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Chapter Thirty-Two
TRISTAN
We are down by three runs. How the fuck are we down by three to the New York Wildcats? They are the second to last worst team in the league. How the fuck are we losing to these assholes?
Spencer and Davis aren’t on the same fucking page.
When the pitcher shakes off every pitch the catcher is calling for, and throws what he wants, it’s bound to give up hits.
Then everyone else has forgotten how to throw the ball, catch it, or make a fucking out.
I swear every throw to Anderson at first has led to him jumping or having to stretch like fucking Armstrong.
But here we are, bottom of the ninth. Bases loaded, and Anderson is up to bat. We need to bring these runs in. We need a miracle Grand Slam.
The team is up on their feet here in the dugout. Spencer is icing his shoulder. I’ve been watching the closing pitcher, and he loves throwing to the inside.
“Psst. Anderson,” I call him over.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Inside. He will throw one outside and everything else is inside. He favors it. First one outside to catch you reaching. Then inside for the rest.” I nod to him.
“Thanks man.” Kayce rolls his shoulders and steps up to the plate. I can see him let out a long breath as he looks back at the catcher. And then he gives him a wink.
I chuckle because that is such a dick move. That is such a Kayce move.
He readies the bat, and the pitcher sets. The Wildcats’ pitcher looks over at the runner on third and quickly glances at the one on first. He winds up and throws outside.
“Strike!” the ump yells. Oh, did I mention this was also a reason we are down three runs? This umpire sucks a bag of dicks.
“Come on, blue! That was way outside the box!”
“Get some glasses! That wasn’t anywhere near the strike zone!”
The team yells out at the bad call. But I just watch Kayce. He turns toward the umpire and catcher and fake yawns, putting his hand up to his mouth. I let out a chuckle.
He’s egging them on.
He sets up at the plate again.
The pitcher waits for his catcher to give him the sign for what he’s going to throw and nods. He sets and looks over at third then back at the plate. He throws, and Anderson jumps back, the pitch almost hitting him.
“Strike two!” the umpire yells.
And Coach about loses his shit. He storms up toward the plate, and the umpire and him go at it. Coach sends a parting shot and walks back to the dugout, mumbling to himself.
Anderson turns toward the dugout and winks at me. This cocky son of a bitch. I see him turn and face the catcher and say something to him. The catcher flips off Anderson and shakes his head. Anderson gets himself set behind the plate.
I watch as the pitcher goes through his routine and throws.
The sound of the crack of the bat has my heart stopping.
I watch as the ball changes trajectory and flies in the direction of left field.
It slices through the air, and our eyes track it as it goes higher and higher.
Like the air is carrying it away from us.
My eyes widen as I watch it head toward the stands over left field. I hold my breath, praying it keeps going. The left fielder runs back, watching the ball as he goes. The ball starts to drop, and the left fielder jumps with his glove stretched out.
I swear the entire stadium has gone silent.
The ball sails right over the glove and into the stands, where fans fight over it. And the entire stadium erupts in cheers as Anderson rounds the bases after hitting a Grand fucking Slam.
Holy shit. I let out a breath. We just won by the skin of our teeth.
Anderson rounds third, and we all sprint out there to meet him at home. Someone brings the water jug, and after he crosses the base, the water gets dumped on him.
After all the high fives and handshakes, Kayce and I are walking back, and he gives me a sly smile.
“What did you say to the catcher?” I ask him.
“I called each pitch before it was coming down the plate. I said that I knew he was gonna throw the first one outside. Bam, outside. So, next pitch told him I knew it was coming inside. When I set up for the third pitch, I asked him if his pitcher actually knew how to throw straight over the plate. Or if he actually just sucked enough that he had to get lucky that the ump makes bad calls.”
“So, you suckered him into one over the plate.” I laugh.
“Right in my fucking wheelhouse.” Kayce grins a mile wide as he claps me on my shoulder.
