Chapter 1

I double-check the list before I enter the building. Mr. Warrenthal. He deserted the Exodus three years ago, and they've been waiting for the Reckoning so that I can take him out.

The problem is, Mr. Warrenthal is very aware of the impending crime-free night and, to prepare, he has booked a ticket out of Vail. He's supposed to leave this morning. When the Elders got wind of it—they seem to have connections everywhere—they sent me to intercept him. I had no choice but to throw on clothes before the sun rose and head over to the mansion at the base of the mountain.

I put on gloves before I head inside. He shouldn't be expecting me, but he has to know this is coming. No one leaves the Exodus. You can't just decide you're bored with your rich, privileged life and quit the society that made you who you are.

I should know. They made me who I am now.

"Surprise," I say as I find him in bed. His packed suitcases stand beside the ornate footboard. The elders' intel was right.

With eyes so wide that I can see every bit of white, the man sits up in bed. "No, no, no!" he pleads. "The Bishop gave me grace to leave the society!"

"You and I both know that's not true."

"It is!"

"I wouldn't be here if it was."

"I have money!"

"Of course you do. You all do."

But I do not. Wallowing in vast riches wasn't part of the contract I entered into almost ten years ago. Having been brought to the Exodus instead of born into the Exodus, I was granted my life and nothing more.

The man's plea falls on deaf ears. The targets always offer huge sums of cash, but I don't waver from my mission. I have a job to do, and if I fail, my name will go on a list, and someone will visit me next. Someone just like me.

A hitman.

Their pawn.

The worker bee in their intricate hive.

Because I'm theirs.

I've sold my soul to the devil, and now I'm his watcher. His henchman. A pawn in a system I wasn't born into. I was taken and given a choice. I could be the executioner or the sacrifice. Since I'm not a farm animal who's destined to be bled and rendered for their use, I chose to join them.

But I didn't get to become one of them. Not really. I was allowed to keep my life, but the life I live no longer belongs to me.

Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better to have bled out in their glamorous cabin in the woods. At least the blood soaking their fancy hardwood floors would be my own. At least I would have died free.

A crowbar hangs by my side, and one quick smack of it against the side of the man's skull stops his annoying begging. I fasten a thick rope around his limp wrists and ankles, then drag him out of bed. I don't like to kill them in bed, preferring to position them in their luxurious living rooms instead. It's so ironic to die in the room in which you should live.

I drop his heavy body onto a leather chair and hit a button to make it recline. At least he can be comfortable as he dies, reclining in a room littered with original artworks and first printings and the perfume of expensive cigars.

Three remotes lie on the table beside us, and I pick them up and play with them until stereo speakers drop from the ceiling. I sway and spin around the chair as I work a knife from my hip to the opening of "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen. I sing every word as I wait for him to wake up.

As if it had been scripted, his eyes pop open just as the song ascends into greatness, and my blade sinks into the side of his neck. In and out, the knife plunges in and pulls back with the beat. A remote gurgle precedes a spurt of blood from his neck, which fountains out in a ferocious spray of red. The walls drip with the stuff. I rip the metal from his skin a final time and put my fingers beneath his chin, lowering his lax jaw so that it looks as if he's singing the lyrics with his mouth. My bloody puppet.

The song climaxes, and then the endnote makes way for silence. Blood paints the walls of his gaudy mansion like some kind of abstract art installation. Too bad I can't slap a high-dollar price tag on it and sell it to the rich and bored.

The blood slows to a trickle and travels down his stained shirt. I pull the list from my pocket and dip my gloved finger into the crimson puddle beneath him. After spreading the paper on my thigh, I find his name and brush red across it.

One down. As many as they need to go.

I head outside and hear a meow in the bushes beside the door. I squat on the sidewalk and meow back like a lunatic. A little gray cat pokes its head from beneath the thick foliage. I hold my hand toward it, and it takes a perfunctory sniff before brushing a warm, furry cheek against my curled fingers. A pinprick of regret stabs my chest as I wonder if I've just killed this cat's only source of care.

"I hope I didn't just murder your dad," I say, giving it another pat. I didn't see any signs of a cat inside, though. No food. No toys lying around.

