Chapter 2
Igrip the cold porcelain of the sink in front of me, spitting a mouthful of blood down the drain. The shifter had been a decent match, putting up more fight than I’d expected. Which explains the bruise I feel blooming below my right eye.
I don’t usually let them get that far. And I know without a doubt that Andras won’t be pleased with me.
I showed weakness in the ring—let my cockiness get in the way of a potential earning.
But I’m so tired of this shit, of being in the rings nearly every night, taking down opponent after opponent for him.
I can feel it sucking the life out of me, draining my soul.
Out there, I'm a performer. His puppet. But back here, I can let the mask slip for the briefest of moments, let my rage unfurl to its fullest extent. Where no one will perceive it. I grip the sink tighter, until my sore knuckles scream in protest and I’m sure the porcelain will crack beneath my fingers.
“What a round!” The voice shocks me out of my spiral, pulling my eyes away from the image in the mirror and back to the entrance of the backroom. Quinn’s voice is smooth, cheery, with an air of sarcasm, as he struts in, arms folded over his chest.
“Fuck off, Quentin,” I throw over my shoulder, turning back to the tap and running a rag under the cool water.
He chuckles behind me as I swipe the wet rag over my face, wincing slightly as the crisp temperature of the water stings my open wounds.
They should have taken only minutes to heal, but the shifter had some serious power in his veins.
“I’m serious,” he concedes, coming up behind me and smacking me across the back. I jolt forward, tensing. “It’s been a minute since you’ve given us an entertaining match. Andras has been setting far too easy competitors for you, if you ask me.”
“Andras,” I bite through gritted teeth, “is going to have my fucking head for almost losing his earnings.”
Quinn bobs his head back and forth as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the next sink over, the pucker of his lips making the stubble on his jaw twitch. “You’re not wrong. He sent for you.”
I groan, shaking my head. “Where?”
“At the garage,” Quinn answers easily, letting his eyes roam over the decrepit room. He runs a hand through his slicked back sandy hair.
I nod slowly, taking a deep breath and pushing myself off the sink. “Let me get cleaned up. I’ll meet you there.”
“Don’t bother." He puts a hand up, stopping me from walking towards the showers. “It’s going to be a messy one.”
The lot for the garage is abandoned, aside from a few bikes parked out of sight. I have a pit in my stomach as I pull my bike up beside them and make my way towards the garage. Quinn follows suit, the ever-present shadow beside me.
The rolling doors of the oversized garage are closed, leaving only the side entrance open.
I walk into the stream of light painting the concrete, letting the harsh brightness wash over me.
Perhaps it will chase away the darkness, cleanse me of my sins.
But it is only an exposed bulb hanging inside the garage—not a miracle sent by the gods—and I pass through the doorway unchanged.
I furrow my brow as my eyes adjust to the stark lighting. Andras leans against a support column in the middle of the garage, between various lifts for the motorcycles we often service in here. He’s picking at his nails in the annoying way he does when he’s losing his patience. Which I expect.
What I don’t expect to find is Zeke and Sterling, the other two members of my small crew, waiting for us as well.
Or the mysterious fourth body seated and bound in the middle of the empty garage.
My boys are leaning against the far wall beside the work benches and meticulously organized tools, exchanging glances with each other that seem to communicate how uncomfortable both of them feel being called here to wait for me. It only sets me more on edge.
“What’s this?” I ask, stopping just in front of the seated figure.
“Ah,” Andras’ voice boasts, his hands clapping together as he straightens from his spot. “It’s so nice of you to finally grace us with your presence, Aamon. I feared your injuries would keep you from your duties tonight.”
I grimace, the soreness in my features only slightly noticeable still. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” I meet his gaze, holding it steady and refusing to back down from the challenge.
He watches me for a moment, his lips eventually tipping up into a smirk. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t have let you work your way up my ranks this far if something like a little serpent shifter could take you down.”
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
Andras is leader to all of our kind, the Alpha of not just the vampires, but all of the ungoverned district.
But things between us have always felt deeper.
