Chapter Thirteen
Ember
The cell I’m put in is more comfortable than the dungeons Dagon threw me into to get tortured, so I don’t complain. I’m ungagged, but my wrists remain tied behind my back. Max doesn’t say a single word to me, and I don’t speak to him, either. I’m firmly in data-gathering mode.
He leaves me tied in a metal chair, in a holding room made up of four concrete blocks for walls, a shitty cot in the corner, and a metal table outfitted for chains in front of me.
I take the alone time to think over what I’ve picked up on and try my best not to let my thoughts wander to her. I try to assure myself that Dagon won’t kill her because she’s the only leverage he has on me, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking of all the ways he can hurt her.
I don’t know how long I spend alone, but I’d estimate it’s over an hour, though under a day.
When the metal door to my cell creaks open, Greyson walks inside.
He’s holding a laptop in his hand. He looks completely uninterested in my existence, which automatically eases the worst of my worries.
He doesn’t leer at me or ogle me which, at the very least, makes him better than Dagon’s soldiers.
“Ember Sands,” he says. He pulls out the metal chair across the table from me, sits down, and sets his laptop in front of him, opening it up.
“Greyson something,” I respond, forcing a yawn. “How may I help?”
“Serve Max and do it well,” he responds automatically. “And let him serve you.”
I arch an imperious eyebrow, staring at him.
“Your life is well-documented up until you turned eighteen,” Greyson says. “Then, you disappeared, with only a few well-buried links connecting you to Dagon.” He cocks his head to the side. “Care to explain?”
What’s the harm? “Dagon took me to pay off a debt my father owed him. It was a rough few years.”
“I see.” Greyson clicks around on the computer. “You’re twenty-three years old?”
“So, he can do math as well as ask boring questions.” I examine the wall, exuding sheer boredom. “Any other party tricks up your sleeves?”
“See that glass in the wall?” Greyson asks, motioning to the one-way mirror in the side of the room. “Two men are on the other side of it. Our leader, Cain, and the third in command, Max. Who is now your owner.”
“I vaguely recall reading something in the constitution regarding how humans are not to be owned. You don’t strike me as particularly literate, but—”
“Maximus is counting your indiscretions. He will punish you for any backtalk or sass. I would keep your insubordination to a minimum.”
“For me to be an insubordinate, I’d have to recognize your authority.” I lean forward. “Newsflash; I don’t.”
“Bad decision. Max is extremely experienced in reigning in errant women. He lived the BDSM lifestyle for a while; he knows how to get what he wants. Word to the wise, Ember, I wouldn’t cross him.”
I yawn again. “I can take him.”
“Yes, you seem quite confident that you’re this big, bad wolf who can take anyone.”
I force a smile. “I’m not the wolf,” I hiss. “I’m the void that swallows the wolf whole.”
Greyson appraises me with vague interest. “On that note,” he says, “I understand you’re in the hitman—or hitwoman—business.”
“Not quite. To be a hitman, I’d have to get paid. I’m just a humble assassin.”
“You are neither humble, nor an assassin.” Greyson types something on the keyboard. “You’re an executioner.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes. Assassins have a holistic approach to murder, from gathering information on targets and planning the operation to making the final decision on whether or not to pull the trigger. Executioners are a bureaucrat’s errand boy—or girl.”
“Calling Dagon a bureaucrat is like calling a circus performer the president. Thank you for confirming that your IQ is room temperature.”
“World governments are a circus. Completely performative and barely functional, held together by poor public stints—”
“Spare me your anti-establishment bullshit.”
“Very well. How many people have you killed?”
“How is that relevant?”
“You’re now a resident of the Nighthawks. You’ll soon be considered a Nighthawk. There’s a five-year hole in your life story that needs to be filled in before you get out of this room.”
“And you expect me to help you fill it?”
“Yes.” Greyson gazes at me. “Otherwise, you’ll be talking to someone who hasn’t given Max their word that they won’t hurt you. Trust me, Ember, you’re better off with me.”
“I’m quaking in my boots.” I squint at the light fixtures on the ceiling. “I lost count after the first few dozen. That’s to say, a lot.”
Greyson begins typing on the keyboard. “Do you have a callsign?”
“I picked up names along the way.”
“The principal one being?”
Can’t hurt to instill some fear, or at least respect. My callsign is no secret, and according to Dagon, most players in the criminal underground have heard of it and consider me a boogeyman. Something that brings him endless pride.
“Viper.”
Greyson’s fingers freeze on the keyboard. He looks up at me, eyes briefly widening before narrowing once more. “I’m sorry?”
“Ember Sands; callsign, Viper,” I repeat slowly, raising my eyebrows. “You’ve heard of me?” I ask innocently.
“You’re Viper?” Greyson asks. “The Viper?”
“Someone else tried to steal the moniker once. I cut him into pieces, extracted his organs, then popped them back inside him. In the wrong places.” Dagon told me to make a point with that one; I followed through.
Greyson blinks slowly. “No… Viper is a man.”
“Cut the misogynistic bullshit.”
“You’re not shitting me? You’re actually fucking Viper?” Greyson asks disbelievingly.
“Would you like an autograph?” I deadpan.
