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Chapter Five: Rowan

Through the winding hills of Senna, far away from the city’s noise and nestled deep in the thick pine forests that loom over the roads on the outskirts of the city sits our family home.

I drive through the wrought-iron gates, passing through the intimidating sharp spires and the armed guards who give me casual salutes as I pass by.

The grounds are vast, acres of green land that stretch into the forest and a man-made large pond in the back garden. It should be the picture of familial bliss, but there are no happy memories here.

Zaina and Jonathan Vasilyev have never been parents. They are more army sergeants who send us out on missions and if you fail, you are pushed down the pecking order. When we were children, failure meant a good whipping. Now it means being an outcast. I’d take the whipping over the iciness my mother reserves especially for me these days.

I park my car next to Xander’s expensive motorbike and take in a quiet breath, trying to calm the ache that has been present behind my eyes for a week now. I know I need to sleep, but I can’t miss the monthly dinner my parents insist upon. It’s tradition and there is nothing more important than tradition in this family.

Last night didn’t go how I was hoping it would. I wanted to get to dinner tonight with an answer for Hayden and show mymother that I stopped something bad before it could happen, but Trist is smarter than I expected, and I played right into his hands.

He was right, too. It’s worth more for him to protect whoever is supplying him with Haze. The more popular it becomes, the more money he stands to make, especially if he’s one of the only sellers. Us interfering wouldn’t do him any favours.

And then there is Alex. The way he looked—

“Mr. Vasilyev,” one of my mother’s guards says from the door, interrupting my thoughts as I walk up to the house. He has a black rifle in his hands. I hardly notice it. Men with guns were a common fixture growing up.

“It’s good to see you, Sir. Your mother is asking you to join her in her study.”

I pause in my steps. My mother wanting to ‘speak’ is never a good sign. I try to think what I could have done wrong in the last few weeks I haven’t seen her. Could she know about Alex? About our little trip to Canning? Did one of the guards tell her? That can’t be possible. I’ve been careful.

“Thanks,” I say, walking up to the front door and stepping into the large foyer. The house is an old Victorian, all antique hardwood floors with pieces of furniture and art on the walls that costs millions. The familiar scent of home fills my nose, but it does nothing to calm me. If anything, I’m on high alert, ready to be berated or quizzed on the structure of The Snake and how to command an army.

I make my way up the stairs, ignoring my father’s deep voice from somewhere in the house. Family portraits through the years line the walls. We all stare into the camera without smiling, dressed in stuffy suits, no hair out of place.

Hayden is the oldest by two years and Xander only a year. Our mother popped all three of us out in quick succession. That’s her style, quick and dirty. No time to waste.

The final portrait as you get to the second-floor landing is a black-and-white picture of my mother. She has her back to the camera, icy blond hair pulled to the side and her head slightly turned so she looks back over her shoulder. Two serpents span her delicate back, crossing each other and forming one lethal beast.

She got the tattoos when she had just turned twenty-seven, the day she became The Head of The Snake after all her siblings mysteriously died in a fire. She looks as beautiful as she is lethal and if I somehow manage to follow her footsteps someday, I’ll have the second serpent etched into my skin during a ceremony called The Ritual.

I tear my gaze away from the portrait and make my way to my mother’s study. The door is open, and she sits behind her desk, looking down at something, a slight frown on her face. She looks just like Hayden with white, blond hair that is tied back in a chignon and bright eyes that somehow don’t match the severity of the rest of her face. Her frame is thin, and wrinkles are beginning to show up on her skin to mark her age, but she is still just as formidable as she was in that picture.

“Rowan,” she says, cooly. “Good, you’re here. I wanted to speak with you before dinner.”

I pause at the threshold. “Is everything okay?”

She closes whatever she was reading and holds it out to me. When I go over and open the folder, I’m greeted by an image that makes my stomach roll with nausea. It’s a picture of a man lying on a concrete floor, his skin a sickly yellow and green, face bloated and lips white with dryness.

“What the fuck?” I breathe, looking at my mother, who is watching me carefully.

“What the fuck indeed,” she murmurs cooly.

I stare back at the pictures, trying to identify the man, but with his faces so bloated, it’s nearly impossible to make out hisnormal features except the brown of his skin and the cropped black hair.

I’ve grown up around death—I’vekilledpeople, but the bodies have never stuck around long enough for them to decompose in front of me. I can almost smell the stench of them from the pictures.

“He was found in the warehouse in Sying,” my mother says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “First suspicion was that someone else did this to him, but they checked the cameras, and no one came in or out and was unaccounted for.”

My stomach falls because I know what it is immediately. The rapid decomposition after only a few hours points to one thing.

Haze.

If it’s in our warehouse and being exchanged amongst our men, we’re all fucked.

My mother continues before I can say anything. “Another strange thing. It was only a window of five hours between the last time the cameras picked him up and when he was found. Whatever caused this also caused rapid decomposition.”