Chapter 8
ZANE
Iam obsessed with KPop Demon Hunters.
I know, I know. You’re probably wondering where I’m going with this.
I would like to say that Ellie was the one who convinced me to watch it, but that would be a lie. She wasn’t even home the first time I watched it (though she was around the seventh time).
But the songs? Perfecto. It’s amazing how many variations of the words blood, bodies, and murder I can add to the melodies.
I sing to one now as I cleanly slice off the head of our latest victim.
I don’t remember the man’s name, though I’m sure the others know it.
From what I gathered, Headless here was scheduled to work at POP’s party.
He was already dressed in his uniform—a nondescript gray cloak and a white mask—when we arrived.
Anyone who can willingly involve themselves in POP’s twisted games deserves to be slaughtered. Painfully. Musically.
I shimmy my ass as I toss the decapitated head behind me.
“Bloody hell, Zane!” Beckett snaps, no doubt having been in the head’s path.
I bite down on my smirk.
The plan is simple. Ryker and I will…ahem…
dispose of two employees, each at their respective houses, and take their identities for the night.
Beckett is in charge of hiding/burying/burning the bodies.
His choice. And Landon? The grumbling ass will remain at the hotel as “central command.” I don’t really know what that means, but it makes me envision secret agents rolling across the floor and scaling buildings, so it sounds cool as fuck.
“Stop fucking around,” Ryker hisses, tapping his foot against the ground impatiently.
I continue to sing “Golden” under my breath as I step over the body, accidentally on purpose crunching the fucker’s hand beneath my boot.
“Singing makes me murder better,” I point out, tossing him the cloak and mask. I made sure to take it off the victim before I murdered him. This time. The first victim—and, consequently, his clothes—wasn’t as lucky.
“You’re a fucking psychopath.” Ryker bares his teeth at me, but I simply smile wide, my chest swelling. Fucker does love me. That’s the best compliment he could’ve given me.
Ryker’s nose scrunches up at whatever he sees on my face, and he looks away with an exasperated breath.
“I’ll take care of the body,” Beckett tells us, drawing our attention to where he stands in the uncomfortably small kitchen.
Everything about this house is small, now that I think about it.
Small living room. Small bedroom. Small bathroom.
It makes sense, though. Headless has never been in a serious relationship and has no kids.
The last girl he saw filed a restraining order, claiming he sexually and physically abused her.
So, do I feel bad about slaughtering him? Not at all.
Anyone who hurts the person they’re supposed to love and care for deserves worse than that.
“We need to go,” Ryker reiterates, his upper lip curling. “Ellie needs us.”
My jovial mood instantly diminishes. Not because of Ryker’s reminder—Ellie’s always at the forefront of my thoughts—but because his condescending tone suggests that I’m not a high-functioning psychopath whose entire world revolves around the pint-sized girl.
Rude.
Ryker matches my glare with one of his own.
It isn’t long until it becomes a contest of wills—my brown eyes locked on his icy blue ones.
The air between us seems to crackle and shimmer, almost like currents of electricity are permeating the air.
A distant roaring sound takes up residence in my head.
“Enough of this posturing!” Beckett moves to stand between us. When Ryker and I continue to glare at each other, the irritating Brit shoves at my chest, forcing me back a step. “Enough! Don’t make me drop Frodo in your bed while you’re sleeping tonight.”
Instantly, I pivot my glare so it lands on him instead. “You wouldn’t.”
Beckett arches an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t I?”
Bastard.
“Come on!” Ryker barks, already turning on his heel to storm outside.
“Don’t murder him,” Beckett reminds me. “Remember—you love him. He’s just worried about Ellie. We all are.” A frown touches his lips, and he flicks his gaze down to the body at our feet. “Remind me again how I got stuck on cleanup duty?”
“You lost the coin toss.”
His right eye begins to twitch erratically. “A coin toss implies that you used a coin, believe it or not. Not an eyeball.”
“Pupil up, I go. Pupil down, you go,” I tell him. Honestly, I have no idea why he’s so confused. The rules seem pretty straightforward.
