Chapter 4

L ive music streams from the main room, but it’s all pretentious to me. Orgies, live acrobatics, and a fight club. Sacrificed humans suspended from the roof and bled into tiered champagne glasses. Unnecessarily messy and unhygienic, if you ask me. I even saw a room where naked people were covered in body paint.

A shudder runs through me at the mere thought of messing up my freshly pressed Italian suit. No, thank you.

I turn away from the large window overlooking the trees outside and the cobblestone path leading to the entrance. My quick scan of the security footage on the computer screen reveals nothing out of the ordinary. A helpless woman is being nailed to the wall by a group of masked Disciples, another group of people are engaged in an orgy on the top floor in plain sight of anyone walking past, and Elijah—Sinclair’s son—is pressing the thumbprint scanner to unlock the torture room on the second floor. I eye his offering—a young lady unlucky enough to have caught the eye of Sinclair’s sadistic offspring. I don’t feel sorry for her because that would require empathy, and my black heart has no room for such pesky things as emotions.

I’m circulating through the numerous security cameras when the door opens, and Sinclair walks in, nursing a tumbler of whiskey. “I always knew you were a bore,” he says, “but even back in our Harvard days, you used to be more fun than this. Have you killed anyone tonight?”

I ignore him, clicking buttons. Sinclair is undeterred. Getting on my nerves is one of his favorite pastimes.

He parks his ass on my desk, disrupting my perfectly aligned pencils, and then because he can’t help himself, he lifts one of the spheres on my Newton’s cradle and releases it. I don’t even know why the fucking thing is there. The clinking sound reminds me of Captain Hook whenever he hears a clock ticking. That’s me now. Fighting an eye twitch while Sinclair grins like the devil.

“You didn’t bring an offering.” He tuts. “The Bishop will be displeased. You know I like you, Darian, but even I might have to bring the popcorn when he chops you into pieces for showing such contempt for our precious traditions.”

With a snort, I stop the pendulum from swinging. Ah! Blissful silence. Well, except for the ruckus outside my office. “I won’t lower myself to such”—I wave a hand at the door and the riot outside—“carnal urges.”

“Carnal urges?” He chuckles, sipping his whiskey.

“Besides,” I say, zooming in on the screen and searching the crowd of newcomers, “I have brought an offering.”

My statement sparks Sinclair’s curiosity. “You have? Who? Don’t tell me you have some poor, unsuspecting local tied up in your trunk like last time. Remember? You considered yourself above all this, so you kept the poor girl in there for hours until you had no choice but to present her or risk pissing off the Bishop. You basically tossed her at his feet and told her to gnaw off her own fingers or die.” Shaking his head, he laughs. “Underneath your crease-free suits, obsessive desire to remain in control, and inability to smile, is a pure-bred psychopath.”

“Done with the dramatics yet?” I ask, checking the security camera in the next room. She’s around somewhere. The security intel I put on her yesterday told me she was en route here, which was such a pleasant surprise after I was preparing to go through the effort of hunting her down myself. “And no, she’s not tied up in the car.” As I turn the screen, Sinclair studies it, and I point to a woman in an animal mask in the corner of the room. “Looks like my little cougar is about to start a war.”

I better intercept before she opens fire on the Exodus members and gets herself killed. No one lays a finger on her except for me. No one else gets to watch the life drain out of her big eyes.

“Is that Miss van der Meer? Wow. I don’t know…” Sinclair says, not even attempting to tame the amusement in his voice. “Seems a little stalkerish, don’t you think? The unattainable Darian Delacroix gives in to his carnal urges once, and now she’s back for seconds.” The ice clinks in his tumbler when he inhales the last of the whiskey. “You must give good head if she’s willing to traipse into the lions’ den. I’m proud of you.” He claps my shoulder. “She’s even gone to great lengths to blend in. Who’s the inside spy that provided her with member masks? I bet she even has a chip in her neck to gain entry.”

I’m smirking, unable to tear my eyes from the screen as she flips her blonde locks and scans the crowd. “We’re about to find out. Now, if you excuse me.” I straighten up and smooth my tie before opening the drawer and removing my warthog mask. My pulse heightens seeing it.

