Page 3 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

D amon

The passage looms ahead, long and dank, our boots heavy on the stone floor. The walls are the same, one rock built on top of the other. The ceilings are low, so much at times that I have to duck my head.

There’s only one question that circles through my mind as I follow the lit torches mounted on the wall: How the fuck did I get here?

There’s something about the way the shadows creep in, the flickering light making the walls and ceiling seem to narrow and tighten.

My shoulders tense. Like I’m carrying a weight.

I don’t know if it’s the dead buried in these walls.

Or maybe it’s just the secrets wedged in between every rock, every grain of mortar.

Or if it’s why we're here tonight.

We reach the end of the hall, coming to a metal grate covering the exit. A cool breeze wafts through the gaps. The smell of the forest on the other side. My sense of direction is shit, but I know we’re on Baron land, in the forest that splays out between the crypt and the river.

“These tunnels run all over the city.” It’s the first time Hunter has spoken all night.

Bending, he reties the laces on his boot.

“They’re part of an elaborate system of catacombs, evacuation routes, facility management, and secret passages that have been overtaken and expanded by the territories in Forsyth to assist in the drug, gun, flesh, and death trade. ”

When he straightens, I get a better view of the tattoos creeping up his neck, rising above the collar like they’re trying to escape. His pale eyes, the light blue even more translucent in the torch light. It’s hard to tell in the dark clothing, but he’s fit. Lean but strong.

“Any idea how long this is going to take?” he asks.

Armand tilts his head, trying to get a look out the bars.

“No fucking clue, but I’m going to be pissed if we’re in here for too long.

” He sniffs, then waves a hand across his face.

The movement draws my eyes to the onyx cufflinks securing the cuffs of his button-down shirt.

“It stinks in here. Thank god you didn’t bring your stupid mutt with you. ”

Although I agree about the dog, I don’t say anything.

Ares, Hunter’s dog, goes everywhere with him.

He’s a cool dog. Smart, although a little skittish, with a brindle reddish-brown and black striped coat, and a goofy underbite.

I figured he’d bring him with us tonight, but when the time came for us to leave, he gave the dog a chew toy and left him in the room.

I fight the urge to tug at my collar and take a shaky breath.

Armand’s gaze flicks to my throat, to the jagged scar.

He wants to ask. It’s visibly killing him not to.

But judging from the cufflinks and aristocratic slant of his nose, he’s been raised too polite to ask.

Probably beaten into him on some shiny, polished, living room floor.

Instead, he says, “I’ve heard about you.”

“Yeah?” It’s the distraction I need. “How so?”

He touches his eyebrow, then lip. “That if you want to get something pierced in Forsyth you’re the man to go to.”

I shrug, tongue touching the labret piercing on my lip. “I work a few hours a week. Mostly house calls.”

Personal houses, frat houses, the whorehouse. I’m not picky, but he’s right, I’m good.

“I’ve been thinking about getting one of those, you know,” he grins, cocky and sure, and grabs the front of his pressed pants. “Prince Albert.”

“That would fit.” Hunter snorts. “With you being East End and everything.”

“My mother is East End,” he sneers with the cocky arrogance of privilege. “I’m a free agent.”

Armand is the kind of guy that rumors and gossip follow around like a fan chasing a teen heartthrob.

Being a piercer is akin to being a bartender or hairstylist. People get nervous around needles and then get chatty as fuck.

They love to talk while we’re working and the wayward Prince has been brought up more than once.

Hunter’s right. Armand’s East End all right. Born and raised. But he vanished for a bit, sent out of the country or something by his rich parents, presumably to cover up something. That’s the detail no one is sure about. Drugs? Assault? Something worse?

Honestly, I don’t give a shit. Not about him, or Hunter, or the dog.

Well, the dog is okay. Right now I’m just reminding myself that there’s enough air.

Enough room. It’s temporary. This isn’t the first time I’ve been caged up in a room with other men that I don’t know, but the circumstances are very fucking different.

I lean against the wall, stone cold and wet behind me, and try not to think about how deep underground we are. How long it might be. How the fuck I got here in the first place.

Not here- here–not just the tomb vibes and damp socks. I mean here . Forsyth. This tunnel. These freaks. This… second chance.

Because none of this was supposed to happen.

