Page 1 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter one

We're All A Little Mad

Echo

I have never felt as if I were meant for anything good.

Not love. Not peace. Not grace.

I was born with blood on my hands, learning to stop flinching at the sound of death long before I could even spell my own name.

I have taken a man’s last breath and felt no remorse. If anything, I reveled in it—in the silence that follows a death rattle, in the final flicker of defiance behind a man's eyes as he realizes he's not walking away from me.

While other children were learning nursery rhymes, I was learning how to cut arteries. The sound of lungs filling with blood is not something you forget.

It gurgles like a broken machine.

The screams that come after are never whole.

Rasping, choking, begging for mercy I don’t believe in.

Those sounds used to haunt me.

Now, they help me sleep.

God has never looked in my direction.

And I never once begged for his light.

Because what good would it do to ask for redemption, when damnation is all I’ve ever known?

No.

I have never been deserving of good things.

And maybe that’s why I like this job so fucking much.

“I don’t know anything, I swear!”

The man cries, voice quivering, his hands shaking so violently I wonder if his bones might splinter.

His face is a ruin with blackened eyes swollen shut, lips split open, and his jaw clicking slightly every time he sobs too hard.

He’s young. Barely thirty if that.

Still has the softness of someone who’s never been truly broken.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Boys like this who are sons of monsters, grow up thinking the world will never touch them.

Isaac Romanov.

A name that carries weight in certain circles.

Money. Power. Immunity.

A sick, twisted little fuck who built his empire on broken children; their cries echoing through halls lined with imported marble and velvet drapes.

He wore his last name like armor.

Walked around like his father’s money made him untouchable.

But he forgot one thing.

Even gods can bleed .

And tonight, Isaac Romanov is going to learn that monsters like me don’t knock when we come calling.

We just tear the door off the hinges.

I know the nicknames they whisper when they think I’m not listening.

The Shadow.

Death.

The last thing a man sees before he’s dragged to God’s doorstep and forced to knock.

They say I’m the devil’s errand boy, the one who comes when your sins finally outweigh your soul.

And maybe they’re right.

Isaac Romanov had that look about him when I first walked into the room. Relaxed, smug, convinced that his money, his name, the strings his family pulled behind closed doors, would get him out of Catalyst’s walls unscathed.

He truly believed himself untouchable.

He isn’t the first. He won’t be the last.

But now?

Now he’s curled on the floor like a kicked dog, bound and trembling.

His wrists are rubbed raw from hours of struggling against the restraints. Skin torn, flesh split, bruises blooming like rot beneath his pale, shaking arms.

And he’s crying.

Begging.

As if mercy is something he has ever deserved.

Every breath he takes comes out jagged.

Every word, a plea to a god that stopped listening the moment he touched his first victim.

But I’m not here to save Isaac.

I’m here to make him remember every name he thought he could forget.

It’s all pain now.

The pain we’ve inflicted.

The pain I’ve perfected.

And the truth is, I don't look away from it. I savor it.

In the heat of it, I catch the subtle curl of my lip when the first drop of blood spills.

The way my pulse quickens, like a drug every time a cry gets louder, sharper, more desperate.

And in their last moments, I see it. Not just their fear, but the reflection of my smile, the gleam of my satisfaction shining in their final gaze.

I am the closing chapter.

The final face they see before the void takes hold.

The last flicker of light before they’re swallowed whole by the dark.

"Pull another one," I mutter, my voice low and even.

Isaac flinches at the command, his broken sobs catching in his throat.

His feet claw at the dirt beneath him like it might save him.

It won’t.

He looks up at me, and for the first time, I think he understands.

There’s no escaping the reckoning.

Not when I’m the one holding the scales.

“No,” he gasps, like the word might shield him. Like that single syllable could somehow stop what’s already coming for him.

“No-”

“Yes.”

My smile is slow, deliberate...cruel.

“You don’t get the luxury of having an option.”

“I told you everything I know!” Isaac screams, desperation cracking his voice in half. The sound bounces off the walls of the holding cell, swallowed by the cold stone and steel around us.