I fucking love animals and would take this guy with me if I didn't already have a menu item hopping around at home. Even though Petey would probably wipe the floor with the biggest cat, I can't chance it.

I stand and leave the little cat behind. I can't let it get to me. Cats are suburban apex predators, and that guy can certainly fend for himself. I also have no time to meander when today is such a big day for the society.

Tonight, the Exodus elders are hosting their ten-hour party in the very same mountains I was dragged to nearly a decade ago. Half the participants care about little more than fun and fucking, but the rest are there to participate in the old traditions.

Killing sacrificial lambs on their treasured night.

The Reckoning is a night to experience your most carnal desires, no matter how sinful they may be. Do you want to fuck your friend's wife? Kill her, maybe? Go nuts. Just so long as those you wish to harm weren't born into the group, that is.

The Exodus doesn't kill off members who were born into their ranks, but people like me are and will always be fair game. Just like the rest of the town. Anyone who isn't locked away or gone for the weekend can and will be killed by any of the men or women who choose hunting over staying behind and fucking.

That's the dividing line within the group.

At one point, I would have been content to stay back and fuck the beautiful women who are way above my class, but since Exodus has broken me down and reshaped me into the monster I am now, I go out and kill. I have to, even if I don't want to.

No one says no to the Exodus.

I certainly didn't.

I check the time on my cell phone. My next appointment isn't for thirty minutes, but at least I don't have to kill anyone. I just have to pick up my suit from the dry cleaner. The menial task shouldn't feel so pressing, but I need my suit for tonight, and the dry-cleaning staff are eager to get out of town. I take the winding back roads until I pull onto Main Street.

The dry cleaner is nestled among a few other shops. There's even a grocery store in the middle—the only one in the town. I park and rush inside because I don't know how long they'll be open today. I'm surprised they're open at all. Half the shops are already boarded up except for this, the daycare, and the grocery store, which will soon abandon their open-for-twenty-four-hours motto in favor of an early night.

The bell rings overhead, and cool air rushes toward me as I walk into the building. The squat old man behind the desk checks his watch before greeting me.

"Can I help you?"

"Pick up for Knox Blakely."

The man rifles through garment bags, getting more furious with each passing bag. He better not have lost my suit. It's the only one I have. This night has a very strict dress code, and I don't have time to drive to another town to buy a suit. I'll be fucked if he can't find it.

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

"No, no, let me just check in back." The man leaves, returning with a tag in his hand. "It hasn't been pressed yet. If you want to wait outside, we'll have it done in ten or fifteen minutes."

I look at the clock above the desk and sigh. I have places to be, but I don't have any other options. I thank the man and head back outside to the departing sound of the bell.

I sit on the bench just outside the shop. My attention idles on the curling brown flowers that are slowly succumbing to fall's nighttime temperatures. They'll be spread across the ground in a few more days, but tonight is supposed to stay unusually warm, so they'll hold steadfast for one more night, at least.

The same can't be said for many of the town's occupants.

Wordless arguing infiltrates my ears, and I try to stop myself from turning toward the sound. It's not my business. But the argument grows more heated, and I finally look across the parking lot.

A couple stands beside a car. I can't hear what they're fighting about, but based on the guy's hostile body language, he's the most upset. He's got a short, blond, buzzed hairstyle and the most anger-soaked eyes I've ever seen. Especially looking at something as pretty as that girl.

I shake my head and try to ignore their spat, but a sudden motion draws my attention as the woman turns away from him. He rips her back by the hair and wraps the dark strands around his fist, then yanks her toward the ground. She falls with a scream, and I can't sit idle any longer.

I get up and make my way across the parking lot, then step between them to place my body in the path of his raised arm.

"Let's not," I say to the man.

"Mind your business!" he snarls.

"Oh, believe me, I fucking tried. But you made it my business when you manhandled her in fucking public." I reach down and offer my hand to her. She looks up at me with rich, dark eyes. I swear I see the hint of a bruise on her neck, and it pisses me off further.

"I'm fine. Sam didn't mean to knock me over," she says, clambering to her feet and brushing the dirt off her pants.

" Sam most definitely meant that," I say.

