Page 2 of Beasts of Shadows #1

The predatory gaze of a boy in the column beside me slithers up my spine. I turn, noting floppy blue-black curls atop his pale head and penetrating ocean eyes. This still scrawny kid, no older than fifteen, reeks of power. It pulsates around him in waves.

I count myself a tough chick, despite my rich girl upbringing. But even I swallow hard as he lewdly draws his tongue over his impish lips.

“For others, it was your choice. A choice that I hope will pay off in the end.”

I return my attention back to the podium, thankful to have something else to focus on.

“To everyone here today, the gods appreciate your cooperation and, for some, your sacrifice.” Those calculating eyes survey us mortals with feigned empathy.

“Be grateful in knowing that, should you die today, the bounty of your blood, flesh, and souls will not be wasted. Spilled life, both mortal and divine, summoned this island into existence, and spilled life is required to keep it afloat. Safe. Your flesh will feed our hungry forces. Your souls, if deemed pure of heart, will find a reprieve from pain in the realm of Elysian.”

She conveniently leaves off the eternal damnation for souls deemed too damaged. Not that I really understand the criteria a soul is judged against. Questions about life after death never really came up at our house. Dad just said, “Enjoy the life you have.”

Myself? I’m convinced that there is no happily ever afterlife. Whatever force or power gives us life is just devoured by the gods.

“Anyone who makes it through the evening’s assessment will take their first steps toward being worthy of blessings.”

I tune back in, blinking roughly at the speaker. It’s getting darker now. The raging sun will disappear completely in seconds. The energy around me shifts. It’s so heavy, I can taste it. Like drinking honey, but someone is holding you down and forcing you to drink the whole bottle at once.

Again, I pat my thigh. I’m alert. I’m ready. I won’t be caught off-guard.

I’ve killed before, and I’m not afraid to do it again.

“Are you ready?”

The final rays of light extinguish, plunging the field into pitch black. There are no stadium lights, leaving the full moon our only source of guidance. A whoosh of air slides from the pit of my diaphragm. Then…

A flash of red takes my vision, and I double over, clutching my belly. Blood. There will be so much blood .

Something is wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.

“ Go !”

I have long enough to frown with confusion before the shades descend upon us. Those closest to their ranks are immediately taken down and brutally torn apart. Body parts are flying. People are screaming.

And I’m still bent over, trying to catch my breath.

The boy locks eyes with me and grins, making his way in my direction.

Get up.

The voice is not my own. Nor do I control my spine as it jerks upright. Oh gods, I’m going to be sick. Something is in my head. Something is in my head, and I cannot move my body, and—.

Run .

My feet obey, burning rubber across the open field. I don’t bother looking back, although my gaze catches on the bleachers, where students are hooting and hollering. I cannot hear their catcalls over the pumping in my head, but I can see their lips moving.

And there, on the edge of the bleachers, watching the bloodshed, is a familiar figure.

He stands like sin dressed in silk—lean, deliberate, too beautiful to be anything human.

His midnight hair is slicked back from his face, still damp like he’s just walked through a storm.

Shadows catch on his cheekbones, carve along his jaw like they were born to worship him.

And his eyes—gods, his eyes—hooded and unreadable, pin me in place without lifting a finger.

He wears black like a warning. His jacket hangs open just enough to look careless, but I know better. Nothing about him is careless. Everything is intentional—down to the slow, liquid way he moves, like he’s dragging the night behind him.

There’s a quiet confidence in him, the kind that makes people confess things they shouldn’t. I see it in the way he watches the field without speaking; in the curve of his mouth that always looks like it’s hiding something sharp.

He’s not just beautiful. He’s dangerous. The kind of dangerous that doesn’t shout—it waits. It listens. It decides whether or not you’re worth the risk.

And I was worth the risk. Once. Not that it did him any good.

He looks different from the last time we saw each other. Older, bigger.

But there’s no denying it’s Ravik Nayres.

How ? Ravi’s dead .

He lifts one dark brow into his sun-kissed forehead. I know that look. It’s the same challenging eye he gave me when he suggested we dine and dash at the Crawford Cafe.

This has to be a vision. Either an old memory, manifesting itself to redirect my mind from what I know is about to happen, or some kind of psychological warning.

Am I going to wind up like him tonight?

But why does he look so different ?

I stagger, then trip completely. The split second motion is enough to save me from the launching form of a wendigo.

It brings down the girl beside me, her Athena chain ripped out of her bloodied hand.

Eyes round, I spot the blue-haired boy shoving people out of his way.

His strut is patient. Purposeful. The only hint of aggression is the gleam in his seafoam eyes and the fierce way he dances around the massacre.

There’s something hypnotic about his movements.

As much as I tell my limbs to get back up and run, I cannot look away.

Is he doing this? Is this part of the game to him? Is he powerful enough to paralyze me with a stare? What kind of creature can do that?

Get your ass up, Nari.

I don’t know why this disembodied voice is talking to me. But it’s enough to break the spell.

Dragging my fingers through the grass, I slip only a bit on something sticky and slick that I refuse to name. When my pursuer sees me trying to leave, he grins and slows, offering a wide enough berth that clearly says, “Run. If you can.”

My breath catches.

I get to my feet.

I tear out of the field, ignorant of the massacre behind me.

What the actual fuck?