He’s hoping the echoes will make him sound more convincing.

They don’t.

“I know that,” I scoff. “But that doesn’t change a goddamn thing, does it?”

Stepping closer, I let him feel the weight of what’s next before I even lay a hand on him.

“What you’ve done. What you would continue to do if I let you walk out of here in one piece…”

I pause, studying the way his eyes twitch, the way his mouth curls inward like he’s trying to swallow the truth.

“What was the youngest you took from their mother?”

His lips clamp shut.

His silence says everything.

“Five… was it?” I ask, voice low and steady, like a loaded gun.

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn't need to.

The heat rises in my chest. Not rage. Not anymore.

Just purpose.

Shaking my head, I snatch the pliers from my man’s outstretched hand, metal clanging softly against my palm.

Isaac flinches.

Grabbing his wrist, I yank it forward—hard. The movement is sudden, brutal. He yelps, trying to pull away, but he knows better. There’s no escape now.

"It was a job," he hisses, spitting blood as he speaks.

“I was following orders. Just like your men blindly follow you now. She was nothing. A means to an end in my father’s eyes.”

There it is.

His father.

Dimitri Romanov.

The root of this entire cancer.

Catalyst's most hunted parasite.

Every vile act I’ve traced… every life ruined… every child broken… all roads lead back to him. To a Romanov.

“And what happened to that five-year-old girl?” I grind out, each word like acid on my tongue.“How much did your father make off the innocence he sold to the highest bidder?”

Isaac's lips tremble. He’s fighting to stay silent.

Coward.

“Not talking now? Fine.”

Tightening my grip, I force the pliers down again.

Another nail.

Another scream.

This one shatters something in him.

And something in me… likes the sound.

“She died!” he finally wails. “She died, okay?! They used her, and when they were done, they killed her!”

“They?” I echo, the word crawling out of me like poison. “You say that as if you weren’t there. As if you weren’t part of it.”

He sobs, loud and ugly, the sound bubbling through broken ribs and a shattered conscience. Blood smears his face, a mix of red snot and tears, and for a fleeting moment I wonder…

Is this what fear feels like to him?

Because if it is, it’s not even close to what he made that little girl feel.

The heavy metal door creaks open, hinges groaning like the cell itself is protesting what it’s seen. A flood of sterile LED light spills in, bleeding across the blood-stained floor in jagged streaks. The room smells like iron and violence.

“Echo?”

Like clockwork.

Right on cue.

The voice of reason.

The conscience I never asked for, dressed in black and burdened by his badge of morality.

“Roman,” I murmur, lips curving into a smirk as I watch him hesitate in the doorway.

My closest ally. My reluctant anchor.

He takes in the sight: Isaac Romanov slumped in chains, the floor slick with blood, fingernails missing, face a grotesque canvas of what pain looks like when it’s earned.

Roman’s jaw tightens, his fingers brushing against his watch.

“Your interrogation of Mr. Romanov was only supposed to last an hour.”

I cock my head, feigning surprise. “I don’t remember asking you to delegate my time.” He bristles, just slightly. The Roman I know is always walking the razor’s edge between approval and horror.

Still, he answers.

“Yes. They still want him back. Alive.”

“Perfect.”

The word drips from my mouth like poison dressed as honey.

Before he can finish his next breath, my hand moves.

Quick. Fluid. Without hesitation.

I draw my Glock from its holster, the motion so fast, so rehearsed, it’s practically instinct. The barrel finds Isaac’s forehead, right between the eyes, the sweet spot where cowards finally meet consequence.

The shot cracks through the air like thunder.

A single, brutal punctuation mark to everything he’s ever done.

Blood sprays in a crimson arc as the bullet tears through bone. Isaac’s body twitches violently, muscles seizing in those final involuntary spasms.

Then stillness.

True, blessed stillness.

“Send them the body,” I say, stepping over the corpse. “Courtesy of Catalyst.”

