Page 4 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

What is it about this kid, Hunter, that caught the Baron King’s eye? I don’t know much about him, myself. Just that he works the night shift at WXFU and has a stack of engineering books on his desk. There must be something else, right?

And then there’s Armand. By the way, what kind of fucking name is Armand?

A rich kid's name, that’s what. His clothes.

His posture. His entitled, snobby attitude.

The air of contempt at anyone who crosses his path.

Privilege. That’s the word I’d like to tattoo on his forehead.

Privileged Fuck Boy. Is that what bought him the golden ticket or is there something else lurking under all that entitlement?

The three of us arrived at the Baron’s house on the same day.

Suitcases, backpacks, and in Hunter’s case, a cardboard box, and a dog at his feet.

We went to classes during the day, studied our pledge books, and fulfilled our personal obligations.

Hunter left several nights a week for the radio station, where his smooth voice carried over the airways.

Armand woke up early in the morning to work out with the rowing crew.

I continued hustling on the side, taking on piercing clients.

During all of this, we never saw the Baron King. Our pledge period was overseen by the two former Barons. Two, not three, the third’s whereabouts were unmentioned. These men are smart, loyal, trusted to slowly hand over tasks, or really, what I see now they really were– tests .

Tonight we find out if we passed or failed. Will we be given the role of leadership? Be the hands of the King? Or will we be cut loose and banished, a failure to Forsyth?

That is what waits on the other side of the metal bars, and if we succeed, we’ll participate in the Barons’ most coveted event:

The Hunt.

Shadows don’t speak.

“Finally,” Hunter says when the gate finally opens.

I lift my chin, allowing Hunter to go out of the tunnel first. He steps into the night and pauses, taking a long look at the man releasing us.

He’s wearing a long black cloak with a hood shadowing his face.

Well, not his face, it seems. The mask, black like the rest of his clothes–gloves and boots included.

Unfeatured other than slits for the eyes and nose.

Flickering torchlight guides the five of us to a clearing, a circle made of stone. Our brothers stand around the edge, dressed identically to the two that brought us here. Faceless. Nameless. The only color is a bronze circular clasp at the neck, a pentagram holding their cloak in place.

It strikes me how different the Barons are from the other fraternities.

The Lords are chosen by points, a game played amongst one another, against everyone.

The Dukes take it to the ring, in front of a crowd.

To the victor and all that shit. And for fuck’s sake, the Princes.

It’s just one giant spectacle for everyone to see and most of all, talk about.

But the Barons? We’re initiated under the cloak of night. In the shadows by Shadows. It’s isolated, secretive, and now that I’m here, I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake.

“The King awaits,” a faceless Shadow finally speaks. “You may approach the throne.”

Throne?

Across the circle, the Shadows part, revealing an extension of the circle, and the massive throne on the other side of an obsidian altar.

The firelight shifts across the throne and the material it’s made of, welded pieces of jagged iron.

I see them for what they are: instruments of death, or really, the tools of power.

It’s impressive, but all eyes are on the man sitting in the seat.

The Baron King.

Even though we’ve been initiated into brN, this is the first time we’ve been in his presence.

He’s dressed in a thick black cloak with a hood that covers his head.

Underneath is a black suit. The firelight shines over the toes of his oil-colored wingtips.

His hand rests casually on the arm of the throne, a gold ring glinting on his finger.

But it’s his mask that draws every bit of my attention.

It bears none of the non-descript markings of the Shadows’ masks.

Cast in bronze, the sides mimic sharp cheekbones and the hard line of his jaw.

The forehead splits into two pointed horns while the mouth is curved into a permanent line, giving away nothing, yet holding all the cards.

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–this King –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. We are 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 guilty and innocent.”

“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 voice that 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.