Ever since I laid eyes on van der Meer sneaking around the cottage—looking as inconspicuous as a drunk pirate in a jewelry store—I’ve salivated for the hunt, which is a first. Sinclair is right—in previous Reckonings, I’ve simply plucked someone off the street, tied them up, and left them in the trunk until it was time to present them to the Bishop or whoever else cared enough. The offerings are an inconvenience, but tradition requires us to bring one, so I have no choice but to comply.

Tonight is different. The Bishop must not under any circumstances find out who Cecilia is. I’ll have to present her to my most loyal and trusted friends amongst the Elders—members I know won’t blabber.

A sliver of excitement zaps through me at the security footage. I bet my CEO position that van der Meer’s creamy thighs beneath that silk skirt sport more weapons than the local dealer’s shop. My dick sure likes that thought.

I glance down at my growing bulge, confused by my reproductive organs’ eagerness to engage in procreation. Sex is yet another inconvenience and a weakness. I put up with my secretary, Miss Sanders, for precisely fifteen minutes on Monday mornings at 10 a.m. when she sidles in on her knees between me and the desk to service my needs. But even then, I curse my body for requiring such a release. So color me intrigued when Miss van der Meer waltzed into my territory with no care in the world for her own safety.

She’s a dangerous vixen who needs to be eliminated. I, Darian Delacroix, refuse to drop my guard for women. Yesterday’s incident was a temporary lapse of sanity, but it won’t happen again. I’ll eliminate the threat before the Exodus finds her.

“Are you staring at your dick?” Sinclair’s smooth whiskey voice drags me back from the black hole that seems to be my racing thoughts.

Flustered, I clear my throat, while my eldest friend snickers into his tumbler. He tips it back and proceeds to crunch on the ice.

He really is a wild boar in a jungle. With a shake of my head, I reach for my suit jacket on the back of my chair and then slide it on. “Where’s your offering?”

Sinclair winks. “Don’t you worry, my friend. She’s well taken care of.”

“You wouldn’t know how to look after a houseplant.” I sail past him, sliding my mask over my face and typing a quick command to my security.

Darian Delacroix: Bring them in. Not a scratch. Leave Miss van der Meer.

“Remember what I said about pulling her hair when you fuck her,” Sinclair calls out behind me when I open the door. He puts the tumbler on the desk. “You might as well give me the keys to your Bugatti now.”

Sinclair pulls on his own mask and follows me out of the room. I ignore his persistent presence as I pause on the second-floor balcony overlooking the open space below. I spot her immediately, surveying the crowd and checking out her first targets. I like that she’s not irrational. She calculates and takes her sweet time.

“She’s a stunner,” Sinclair says beside me. “No wonder why you shoved Jesus aside to let your dick take the steering wheel yesterday. You better bring her in before the others find out she’s here and inform the Bishop.”

I shoo him away, making him laugh as he strolls off on the hunt for someone to beat to death with his bare fists. Unlike me, he doesn’t mind blood splatter on his suit.

I refocus on the stunning blonde with sharp eyes taking in her surroundings. Her black dress hugs every curve.

A quick sweep of the crowd confirms my suspicions; I’m not the only male in the room who undresses her with their eyes.

An irrational spike of possessiveness courses through me. I’m white knuckling the banister when a masked man in a suit walks past behind me, dragging a crying, naked woman by her hair.

Stepping back, I merge effortlessly with the shadows, watching him haul her up and throw her over the banister. Screams erupt below as she slams into the gyrating crowds, and then he walks past me in a black mask.

A Pawn.

I’m not even surprised. Members that far down in the ranks often behave like wild animals.

Our eyes meet, and he inclines his head as a sign of respect. I sneer, disgusted with the lack of self-control he showcased when he threw that woman over the banister. While it’s a night where lawlessness is expected and even celebrated, it brings forth the weak.

I whistle for him to stop, and he draws to a halt, glancing over his shoulder. I gesture impatiently, and the moment he turns, I remove the gun from my inside pocket and plant a bullet in his heart. He drops like a sack of potatoes, clutching his bleeding chest, crimson pouring from between his fingers.

I pocket the gun and then walk past, cursing the single blood fleck on my cuff, though my annoyance doesn’t last long because halfway down the winding staircase, I catch sight of her again. She’s ethereally beautiful and a regal queen in her own right. Her mother was a vision, but Cecilia van der Meer is more than beautiful. It would be an insult to call her something so trivial. Cecilia is a weapon to bring down men like myself, and my own weakness, where she is concerned, must be destroyed.