3. Sawyer
SAWYER
SIXTEEN HOURS BEFORE…
The trek to the Shadow Sanctum isn’t without design.
Blindfolded, filthy, and off-balance, Wilcox and I walk two miles through a forest—our escorts more shovers than guides, letting us trip over every fallen branch, hole, and rock—before my shoe finally scrapes smooth concrete.
A woman’s distant giggle turns my head. Even far away, I know it’s directed at Wilcox and me. Charred pine cuts through the cold, and I picture the woman in a white robe, smoke swirling from the burning stick in her hand. About to chant whatever brand of nonsense this cult sells.
I’ve spent the last hour tracking every shift in direction, counting every step, and listening for how many pairs of feet crunch through leaves. I’m confident there are seven, including mine.
We were told to park by an old abandoned barn—leaving the car for Vera to pick up—and blindfold ourselves. Five men arrived and threw us in the back of an SUV where they then drove for twenty-seven minutes, taking three turns and one veer before parking and marching us into the woods.
“Walk,” a man with a deep voice commands, shoving me forward.
My shoe connects with raised concrete—a step I stumble on before catching myself. I climb four more and reach a small porch, where a cat lets out a string of loud, pained meows.
“Get it out of here,” someone sneers. The cat’s pitch rises abruptly (someone must be carrying it off).
Left turn, right turn, right veer, left turn. Four thousand nine hundred thirty-five steps through a forest.
The route sears into my memory as a door creaks open. When I’m shoved forward, I trip blindly into a cold, drafty building. One that makes me wonder if the cult trusts electric companies as little as they do banks.
Another flight of stairs. This time fifteen steps. Left down a hallway on creaky, warped floorboards, through a doorway my shoulder bumps, then finally…
“Welcome, gentleman.”
A guy behind me rips the blindfold over my head to reveal a dark, candlelit room. Three people stand side by side in front of me—an older man and two young women flanking him. Surprisingly, no one’s wearing a robe.
I sweep my eyes over the sparse room: no furniture, nothing on the cracked, dusty walls. A board is nailed over the window, so the only light comes from the circle of candles surrounding us, wax cooling into hardened puddles on the floor.
Shadows sway along the walls, and I follow them until I catch the outline of a motionless woman in the corner, her back turned, limbs sprawled. Either dead or unconscious.
“You must be Chief Elder,” Wilcox says. His throat clears as he sticks out his hand.
Aurelius—the cult’s leader they call the Chief Elder—glances at one of the women at his side.
She’s the prettier of the two, delicate hips hugged by a yellow skirt a few shades lighter than her sunflower hair, youthful eyes bright with an eagerness life hasn’t yet dulled.
An interesting find in a place like this.
When her lips quirk up with a shy smile, I follow her lead.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Thomas Wilcox,” the silver-haired Aurelius says, ignoring the invitation to shake. What a power move.
Wilcox drops his hand and fidgets like he’s no longer sure what to do with it. He grabs hold of his wrist and tries to smile, which is… not the correct expression.
“The pleasure is mine, sir,” Wilcox stammers. “I—”
“And you must be Sawyer.” Aurelius’s eyes shift to me. Everything looks eerie in this light, but it’s what’s missing from his eyes that unsettles me most. Curiosity, intrigue, expectation. This man looks annoyed by our presence, not excited for our buy-in.
Not what I’d expect from a cult leader.
“Yes, sir. I’m grateful to be here.”
“So…” He cups his hands together as his shoulders rise and fall, settling into whatever this is. “Raven tells me you’re both looking to initiate into our society. Is that correct?”
As if we’d let them blindfold and drag us around for some other reason.
“Yes, sir,” Wilcox nods, though we hadn’t learned any names aside from Aurelius’s before tonight. Wilcox has been speaking to the Head Keeper—Raven, apparently, and the Shadow Sanctum’s ‘guardian.’
Makes you wonder what it is they need guarded from.
I shift my focus between the two women for half a second before I deduce that Raven is on the right. Dressed in all black with an oval face sharpened by a too-tight ponytail, she stares with the same derision as Aurelius.
“We’ve heard incredible things about your lifestyle. The freedom you give to your people, it’s… We’re very eager to join you.”
I turn my head to Wilcox. He sounds almost too convincing. We’ve heard next to nothing about their lifestyle, only that they permit sexual freedom here.
“We don’t normally have our initiates come to us in pairs…”
“Yes, well, we aren’t normal initiates.” Wilcox gives a light chuckle. “I don’t know if the Head Keeper told you, but we come from our own little utopia that’s unfortunately no longer inhabitable. Neither of us belong among the general population. We’re looking for a new home.”
