Chapter 11
11
Raze
Eleven years ago
A shton Payne claps a wooden gavel against his bench, silencing the crowd before him. The frenzied members of the Midnight Syndicate rush to take their seats, their nervous energy still crackling around the room.
Mayor Payne had lifelessly announced my father’s unexpected death at the hands of the Supremes when all hell broke loose. The spineless leaders shared panicked looks as the shouts grew louder, each one looking to the next to step up and take control of the chaos.
None of them are equipped to handle such a task, though.
I’ve remained seated at the end of their bench, calmly watching the chaos unfold.
Elijah Whitlock was a terrible man with no moral conscience, but he was well loved by those who used him to do their bidding.
TheSupremes loved him, too. Until they feared him.
A perfect weapon that got a little too dangerous for its wielder.
I’m to take his place, effective immediately.
They haven’t had a chance to announce that little tidbit, but I don’t see the news being received any better.
They don’t trust me. Especially since I’ve taken over their rank at Ravenshurst. In doing so, I’ve derailed their hateful rhetoric that their legacies are more worthy of their giftedness than the rest of us Nulls in Nocturne Valley. A laughable concept when you consider that there wouldn’t be any gifts at all if it weren’t for the families who founded the town to begin with.
It’s all semantics, I suppose.
The only thing keeping me alive up until this point was their love for my father.
Now that he’s gone, I’m an open target.
Though they’ll be careful not to cross me. I’ve been trained by the best, after all. And if they don’t want to get their hands bloody, they’ll be smart to keep their mouths shut.
I’ve earned this spot. I sacrificed the final piece of humanity inside myself to get it.
A few disgruntled rich people aren’t going to stop what’s already been done.
The memory of my initiation replays in my mind as I watch the clowns in front of me try to wrangle of their circus, and I sit back and zone out.
Wait at the top of the hill for the green Jeep to come around the corner, then step into the road.
The police have been informed. Do whatever you need to do.
I’ve been sitting here for over an hour, freezing my ass off, and the only car that passed was a silver sedan with an elderly woman driving below the speed limit.
I swear to fucking God, if these rich bastards are setting me up to get killed, I’m going to cut the skin off their faces and mail it to their families.
My father may have gone down without a fight, but I’ve never claimed to be like him.
It’s a gray, rainy day. The sky is illuminated in white, though the sun is nowhere to be found. I’ve been waiting so long that the rain has soaked all the way through my clothes, freezing me to the bone.
Finally, when the light of the sun disappears and the rain falls in sheets that make it nearly impossible to see, two circle headlights round the curve and I’m able to squint my eyes enough to make out the color of the hood.
It’s dark green.
I think.
Either way, I’m going with it.
I hold my flashlight up until it’s lined directly with the driver’s eyes, then turn up the brightness so they’re fully blinded.
The Jeep swerves right, tires screeching as they lose traction against the slick pavement and barrel over a speed limit sign. Time slows as the Jeep crashes into a tree at the bottom of the hill. The sound is nearly deafening, even from where I stand way above.
“That was easier than I expected,” I mumble to myself, glancing around to make sure no good Samaritans are coming to fuck up my plans.
Once I’m sure no one is coming, I begin my descent, sloshing down the hill in sopping wet boots. I’m not worried about leaving tracks behind this time. When the Syndicate says they’re taking care of a crime scene, I can be as sloppy as I want.
Two people sit in the mangled Jeep, their heads slowly bobbing around as they reorient.
Of course, the crash alone didn’t kill them. God forbid it’s ever that easy.
“Help us,” the passenger croaks when I appear in his line of sight. I can see from the reflection of their interior lights that he’s got a gash across his forehead that has blood seeping down his face. I watch as it dribbles over his eyelids, covering the whites of his eyes. He blinks it away, then slowly turns his head to check on the woman beside him. Her head hangs forward, chin tucked against her chest.
The slow, off-tempo rise and fall of her chest confirms she’s also still alive.
I release an irritated sigh, stepping forward to check the front of the vehicle and the tree that’s embedded itself halfway through the engine bay. Whatever story the police will weave about their deaths will be easily proven with its condition.
“Please—” a garbled, feminine voice sounds from inside the car. A wet cough interrupts the plea.
I walk around the tree to step beside her door, wrapping my fingers around the handle and yanking it open.
My father always warned against talking to the victims. “Get in, make the kill, and get out,” he’d drill.
His voice still rings in my ears, as if his spirit has come to scream the reminder directly into my psyche.
But there’s something about these two that pulls at my heartstrings enough to have me reaching across her chest and unbuckling her seat belt. It has me tucking my arms beneath her knees and back and cradling her against my chest, then carrying her over to a soft patch of wet grass as she saws out breaths. Then, doing the same for him.
“It’s you,” she rasps, staring up at me in horror as rain splatters across her skin. The man turns his head toward us. Then irritation mars her face, furrowing her brow. “You’re too...early.”
“Not yet,” the man seems to echo her sentiment.
Too early ? What the fuck are these two on?
“It’s . . . ” she inhales a hollow breath. “Too late.”
I stare down at her, finally starting to piece together why she looks so familiar to me. Her brown hair splays around her head, contrasting the deathlike pallor of her face. There’s an angry split in her lips that pulls open each time she speaks.
Constance and Carter Chevalier. The leaders of the rebellion I’ve been following since I was seventeen.
Fuck .
My first solo kill, and I’ve gone and royally fucked myself and everything my father worked for.
Why did the Supremes send me after them? Is there a chance they know my involvement with the rebellion?
“Sonnet...” Carter mutters. His eyes are cast skyward as tears fall down his temples, disappearing into his hair. “My Sonnet,” he quietly cries.
“Ah, God, it hurts,” Constance complains with a wince. When she shifts to her side and realizes I’m still standing here, she scowls at me. “You need to leave,” she commands in an angry tone, though the weakness of her voice takes away any intimidating effect.
Killing missions with my father were always easier than this. Cleaner. This is a complete shit show. The Syndicate is expecting results from me, but the people of the rebellion are going to castrate me if they realize what I’ve done.
I have to kill them. Put them out of their misery and collect my paycheck, then figure out a way to spin this. It’s what my father would do. No one needs to know it was me. But the misery in Carter’s eyes and the anger in Constance’s have me questioning this enough to keep me from pulling my knife from my pocket and slitting their throats.
“You weren’t supposed to come until later,” she berates again, her hand slowly shifting toward the pocket of her jeans to pull out a phone.
Her words stop me dead in my tracks. “You knew I was coming?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Carter spits. “Of course we knew.”