Patting Roman on the shoulder as I pass, the gesture is casual, almost affectionate, but his eyes are elsewhere, fixed on the spreading pool of blood, his mouth a tight, silent line.

“There are some things we need to discuss,” he says finally, voice clipped, unreadable.

“There better be bourbon,” I reply, riding the high like it’s laced with something illegal. Because it is a high. The world has one less monster in it.

And for the first time today, it feels like justice actually bled.

Gazing out the window of my office, I watch as fog coils through the forest like smoke from a freshly fired gun. The pines outside stand tall, but blurred, drowned in thick clouds, like ghosts haunting the treetops.

It’s quiet here.

Still.

The kind of silence that follows a justified execution.

Bourbon warms my throat, every sip a slow burn, every drop a reward.I let it settle in my stomach, grounding me.

For a moment, I savor the peace, until Roman's voice cuts through it.

“You just killed Dimitri Romanov’s first heir,” he says from behind me, like I’m unaware of the weight in the trigger I pulled.

I don’t turn.

Can’t even get five seconds to enjoy the end of a monster without Roman dragging me back to his high ground.

“That little shit was trafficking children, Roman,” I say, flicking my eyes toward the fog again.“Worse than a certain Faulkner we both once knew.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I meet the iron edge in his gaze. He’s too serious. Always is.

“Have you forgotten how we handle problems like that?” I ask.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he growls.“But have you forgotten what kind of message that sends? Blood like this, Dimitri’s blood, doesn’t dry quietly. I have a family, Echo. Little girls. And Noah, he’s got a family too-”

There he goes again.

Preaching.

Challenging.

The glass slams against the edge of my desk before I even think to stop myself.

It shatters beneath my hand, crystal shards slicing into my skin.

Roman flinches, not at the sound, but at the blood.

The red runs thick, warm, down my palm.

But I don’t feel it.

Pain is a language I no longer translate.

Instead, I turn. Slowly. Deliberately.

He sees it in my eyes, that glint of something feral, something that doesn't ask for permission.

“Do not question me, Roman,” I warn, voice steady as thunder. “I brought you into Catalyst because you’re one hell of a man. You served with me in the army. You’ve bled with me. Followed me into fire. But don’t think, not for one goddamn second, that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Moving toward him, my steps are calm and measured, the blood from my palm pooling at my fingertips. One droplet. Then another.

“I told you, I protect my people. Always. What you’re doing now?” I press my finger, bloodied and unflinching, into the center of his chest.“That sounds a hell of a lot like doubt. ”

Roman’s breath catches, his jaw tightening.

But his eyes never leave mine.

“Do you doubt me, Roman?” I whisper. “Do you doubt my authority ?”

His lips press into a firm line. Then, a slow shake of his head.

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

The word lands like a verdict.

As if summoned by tension itself, three knocks strike the office door, sharp and precise.

A pause. A breath.

“Come in,” I call, wrapping my tie around the bleeding hand, watching the red soak through the cloth like ink in water.

The door opens, and in strolls Noah Ackerman, Catalyst’s all-seeing eye, arms stacked with files and curiosity as he steps into the tension like it’s a second skin.

“Sir,” he says carefully. “I have that file you requested-”

He trails off, eyes darting between me and Roman, sensing the aftermath of something heavy.

“Did I come at a bad time?”

“No, you’re fine, Noah,” I snap. Too sharp. Too soon. But I don’t apologize.

“You’re bleeding-”

“He said he’s fine, Noah,” Roman cuts in, voice gravelly but loyal.

“What’s the file?”

“Open it,” I say, gesturing toward the folders with my wrapped hand.

Noah passes one to Roman.

I tap the cover twice, slow and sure.

“Issac wasn’t the only heir of Dimitri’s that I’ve had my eyes on.”

I smile now, calm, assured, the high of vengeance still simmering beneath my skin.

“Issac was a problem.”I lean forward, voice dropping into something darker.“But she … she’s leverage.”

A pause.

A beat.

Blissful fucking leverage.