I was exiled so young, the Arcane taking root in me when I was little more than an infant.
He took pity on me and accepted me into his fold, raising me in this life and training me as a fighter in his rings.
It was through him alone that I was accepted into the Blood Order at an uncharacteristically early age.
I earned my keep as well as his respect, rising in the ranks all the way to second in command.
But lately he’s been keeping me at arm's length, deliberately leaving me out of Order business and running me ragged in the rings. As if he sees something untrustworthy in me, something he no longer likes.
I return the hollow smile and he pulls me in, an arm around my shoulders, turning our attention back to their captive.
“Unfortunately," he says slyly, "duty calls nonetheless.”
“Who is he?” I ask, staring down at the slumped form before us.
He looks familiar, but I can’t place him, not with the old cloth sack covering his face.
He’s large, but appears to be unconscious.
I haven’t heard him utter a single noise since I walked in, and even now as I nudge him with my boot, he's unresponsive.
“Tyge,” Andras answers as he lets his arm drop from my shoulder, circling around the motionless body.
I stifle my shock at the name. Tyge is not part of the Blood Order but a reaper who's worked closely with us for years.
His connections have helped us barter illegal goods through the MidLands—necessities like medical supplies that are often cut off from the ungoverned district.
The Alpha’s hand darts out suddenly, clinging hard to a wound on Tyge’s chest I hadn’t noticed before. I stiffen as I watch Andras’ nails grow sharp and dig into the wound, making the stain on his dingy white shirt go from a rusty red to a deep, wet crimson as fresh blood oozes.
Andras’ actions serve their purpose as Tyge is awake in an instant, gasping for air and screaming through the sack still secured over his head.
Andras nods to Quinn behind us, who turns to close the garage’s side door, bolting it with a deafening thud.
Zeke and Sterling haven’t moved, both of them taking in the scene carefully as they wait to see how Andras wants to let this play out.
“Tyge here"—Andras’ voice raises as he releases his body, pulling a bandana from his back pocket and wiping his hands of the fresh blood—"has decided to start dealing a little business on the side.”
Andras’ eyes flick to Zeke, a silent command.
Zeke moves forward without argument and tugs the sack off Tyge's head. Tyge is trying to hide his panic, but it’s clear to see how terrified he is with the way his eyes are darting around the room for an escape.
He’s coated in grime and sweat, his dirtied skin now streaked with the newfound tears streaming down his face.
“Isn’t that right?” Andras leans in, a hand braced on the back of Tyge’s chair.
“I’m sorry, Andras,” Tyge pleads. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know.”
“Bullshit,” Andras sneers, spitting on the floor before Tyge. “You saw an opportunity to make money, to gain power. And you took it without thinking about the consequences of such actions. Of what bringing something like that into the ungoverned district might do to our society.”
Tyge shakes his head, standing his ground.
Tears well in his eyes, despite the strong front he’s putting forward.
I don’t blame him. The Alpha of the ungoverned district is a terrifying enemy to make.
There may be rumors of covered-up corruption within the High Quarter, but Andras is no stranger to handling conflict like this.
And he does so loudly. He holds a reputation as leader of the lawless.
He is the grease that keeps our system running, the meticulously placed hairpin trigger that is just enough of a threat to keep the ungoverned district in line, lest utter anarchy ensue.
“What is it exactly that he's done?” I ask. Tyge has been a friend of the family for years, and it pains me to see him in the position he’s in now. Whatever he’s done, there has to be a way to work it out. He wouldn’t be the first of us to pocket a few coins and face Andras’ ire.
“Angel’s Trumpet,” Andras answers at last. I do a double take, looking between a rigid Tyge and a glowering Andras.
“Fucking hells, Tyge,” I breathe out, the pit in my stomach turning into a stone. There truly is no coming back from this. I’d thought Andras had brought me here to punish Tyge, but the reality of the situation finally dawns on me. He’s brought me here to take a life.
“The traitor brought that godsforsaken drug into our streets," says Andras, rage broiling in his voice. "He's dealing to our people, poisoning us from the inside out.”