When we make it back to the locker room, I take a seat on the bench in front of my stuff and let out a long breath. I roll my shoulders and try to release some of the tension from how stressful that game was.
We pulled it off, sure. But the bullshit between Spencer and Davis is starting to mess with the team. A self-fulfilling prophecy, so to speak.
Fuck, I’m so tense. I get up and start stripping off my gear. I need a hot shower and a massage. Maybe I should go see Asher about my arm. I wince as I move it around. It’s sore, and I think I pulled something when I was making a play at the bottom of the fifth.
Grabbing my phone, I head next door into the room where the trainers and Asher’s office are at. When I walk in, I see Asher talking with Drew and doing arm motions with him. They look a bit tense with their conversation. I slowly make my way toward them.
“You need to work your shit out with Cameron. It’s doing exactly what he said it would do.” Asher rubs Drew’s arm.
“It’s only happening because he isn’t communicating with me. He purposely called shitty pitches and set up in the wrong spots. He did this, not me!” Drew defends.
I let out a huff, and they both turn in my direction.
“If I have to hear it from you, I’m gonna lose it.” Drew shakes his head and tips it back, closing his eyes and letting out a groan.
“Maybe you should hear it from everyone,” Asher offers.
I stand there with my hands on my hips, not saying a word as I study the both of them. Neither of them is saying what they’re truly thinking.
They can’t let her leave.
We all think that. Well, all of us except Cam.
“Maybe there’s a way to set her up at her own place. You know, give the girl her own space.” Asher shrugs.
“She wants to go home, back in New York,” I grunt, running a hand down my face.
I hate it. Every bone in my body wants to pull her close and keep her safe. Yet the logical side of me knows that isn’t possible.
She doesn’t want to be here. We are keeping her here. Are we really any different than the asshole who kidnapped her? And that gets me thinking…
“Hey, have you heard from John?” I frown as I look at Drew.
He shakes his head. “Actually, no. Haven’t heard from him in weeks. Maybe he’s working a case or something.”
“But have you told him about Rae remembering things?” Asher presses.
He nods. “Yeah, messaged him. Called him and left voicemails. Even emailed him. But he’s been busy.” Drew bites his lip as he rubs the back of his neck.
“I wouldn’t think this would be something he would put off,” I say uneasily. He would want to break this case wide open. Find the guy who did this to her.
Something isn’t sitting right with me.
When I make it back to my locker, almost everyone is in the training rooms talking to press, or taking a shower. There are a few of us still in the locker room getting dressed.
Looking up at the top of my cubby, I see a black envelope. Instantly, I freeze. My throat tightens, and I can feel my heart race.
I pick it up and turn it over to see a skull on the front with the Latin phase Satanas Libertus Est.
Satan is freedom.
A chill runs down my spine. It’s the Society. The Black Skulls.
I swallow over the lump in my throat. They aren’t giving me a choice anymore. My father made that perfectly clear. I never wanted this. I can’t be part of this.
But I don’t have a choice.
I’m a dead man if I try to run.
* * *
The Black Skull Society’s dimly lit chamber, also known as The Pit, is a place where morality fades into the shadows and the air is thick with dread.
The walls are lined with ancient stone, darkened by soot and age, and adorned with macabre tapestries that depict the Society’s twisted history and the rites of initiation.
Flickering candlelight casts long, distorted shadows, creating an atmosphere that feels alive with whispered secrets and unfulfilled promises.
In the center of the room stands an altar, rough-hewn from obsidian stone, its surface glistening from the flicker of the candlelight.
Surrounding the altar are several members of the Society clad in dark, hooded robes that obscure their identities, their faces hidden by skull masks.
Each holds a ceremonial dagger, its blade glinting ominously, ready to perform the dark pact that binds them to the Society and their infernal master. The Devil himself.
The rest of us, the initiates, stand in a circle around the altar. My heart is pounding in my chest as I breathe in the stale air. There are four steps in our initiation; the first two were taken back when we turned eighteen. The Temptation and The Trial.