Beckett stares at me blankly, not a hint of emotion in his multicolored eyes, before he deadpans, “You need help.”
I smile sharply—something I imagine resembles nothing more than a baring of teeth.
“Obviously.”
Apparently, Headless’s name is Gideon Smart. But Gideon Smart wasn’t too smart if he left his door unlocked, allowing me and the others to break inside and murder him.
I stare intently at the driver’s license in my hand as I move with the other employees through security. Ryker is directly behind, having assumed the identity of Lochlan Ares.
A tiny smudge of blood decorates one portion of the driver’s license, and I hastily wipe it away with my thumb. Of course, that only makes the blood smear even more, but oh well. I’m sure it’s not the first blood splatter these people have seen.
Everything about this place creeps me the hell out.
It’s so…dark. Dark and gloomy, with a scent reminiscent of spiced copper in the air.
Like the last time I snuck into a POP party, we parked Gideon’s car in the back lot and then followed the other masked employees toward a nondescript door near the back.
Then, one by one, we were led through various stages of security screening until we reached the final agent.
Now, I hand over Gideon’s identification, and the guard’s eyes immediately home in on the blood.
But, like I expected, he doesn’t ask questions as he waves me forward with more contempt than courtesy. I resist the urge to perform a sardonic bow as I stealthily slip inside, entering a bustling kitchen.
A tray full of champagne flutes is shoved at my chest.
“Hurry,” a middle-aged man—one of the few I’ve seen that isn’t masked—barks. “You’re one minute late, and today’s an important day.”
I wonder how pathetic this man’s life has to be to take a position working for POP, knowing what they get up to—because I have no doubt he has seen some messed-up shit. And to not only be a simple employee, but an obvious manager or shift supervisor or whatever the fuck they call it here.
I make a mental note to murder him.
Not today, of course. But…later.
I accept the tray with gritted teeth but don’t immediately leave the kitchen.
Where the fuck is Ryker?
He was directly behind me in line. Was there a problem with his ID?
Did they ask him to remove his mask for some reason?
I wasn’t able to bring any weapons inside with me (not any that I can grab easily, I mean), but that doesn’t mean I can’t get creative.
In the distance, I can see someone slicing at a fish’s head with a machete.
Fuck, I love machetes. Not as much as my bedazzled knives, but they’re a close second. If I can grab the machete, I can—
A shoulder bumps my own. “I can’t see your face, but why do I have a feeling you’re drooling while staring at that machete?” Ryker’s raspy voice is barely a breath of air.
Relief loosens the muscles in my chest. “Because you know me so well,” I quip.
Ryker snorts but doesn’t dignify that with a response. Probably because the lovable teddy bear knows it’s true.
“We need to find Ellie and Dom,” he continues, wrenching a tray out of the hands of a passing waiter. The waiter immediately begins to protest, but Ryker ignores him and glides away.
“Sorry,” I tell the waiter seriously. “He just really likes…carrying champagne trays. It’s his kink.”
I hurry after my friend, trying my damnedest not to drop my own tray. I don’t know how the fuck people are able to hold them with only one hand. I’m struggling with two.
A large ballroom—decorated with twinkling lights and a three-tiered chandelier—greets me.
The only word I can think to use is “golden.” Everything is illuminated in a tawny shade of gold, from the varnished floorboards to the intricately engraved walls.
High above, a massive crystal chandelier scatters light like liquid gold, its facets catching every glint and sending it dancing across the polished floor.
The walls, paneled in gilded moldings and soft cream tones, glow with reflected radiance, while tall arched windows draped in sheer silk curtains allow moonlight to melt into the golden interior.
Gold-accented sconces line the room, casting a soft, flickering glow that mimics candlelight, adding to the timeless elegance.
The ceiling, a vaulted masterpiece adorned with murals and ornate medallions, seems to shimmer as if lit from within.
Masked men and women talk in clusters around the expansive room.
Three here. Four there. Ten here. Every one of them is oblivious to the predator lying in their midst. Couples swirl across the floor in a slow, graceful waltz, their silhouettes haloed in the warm glow.
