. The mask was unlike anything I’d expected, sleek and lightweight, molded from some advanced polymer that felt almost liquid as it conformed to my fingers.
Matte black, it absorbed light rather than reflecting it, the surface broken only by the subtlest texture: thousands of tiny, overlapping feather patterns etched so fine they were almost invisible.
But when the light caught them at the right angle, they revealed an iridescent shimmer of deep blue and violet, like oil on water.
When I lifted it to my face, it settled against my skin, pliant and exact, following every contour of my cheekbones, jaw, and the bridge of my nose.
The material seemed to breathe with me, flexible enough that I could speak, yet firm enough to completely obscure my features.
The eyeholes were narrow slits, angular and sharp, giving me a predatory gaze that felt both ancient and futuristic.
Death held up his phone camera so I could see. I stared at the image and didn’t recognize myself. A sharp and unfamiliar relief hit me. Maybe something uglier. Good. That was the point.
Around my temples and across my forehead, the feather etching was more pronounced, sweeping back like a crow’s plumage caught mid-flight. In shadow, I was anonymous. But when I moved and the light shifted, those hidden iridescent patterns gleamed.
A reminder that crows see everything, remember everything, and always come back for what they’re owed. Perfect.
Death’s gaze held mine through those narrow slits as though he could still see straight through me. “Much better than your old skeleton mask. This fits the new Ryker.”
This one wasn’t just a mask. It was a claim.
“Damn, that’s badass,” Kip added. “I might need an upgrade.” He chuckled, but his eyes stayed sharp, assessing. He understood exactly what this meant.
Because in our world, you didn’t get a new face unless you’d earned the right to keep breathing.
“One more thing.” Death reached down and pulled up his pant leg, revealing a blade. He removed it from his calf sheath and held it out to me.
The moment stretched silent and heavy. This wasn’t a handoff. It was a knighting.
I took it.
The push dagger fit perfectly in my palm, and the T-shaped grip felt cool against my skin. It was compact, no longer than my hand was wide, but the weight of it felt final. Honest.
It was the etching that made it mine. A single crow feather ran down the length of the blade, stylized and geometric, each barb rendered in clean, precise lines.
The etching had been filled with some kind of specialized coating that caught the light in changing shades of blue and violet—the same iridescent shimmer as my new mask.
In shadow, it was nearly invisible. In the light, it was unmistakable. My signature.
My warning.
I turned the grip over in my hand and noticed the top of the T unscrewed.
A small hollow compartment, empty for now.
My mind was already cataloging possibilities; something tiny, something vital, whatever could turn the tide if everything went to hell.
I twisted it closed, and the weight settled perfectly in my fist, balanced and ready.
Death leaned back slightly. “So we’re clear. I’ll always need you behind the computers, finding our next victims.”
There it was. The boundary. The leash, but not the kind that choked. It was role. A purpose.
The crazy part? I wanted it. Because for once, the darkness wasn’t a pit I was falling into.
It was mine to embrace.
“Understood.”
Death’s stare didn’t soften, but something in him did. Maybe approval, acceptance.
I didn’t say thank you. In this world, you didn’t thank a man for handing you a mask.
You wore it.
Death folded his arms across his chest. “This mask means you belong. This blade means you’re trusted. But the moment you act on your own … I take both back.”
“Understood.” My word landed like a vow.
Death held my gaze through the slits of my new mask as if he was weighing that vow—testing whether it would hold when it meant the most. Then he nodded.
Kip shifted his stance. To him it was simply another night at the office. “All right,” he muttered. “Let’s go meet the guest of honor.”