“No,” Tyge argues, trying to state his case. "Andras, you know me. Aamon—"
I wince. Nothing he says is going to help him now.
Not where Andras is involved. Not when he’s brought the enemy’s weapon into our home.
Angel’s Trumpet is the herb the High Quarter Watchers use on our kind—anyone showing signs of the Arcane—as a way to root the power out of them, to suppress it and force them into servitude to the gods.
But there are those who have found ways to alter the plant, to abuse it as a substance and peddle the highly addictive tonic in the lowest corners of our territory.
I’m no saint, nor am I naive enough to believe it is the only drug circulating our streets.
But this one threatens the very fabric of our community, suppressing the power of the collective whole in the eyes of the High Quarter and taking away the one thing we have over them.
We're already weak enough without this shit making its way into our streets. Andras allows a lot of things, but Angel’s Trumpet has always, and will forever be, his hard line.
Andras looks back at me over his shoulder. “You think you can handle this one on your own?”
I fix my eyes on him, hardening them to let him know the reproach I feel at his insinuation.
“Alright,” he says on an exhale. He pushes past me, laying a hand on my shoulder and leaning in once more before he takes his leave. “Make it fast, but make it hurt. And have Zeke set the body out in the lower levels. We need to send a message with this one.”
My stomach roils, hating what I’m about to do, but I nod, not meeting his gaze as he finally releases me and struts out of the garage with ease. As if he didn’t just damn one of his own to the seven hells.
I wait for the sound of the door latching behind him before I turn to Quinn. “Get the kerosene.”
“Please don’t do this,” Tyge whispers. His words are desperate, his eyes frantically searching mine for some sign of mercy.
“You brought this on yourself,” I say, running a hand through my hair.
It's still damp with sweat from the fight. Andras hadn’t even given me the time to recover from the rings before summoning me here to do his dirty work.
An intentional decision, no doubt. He was sending a message, testing me to prove my worth, my strength in his Order.
And I have no choice but to follow through.
“You knew better than to deal in this shit.”
“I know,” he gasps between stifled sobs.
He fidgets against the restraints, getting antsier by the second.
“I figured one run wouldn’t hurt." Quinn is digging through cabinets, looking for the jug of oil that will take the reaper out, and each loud clang of metal and rustling of tools has Tyge flinching. "I needed the extra money to settle some debts. I’m so sorry, Aamon. Have mercy on me. Release me into the WildLands. I won’t ever return. ”
“If it was money you needed,” I hiss, stooping down and grabbing a fistful of his sullied shirt. “Then you should have come to us. Asked for help. We're a brotherhood."
“I know.” Tyge shakes his head, his body trembling with regret. “I should have just come to you straight away.” Tears well in the eyes of a once-essential asset for the Blood Order. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
I sigh, watching over Tyge’s shoulder as Quinn finally locates the kerosene and slips silently behind the reaper, waiting for my signal.
“I know, Tyge. I know it won’t happen again.
” I let him go as I step back, my eyes falling downcast just as Quinn starts dousing him in the oil.
I slip the lighter out of my pocket, flicking it on against my thigh and dropping it at the feet of the reaper.
His screams fill the garage as his body goes up in flames.
It should be making me flinch, should be eating me alive, to carry out Andras’ judgement like this. But he’s the one who taught me where showing mercy will get you. So I numb myself, making myself immune to the horrors of this life I’ve only ever existed in.
This is my duty.
To protect the Blood Order.
To maintain peace in the ungoverned district.
To obey the Alpha.
Perhaps it had affected me at one point, but in this life, one cannot afford luxuries like a conscience.
Tyge lets out one last bloodcurdling scream.
Sterling steps forward almost on instinct, but Zeke grabs him by the arm.
I meet Sterling's eyes, the silver moonlit orbs filled with sympathy, and see the concern in his face—the question lingering there.
I shake my head, telling him to stand down without ever uttering a word, and he listens.
The four of us stand in silence, with Tyge’s body between us, as we wait for the flames to go out.