“Yes, I’ve heard all about your utopia,” Aurelius says in a disapproving tone that strikes me as predictably hypocritical.
“We’re happy to have you here.” His lips stretch into a tight smile that looks painful.
“But first, as I’m sure you’re aware, there’s a process of initiation you must go through. ”
“Of course.” Wilcox dips his chin.
“Our society is set up as a caste system that each of our initiates separates into. At the top, we have the Chief Elder, who leads our society. Beneath, we have the Keepers who protect it. The Cultivators who provide for it. The Nurturers who raise the children of the future. The Seraphs who purify our people’s souls. And the Dregs who bring us wealth.”
Bring us wealth.
The Dregs must be the miners.
“Do we get to choose our caste?” I ask, tucking my thumbs into my pockets.
Aurelius shifts his attention from Wilcox to me.
“In some cases. In others, the Head Keeper and I will determine what you have to offer that will benefit our society. In all cases, an initiation test will be arranged to challenge your abilities. This allows us to weed out any who might burden the system.”
“We’re always up for a challenge, sir.” Wilcox rocks forward on his toes, nervousness disguised as eagerness.
“I’d like to be a Keeper,” I say.
Wilcox turns to me, his eyes widening as his jaw clenches. He thinks I’m being obvious. Because I know my motive, I understand. Though for the record, I would’ve chosen Dreg. But he’s too busy kissing ass, he isn’t thinking about how we might act if we didn’t have nefarious intentions.
What kind of pussy wouldn’t pick Keeper?
“Keeper? Really?” Aurelius hums. He addresses Wilcox. “And what would you like to be?”
“Uh…” Wilcox flicks his gaze to me. For what? Guidance? “A Keeper as well, sir.”
“Wonderful.” Aurelius claps his hands as his face brightens. “We’ll make arrangements for your task.”
“Fantastic, sir. Thank you.”
Aurelius gestures to the guy behind me. “Thorne, would you please…” Thorne—a six-foot-sevenish beefy-looking Keeper with a tribal tattoo wrapped around his bicep—takes Wilcox’s arm and manhandles him from the room, no gentler than before.
“As for you, Mr. Hansley…”
Inwardly, I groan, my gut clenching at the sound of my name, my old name. I’m not surprised to hear it, despite giving the cult a different alias. If he knows about the island, it’s only reasonable he’s seen my face plastered across every news article having to do with it.
“We believe you’ll be better suited as a Cultivator, given your specialty. We’re looking to expand our Seraph population. No one in our society wants their daughter to take on the role, and as a father myself, I can’t blame them.”
Seraph. The ‘soul purifier.’ Why do I get the feeling that’s another way of saying sex slave?
“I don’t do human trafficking.”
“Anymore,” Aurelius finishes for me, with enough disgust to light a match to my ears.
Tension wraps my chest in a tight little ball, but I keep my face still. A year ago, I would’ve defended myself. I’ve since learned there’s little point in arguing with someone who’s learned everything about me from headlines.
So much for second chances.
“My island wasn’t as simple as you’re making it… But it was a mistake. One I won’t be repeating.”
Aurelius tilts his head. “Perhaps the mistake was that you weren’t as organized as you could be now.”
Hand dragging down my face, I laugh… Me. Unorganized.
“This is the value you can provide us, Sawyer Hansley. If you’re unwilling, I understand. But you will not be a brother in the Shadow Sanctum.”
I look up at the ceiling, the irony so bitter, so fucking sharp, that I feel it cut my throat, cold, liquid copper chilling a path to my lungs.
Of course, of course this would be what they want from me, what value I could bring.
Not my intelligence, my wit, my creativity, but my … markedly misunderstood skills.
Seconds pass while I pretend I’m only considering it. It would break a promise I made myself, put a hitch in my attempt at becoming someone other than the billionaire with the kink island.
But… It's already done. I’m here.
If I’m lucky, I’ll be gone before it matters.
“It takes me three to six months of daily contact before a woman is ready to leave her former life… After that, I spend at least a few days getting her settled before she’s ready to purify any souls.”
Aurelius nods. “We trust your methods… But, of course, the point of an initiation test is to challenge you. You won’t have six months. You’ll have three weeks.”
Air bursts past my lips. “Three weeks… I take it you don’t mind meth heads?”
His eyes narrow—part disdain, part confusion. The girl with the yellow skirt tilts her head at me, drawing my gaze like a magnet. Her eyes are just as bright as they were before. No disgust. No judgment.