I put space between them as I usher her away from him. When he tries to follow me, I raise my fist at him. He recoils.

I stop and assess her. "Are you okay?"

She certainly doesn't look okay. Smears of makeup darken her cheeks as she forces a nod. "Yeah, we're fine."

"I didn't ask about him."

"I'm fine," she says, raising her chin.

She's the most stunning creature I've ever seen, and her stoic ways make her even more attractive. I very much understand that fake-it-until-you-make-it attitude. The feigned confidence. It's pretty much my eternal state at this point.

I turn my attention back to the sack of shit, who's grown enough balls to creep a little closer to us. "You're incredibly stupid. Pretty girl like that? Shit. Learn to do something better with your hands than abusing her."

I look back at her, and she wipes her cheeks to try to hide any sign of emotion, but I've done all I can at this point. I've already spent more time on their disturbance than I should have. If I don't get my suit before the dry cleaner panics and closes shop, I'm shit out of luck for the night.

Be careful , I mouth, and she throws me a quick, half-hearted nod.

I jog across the parking lot and make it back to the dry cleaners just as they turn their sign from Open to Closed. I go inside and pay the man before taking my suit to my car and stuffing it in the backseat.

My phone buzzes. I raise it, and the screen lights up as Adam's name flashes across the top.

Are you ready for tonight?

Of course I am. Pawns like me have true purpose tonight. I've been crafted into a killer and trained as their loyal attack dog. There was a time in the beginning when I was torn between being a good boy and ripping apart anything in front of me, but good no longer exists in me.

I study the text again. Adam was born into the Exodus. He's a pampered little shit stain, and I can't fucking stand him. In my position, however, I don't get to pick my friends. When Adam decided he wanted to be pals, I had to grin and pretend I wasn't dying inside.

He's not here to see my face as I climb into my car, so I don't have to fake the emotion with my body. My reply, however, needs to match his enthusiasm.

Hell yes!

I wipe my face and look into the rearview mirror. Life has been washed from my haunted gray eyes. Black hair falls over my forehead, but I blow it away on an exhale. I raise my sleeve as I stare at two dozen scars racing up and down my arm, crossing through my tattoos. I mark myself with pain after each slaying. Each scar represents a person I've killed since being turned into a henchman.

The self-inflicted cuts began as a prayer of apology to God, a way to put my emotional pain into a physical state. But the last few gashes? They were whispers of thanks to the devil. This is who I am now. The guilt is gone, which makes me feel like an animal instead of a human being.

That's what they've always wanted anyway. I'm the living embodiment of their goal. I'm their unquestioning killer.

The Exodus' hit list burns a hole in my pocket. The names of those they want eliminated during the ten-hour party. While they're fucking each other and having a grand time in the cabin, I'll do their dirty work and return to them with some kind of party favor.

A human taken against their will, much like I once was.

I make the drive back to my house, then head to my closet to make sure the entirety of my outfit is presentable. I'm not wearing a full suit; that's more common for the elders. Adam and I will likely wear the same thing: our suit pants and a black dress shirt. Black on black on black. Something that blends in with the night.

I pull the pressed slacks and shirt from the garment bag and hang them in my closet. My rabbit hops into my room and thumps his massive feet. He's a Flemish giant, and he has free range of my house. I reach down and stroke his dense black coat. He's dark enough to blend in with our outfits.

"Hey, Petey," I say as I rub his giant ears.

Call me a monster any other time of day, but I'm soft once you sit me down with this fucking animal. He was a meat rabbit, destined for slaughter, but I stole him from a pen at a farm, and I have zero regrets about it. God will shun me for everything I've done in the last decade, but maybe this rabbit and I can give him a little smile before he sends me off to hell.

"I'll be back late tonight. Don't wait up," I tell Petey, as if he can understand me.

I won't be home until after the ten-hour reckoning is over. Maybe later if I linger at the party so that I can fuck something other than my hand for a change.

I go and shower so I can wash off any guilt that may try to rear its ugly head. I'm not allowed to feel such things. It's a weakness—a sign that I'm failing at what my life has become. This monster is who I am now. There's no option to be someone else. There's no way to let the old me return. He's dead.

And I'm dead if I ever try to revive him.