Back when I was a freshman, I was normal.

Or trying to be after years of trouble. Forsyth U, class of god-knows-what.

I lived in a dorm like everyone else. My roommate?

Remy fucking Maddox. Son of one of the richest men in Forsyth.

He talked in riddles and painted like he was haunted.

We got along, sort of. He’d zone out with charcoal under his fingernails, I’d make grilled cheese on an illegal hot plate.

We bonded over late-night noise and the fact neither of us really fit in.

He’s the one that pulled me toward DKS. Not on purpose. I don’t think Remy pulls anyone. He just drifts, and you either get caught in his wake or you don’t.

I got close. Rushed. Went to the Fury. Saw some shit.

But something about it–it didn’t sit right.

Not the way Saul Cartwright watched me like I was dirt under his fingernails.

I wasn’t legacy. I had no royal connection.

To him I would be nothing but a gunrunner–expendable.

So I backed out. Dipped before I got the brand or whatever it was they were planning.

Then I got locked up.

It wasn’t even a glamorous charge. Dumb mistake, second offense. They gave me twenty-four months. A long time to be nobody.

But inside, I did what I was supposed to. Kept my head down. Took classes. Punched through credits like they were drywall. They had this weird program–some partnership with Forsyth, some rehab-through-education shit. I passed every test.

I didn’t think it’d matter. I figured I’d ride it out, maybe knock a few months off if I stayed clean.

Then outta nowhere, a guard pulls me aside and says, “You’ve got a benefactor.”

I thought it was a joke. Or a setup. But the paperwork was real. Someone anonymous was willing to cut my sentence down to 72 days. Not months. Days . On one condition: I had to re-enroll full time at Forsyth U.

I didn’t ask questions. I signed whatever they put in front of me. What the fuck else was I gonna do? There’s no pussy in prison.

The black envelope showed up on my doorstep–the shitty efficiency I lived in just off the Avenue. It was late summer, the week before classes started. The handwriting on the envelope was in bronze, my name handwritten in fancy script:

Damon Anthony Kemp

On the back, a thick glob of bronze-colored wax, a raised pentagram, announcing the sender.

The Barons.

I’d glanced over my shoulders, making sure that no one was watching. There was someone, but it was just Old Lady McAfee chain-smoking on the steps while she played a game on her phone.

Still, I didn’t open it until I was inside, using a knife to loosen the wax seal. I’d be a fucking liar if I pretended like the contents didn’t shock me.

Damon Anthony Kemp,

You have been invited to rush Beta Rho Zeta for the fall semester.

August 30th, Midnight

Forsyth Cemetery

Plot #112

Memento Mori

I’d considered bailing. Was this really something I needed?

Outside of protection in the Pen, I wasn’t much of a joiner.

That’s pretty much why I bailed on DKS. But this invitation…

it didn’t seem like a request. More of a command.

Plus, I was curious. Who wouldn’t be? An invite to the most exclusive frat in Forsyth? The most dangerous?

Hell, I kind of just wanted to see where the bodies were buried.

I’d shown up, one of a couple dozen, including the two with me right now, who seemed just as surprised to find that it was an interview under the guise of being a party.

We ate, drank, and bullshitted one another until the sun came up.

I’d woken up, face down in the dew-covered grass, lying next to a hundred-year-old gravestone.

I was nursing one hell of a hangover and ready to swear off frat life for good.

That day another envelope was on my doorstep instructing me to come back again that night.

Same for the next day, then the next. It wasn’t just parties, although there was plenty of debauchery in the form of free-flowing booze and sexy crypt chasers dressed in black, all wanting the first crack at the new recruits.

But there was something else just under the surface. Individually, we’d been tested. Academically. Physically. Mentally. We’d been asked to prove our skills, our prowess. To challenge our fears.

After seven days, I received the final envelope.

An official invitation to join brN.

I went from living alone in my shitty apartment to being surrounded by an entire fraternity of men who are now my brothers. Men who have all taken the same oath, sworn our fealty to the Baron King.

Except, we are not all equal. Three of us have been chosen for attributes that only he understands. To wear the mark. To deliver it.

I’ve wondered about this a million times over the last few weeks. What did he see in me during the recruitment phase that made me different? Some kind of excellence that I don’t see myself?