We are lured as new recruits with the promise of wealth and forbidden power. Those of us who are heirs are told about the Society once we learn to talk. Our fathers ingrain it in us so that when they tempt us, we immediately give in.
Once we are lured into the Society, we are thrown into trials. They are brutal initiation rites. From rape, to framing people in the most heinous of crimes to take them out, and even our own humiliation.
In college, we take the other two rituals.
The Dark Oath and then the Blood Pact. The Dark Oath is done after the initiates survive the trials.
They swear their unholy oath to Satan and the Black Skull Society.
That, as a member, you will carry out whatever is asked of you by the Society. Without question.
The Blood Pact is the final step. No one ever talks about it. I have no idea what it entails, but if the other steps are any indication, it’s not puppies and rainbows.
It took everything I had to convince my father to let me postpone the last step. And since he sits on the Council of Shadows, he was able to convince the others to allow me to delay my initiation.
The postponement ends now, I guess.
Looking at the initiates around me through the openings of the skull mask I’m wearing, I am sure there are some that are filled with fear.
If I could see their faces, I’d bet they are pale and ready to throw up. Then there are probably others who are twisted with anticipation. But we all realize the darkness we are about to embrace.
Above us sits a heavy iron chandelier, the candles in it burning, the air thick with the grotesque proceedings that are about to take place.
One of the members of the Council of Shadows steps forward, and the room falls silent around us. As the figure draped in their black robe starts to speak Latin and the words echo through the chambers, my heart thumps away in my chest. Fear grips me.
I don’t want to do this.
The figure proceeds with the ritual, the Council of Shadows standing there watching the initiates take their last rite into the final initiation process. Once completed, they are officially members for life in the Black Skull Society.
The words mean nothing to me, of course. I can barely hear them over the sound of my heart beating anyway. I am so lost in my own thoughts that I don’t notice when one of the hooded figures steps up to me and hands me a blade.
Clean, pristine. Never used.
And my blood freezes.
I try not to let my hands shake as I grab it from the hooded figure.
Their voice booms through the foreboding space, “To prove your loyalty, it is required for all those who wish to become an elite member of the Black Skulls Society to bind themselves to Satan.”
I watch them bring a hooded figure in a white robe into the chambers. My mouth goes dry as I realize exactly what the last step is.
Death. Or more specifically, murder.
The figures who brought them in, The Shadow Keepers, push the figure forward and kick in their knees, making the captive fall to the ground. A grunt from that person lets me know it’s a man.
“Step forward and claim your place among us,” the figure next to me says.
I try to slowly calm myself as I take each step, walking up to the white hooded figure. My hand grips the hood over their head, and I hold my breath as I yank it off the poor soul under it.
And that’s when I freeze.
My eyes meet those of someone I have come to know and trust. Someone who has helped us. Someone who means the world to Drew.
Agent John Steele.
My eyes widen as I look at the man whose face is battered and bruised, but I can still tell who it is. His lips are dry, and I know they probably have not been feeding or hydrating him much.
He looks at me through my mask, and I want nothing more than to get him out of here, but I would never make it. Hell, we would never make it. The only way out for him is death.
By my hand.
“Do it,” he whispers. He has no idea who I am, but his words tell me he knows he has no way out. That he has accepted his fate.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper for only him to hear as I bring the blade up over my head before swinging it downward. It slices through his chest, sending blood splattering over both of us. I can see the second the light goes out in his eyes.
Bile rises in my throat, and I have to do everything I can to keep it down.
I just killed a man.
And not only just a man, but a man I knew personally. A man I trusted.
My grip releases on John, and his body slumps over. Blood pools below him. Latin phrases are being said around me, but I have tuned out what they are saying. All I can see are his eyes. The life that faded from them.
All I can do is try to keep breathing and accept my fate. I killed Agent John Steele. A man who was like family to Drew and Phoenix. A man who was helping us to protect Rae.
I just sold my soul to the Devil.
Table of Contents
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- Page 37 (Reading here)
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