Page 7

It’s then that I realize we’re the only ones without a mask. Everyone knows who we are. They’ll know exactly who succeeded and failed.

The King stands and the men around me kneel. I do the same, as do Armand and Hunter.

“Welcome, my Shadows, new and old.” His voice is loud–strong–carrying over the small gathering. “Tonight is a night of tradition. Of declaration and fealty. If you doubt, state it now, because once the clock strikes twelve, there is no turning back.”

The air falls quiet. Nothing but crickets and the rustle of leaves.

I’m enraptured, unable to leave even if I wanted to. This man–thisKing–the power that drips from his very presence is intoxicating.

His gaze falls to the three of us kneeling in the center of the pentagram. “A traitor worked his way into my kingdom last year and the consequences… were unfortunate. I can not allow disloyalty, not just for my safety, but for yours. For all of Forsyth, because the city, the entire royal system, is under attack. Weare in a time of upheaval and rebellion, and while the Royals fight their petty battles, skirmishes over territory, narcotics, and guns, the bodies continue to fall. Women, our most prized, continue to go missing. Fingers are pointed,” he clasps his hands behind his back, “at the guiltyandinnocent.”

“Because of those trials, I have a mission. One that influenced my choices for leadership. Each year I comb through the population of Forsyth for the most capable men to serve me and to lead Beta Rho.” He gestures and two of his Shadows step forward. One holding a cup. The other a sheathed knife. “Forsyth is ripe with history and tradition. These ceremonial objects go back to the beginning of our organization. To our very foundation.”

The Shadows set the cup and knife on the altar and step back. The cup–really a chalice, is grayish white, with ornate designs, carved elegantly on the surface. The stem is thick, the bottom is rounded where it meets the base. I stare at it a moment longer than I need to, the time it takes for me to realize it’s made of bone.

“The three of you have been chosen for your specific attributes, for the needs of my kingdom. For the needs of Forsyth. We will put an end to the decay rotting in the soil, infecting every seedling, poisoning our very existence. As Barons, we embrace death, but we respect life. Someone, something, out there is threatening our people and it must end.”

He grabs the knife and slowly removes the sheath. The handle, revealed in the light of the torches, is also made of the same substance as the chalice–carved bone. The blade is sharp, with a jagged edge, and just below the blade an ornate carving flares out before curving downward, as if to protect the thumb.

Sweat rises like pin pricks on my neck.

The scar on my throat itches, like it’s been set on fire.

In a swift move, he holds the point against his scarred palm. “From blood to blood, a Baron is born. We live in the shadows, listening, waiting, observing, until we become one with the darkness. We do not fear death. We do not take life. We usher the fallen through the veil.”

My breath hitches when he slices the tip of the blade down the thick, scarred flesh, a signal he’s done this over and over again, sacrificing himself for Beta Rho. For Forsyth. Blood comes to the surface and then slowly slides down his hand. The chalice is placed beneath it, a vessel to hold the blood.

We’re silent as the blood fills the cup, and as he holds his hand up, another Shadow steps forward to wrap his hand in a strip of black cloth. Otherwise, it’s quiet as a tomb, nothing but the flickering lights and sounds of the forest. I take it all in, every last moment, including when he steps in front of Armand and demands, “Repeat the oath.”

Armand swallows, and for a second I worry he didn’t do his studies. He fucked around and failed to memorize the details in the pledge book. Memorization comes easy to me: words, facts, history. But he takes a deep breath and begins, “I, Armand Joseph Stein, give my fealty and oath to you, the Baron King, to my brothers, the Shadows, and to the souls of Forsyth.” The King hands him the blade. Armand takes the point and presses it into his smooth flesh. He doesn’t disguise the wince, but there’s no hesitation as he pulls the blade across until blood rises. “From blood to blood, a Baron is born. Tonight, I am born anew, at your service, loyal to your command.” The cup is lowered under Armand’s clenched fist. Blood flows into the cup. “If my oath is broken, my loyalty compromised, I will suffer the consequences.”

The process continues, the blade is cleaned, and Armand’s wound is wrapped in a strip of black. The King moves before Hunter, who quickly repeats the oath in that low, raspy voicethat has lulled many of us to sleep after a late night. I watch Hunter move quickly–decisively–stabbing in the point of the knife and slicing it across his palm. I try to loosen the tight muscle at the back of my jaw, and take a breath, but I can’t take my eyes off the blade.

Licking the ring at the corner of my mouth, I catch the scent of sweat, metal, and copper. Steel and blood. It’s as familiar as my own skin.

When the King stands before me, it’s like everything else vanishes. The Shadows in my peripheral. The torchlight dims. Armand and Hunter no longer exist. It’s me, the King, and this blade.

“Repeat the Oath.”

“I, Damon Anthony Kemp, give my fealty and oath to you, the Baron King, to my brothers, the Shadows, and to the souls of Forsyth.” My blood hums as I reach for the bone handle, surprised and impressed by the weight. The handle is smooth, like a hundred hands have worn it down over time. I feel the surge pulsing through me. The compulsion and want. I don’t want to rush. I like to savor it. Make it my own.

Parting my lips, I press the tip of the blade just under the base of my index finger, applying the right amount of pressure. A bead of blood surfaces and I drag down, from one end to the other, peeling away the skin. It stings. Sharp, like a bite.

“From blood to blood, a Baron is born. Tonight, I am born anew, at your service, loyal to your command.” I make a fist, feel the warm slick blood coat my palm, and watch my blood drip into the cup, mixing with the others. I notice that the inside is stained from other years, other oaths. I lift my chin and look the King in his dark green eyes. It’s the only part of his body that is visible. When our gazes meet I feel a connection in the moment. “If my oath is broken, my loyalty compromised, I will suffer the consequences.”

The Baron King takes the knife from me and stands before us. “From blood to blood,” he repeats, lifting the chalice into the air. He steps toward Armand and dips his fingers into the cup, pulling them out coated in blood. He touches Armand’s forehead, wiping a bloody mark on his flesh. The pentagram. He does the same to Hunter, and then to me. The blood is warm. The scent nauseating. I feel as if the blood has been burned into my skin.

“Rise! With this mark, my blood becomes yours, making you worthy of participating in this hunt, the final task to claim the title.” He waves forward three men. “Prepare your leaders for the hunt.”

I sense someone behind me, moments before he wraps the cloth over my nose and mouth. Glancing sideways, I see Armand and Hunter, their faces covered the same way. There’s a design over the mouth, the imprint of teeth and bone. I assume mine is the same.

“Every hunter must be stealthy, but also armed,” the King announces. “You will each take one weapon with you.”

He steps before Armand and hands him the bone-handled knife.

“I’ll use it well,” Armand says, running his fingers down the carving.

The King shifts his focus to me, and jerks his chin at one of the Shadows. He walks out with my bow. It’s black. Sleek and deadly.