Greyson abruptly stands from the table, taking a step back as if I’m radioactive waste threatening to poison him.
“Your estimated kill counts are in the hundreds,” Greyson says. “You never fail. You’ve… you’re suspected to have killed some Nighthawks.”
I frown at him. “Have I? How many?” I remember the one, but there were more?
“You don’t remember?” he says disbelievingly.
I shrug. “The faces started to blur after the first few.”
“I…” he shakes his head. Gazes at the one-way mirror. “I think I have what I need. Uh… welcome to the Nighthawk’s Fortress.”
“I’m going to blow this place and everyone in it up if you don’t release me,” I say conversationally.
The door creaks open. A new, unfamiliar man stands in the doorway.
I appraise him carefully; he’s tall, has multicolored eyes—blue, grey, green—dark sable hair, and a stubborn jaw.
His eyes are the sort of empty that I’m used to seeing in sociopaths or psychopaths…
or people so traumatized, they avoid mirrors. Such as myself.
His posture is straight. His muscles are so stacked, I’m almost intimidated. He stares at me with a flat intensity that raises goosebumps on my skin.
“You won’t be blowing anything up.” He steps inside. “Though I do admire your determination. And your handiwork. If I placed any value in human life and creation, I might consider myself a fan of yours.”
“Offer for an autograph is still on the table.” I roll my shoulders. “Cain, I presume?”
“The one and only.” His tone is drier than a desert. “Viper,” he says succinctly. “Wonderful to meet you.”
“Is it?”
“Not really.” He sighs, glancing at Greyson. “Get out.”
Greyson’s upper lip curls into a snarl as he looks at Cain. His jaw clenches, and then he speedwalks out.
Trouble in paradise? Something I can capitalize on?
“Would you mind if we skip the fatuous small talk and cut to the chase?” he closes the metal door and stalks towards the table, carrying himself with a lethal predatory grace.
“Not at all. Small talk is a waste of time—”
“And neither of us have the time to waste.” Cain offers me an approving nod. Apparently, Viper commands some respect around these parts.
He helps himself to the seat Greyson vacated. “I’m at a bit of a loss. You’re Maximus’ chosen; it’s his prerogative to claim you.”
“And my opinion has no value?”
“None whatsoever,” Cain confirms. “Mine, however, does. You’re not a typical chosen or a mere piece of property; if you are indeed Viper—which, considering Max’s state and the tales he told, seems likely—then you’re a valuable resource to me. You’re an extremely successful assassin.”
“According to Greyson, executioner.”
“On my list of priorities, listening to Greyson’s philosophical bullshit ranks somewhere between giving myself a lobotomy and taking a cheese grater to my eardrums.”
The corner of my lip ticks up. All of my alarm sensors are blaring around Cain, warning me that he’s an extremely dangerous individual, but he’s also amusing and frank. I don’t dislike him, though I immediately clock that he’d kill me if he saw the slightest benefit in doing so.
Contrary to popular opinion, sociopaths and psychopaths are actually the best people to work with.
They’re extremely predictable in that they’ll always choose themselves above all others—save, perhaps, for any permanent object of fixation they might find.
I prefer dealing with someone on the antisocial spectrum rather than someone who’s a slave to their emotions—in other words, most people.
“Okay. What do you want?”
“I’m tempted to offer you a job,” Cain admits. “Switch your loyalty from Dagon to me. Max says Dagon has something on you—if you tell me what it is, I’ll have it taken care of.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Having Viper as part of the Nighthawks would be good for business.”
“Giving the leader of the Nighthawks any leverage on me, however, would be catastrophic to me. So, you’ll forgive me when I say fuck off.”
“No offense taken.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“In any case, your job would be contingent on Max’s approval. You ought to understand that you now belong to him, Viper. He’s your owner. Not the worst turn of events considering just how head over heels he is for you. Apparently, you made quite an impression on him in your formative years.”
“Funny enough, he made zero impression on me. I have no fucking clue who he is, other than the douchebag who kidnapped me and brought me here to be enslaved.”
“I heard about your amnesia. How did it transpire?”
“Is that relevant?”
“Not particularly. Call it clinical curiosity.”
“I’m not a test subject.”
Cain chuckles. “That’s where you’re comically incorrect.
” A few bangs sound on the door. He leans forward.
“I’ll give you some free advice—something very few people will get from me.
Submit. Bond with Max. He’s kinder than most. If you were mine, I’d have flogged you head to toe for the backtalk, and caned your feet until they bled to keep you from running again. ”
I give him a look of utter disgust. “How charming.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not interested.” Cain holds my eyes.
“You might be vaguely amusing and potentially useful, but that’s all you are to me.
” He stands, pocketing his hands. “I don’t expect you’ll be seeing anyone but Maximus for the foreseeable future.
Make it easier on yourself and comply.” He turns and stalks out, only to be replaced by Max, who’s standing at the door, nostrils flared, cheeks flushed, and hard-on clearly visible through the outline of his pants.
“Viper?” he asks, taking a step forward. “Really?”
“The one and only.” I crack my neck. “Why, have you heard of me?”
“Anyone who isn’t a greenie has heard of you.” He shakes his head with a sardonic laugh. “Alright, Flame. Let’s get you back to where you belong.”