Laughter and the gentle strains of a string quartet echo, like music suspended in honey.
Every surface—from the carved balustrades to the delicate filigree of the chairs—seems to hum with the quiet, radiant luxury of gold. Not garish or harsh, but rich and embracing.
A wolf wearing sheep’s clothing.
“Do you see Ellie or Dom?” Ryker asks, his head on a constant pivot.
It was Landon’s idea to add barely decipherable stickers to our cloaks—pink hearts stuck on our left shoulders.
In his mind, it would be small enough to remain undetected by anyone who isn’t looking for it, but it’ll also allow us to find each other.
My solution to reunite with Ellie and Dom was a little more bloody…
which is why I’m not allowed to plan any of our operations.
“Not yet,” I tell him, moving away from the wall and weaving through the throng of people.
As I walk, masked assholes reach for champagne flutes, and I have to stop myself from shattering the glasses over their heads, then using the jagged edges to stab their throats.
These people are sick. Depraved. Fucked up.
And that’s coming from me.
I murder people who deserve it. They kill anyone who thinks or looks differently than them. They prey on the weak because they themselves are incompetent, insignificant, and utterly forgettable.
A hush falls over the crowd abruptly. All the laughter and conversations halt. The couples stop dancing. The string quartet quits playing. All eyes focus on the front of the room, where a familiar woman stands.
The Divine One.
Aria.
Ellie’s mother.
Hatred like I’ve never felt before courses through my veins. I’m grateful that my tray is empty of champagne flutes because I can’t hold it up a second longer. It falls at my side, the only noise in the suffocating silence.
This bitch needs to pay for all that she’s done.
I don’t see Ellie or Dom, but I don’t spot Fischer either. I half expected him to be beside her, watching the proceedings as an unwilling—or willing—apprentice.
“Good evening, my friends!” The Divine One’s mechanical voice echoes through the room, bouncing off every wall, surrounding me, squeezing my throat until it’s hard to suck in a full breath.
“Welcome. We have an exciting night planned for you all.” It’s impossible to detect any emotion in The Divine One’s voice, but I have the distinct feeling she’s amused.
“For years, the Paragons of Prosperity have worshipped our goddess, doing what’s necessary to keep her appeased. ”
I roll my eyes so hard that I actually hurt myself.
Their “goddess” is just an excuse the higher-ups devised to justify murder, rape, and human trafficking. It’s nothing but a huge scam.
“And I’m incredibly honored and humbled to announce that our goddess—our Cassia—has returned to us, her chosen children,” The Divine One continues.
“What the fuck?” Ryker mumbles from beside me, shifting from foot to foot.
“I don’t like the sound of this,” I tell him. “At all.”
Every alarm bell in my head is ringing simultaneously.
Danger!
Danger!
Danger!
“She has returned as our savior! She has come to make us holy once more!”
Cheers echo through the room as my heart sinks like a boulder into my stomach.
Fuck. This. Shit.
“We need to find Ellie. Now,” I hiss at Ryker.
“No shit.”
“Cassia, welcome! Our goddess has returned” The Divine One gestures toward the far side of the room, opposite where we stand.
A lone spotlight zeroes in on a masked figure with unerring accuracy.
A masked figure with a pink heart on her shoulder.
Two huge POP members move to grab a man I know to be Dominic, holding his struggling, writhing form between them. Someone else reaches for Ellie’s hood and mask.
Brown hair tumbles around her shoulders as she blinks dazedly at the light blinding her.
Whispers of recognition ripple through the crowd.
“Cassia?”
“Isn’t that Ellie?”
“Is that truly her?”
“She has come for us!”
What the actual fuck is happening? These assholes can’t seriously believe this bullshit, can they?
We assumed that they all knew Cassia was nothing but a sham, but now…
Now, I’m not so sure. Belief is a strange and powerful thing, after all.
It can start and stop wars. Make an honest man sinful.
Turn a sinful man honest. And isn’t that all religion is? Belief? Faith?
“Welcome, Cassia!” The Divine One coos, that eerie voice scratching at my skin like serrated talons. “Welcome home.”