Page 1 of Envy

1

SILAS

Blood sprays as my fist collides with his face. The familiarcrackof bone against my knuckles vibrates through my leather glove as the piece of shit falls to the floor. The concrete is new, the unimposing grey sheen of it glinting in the dim light cast from the single bulb overhead. We’ll need to pour another layer after tonight. Bleach can do a lot, but it’s always better to start with a fresh canvas. I wonder how dark the pools of blood will be. I wonder if I’ll be able to capture the beauty of it later with a brush and palette.

“Please,” he whimpers, scrambling away from the center of the ring toward the others. As if my brothers would let him leave. As if anyone escapes once we’ve decided their time is up.

Six figures clad in black, shrouded with warped skeletal masks, stare back at me, reflecting the demons inside. Morality is such a fickle thing. It plagues only those who have empathy, weakening them against the onslaught of the apathetic. I’ve had to silence the softer parts of myself, cutting and hacking away at the writhing soul inside to allow me to do what’s necessary.

I was innocent not too long ago, before the harsh realities ofthis world twisted and bent me into my true form—just like my brothers—rising from the carnage into the personification of the Seven Princes of Hell: Pride, Erik. Wrath, Mavros. Gluttony, Bane. Greed, Adrian. Lust, Dominic. Sloth, Noctis. And Envy—me.

Feel no pain.

Grant no mercy.

Take no prisoners.

Tension radiates from the six of them, shoulders taut and hands clenching. They’re itching for a chance to tear this asshole to shreds just as much as I am. We’ve been at this too long. Far too long. But my brothers hold back in respect for me.

“Who are your buyers, Tony?” I ask, stalking toward him. His left eye is swollen shut, bloated and discolored like a plum on the verge of bursting. Scarlet droplets coat the floor as he scampers back, searching the room for an escape. As if we’d be foolish enough to leave him an opening.

There are only two doors here. One leads to the showers, a necessary installment to wash away incriminating evidence once we’re done. The other opens to the blistering wasteland of the Mojave Desert. Tony must realize this, because the pathetic bastard turns, his grimy fingers gripping the pants of the masked figure nearest to him. Big mistake.

Red thread is stitched across the skeletal smile, matching the Xs embroidered across the eyes. The sight is made all the more menacing by the snarling bear threaded along the temple. Mavros, Wrath incarnate, glares down at the bleeding coward pawing at his feet, pleading for mercy he won’t find.

“If there’s something wrong with the drugs, take it up with the boss,” Tony cries. “I’m just the distributor. I swear!”

Mavros jerks his leg back and snaps his foot forward before Tony has time to blink. Agonized wails fill the vacant warehouse, reverberating off the bare walls as the sole of Mavros’sboot connects with flesh. My lips twitch as the squelch of muscles tearing and bones snapping rings out. A few broken teeth fall to the ground, blood and drool dripping from Tony’s mouth as his hands move frantically, shaking as he feels the mangled shape of his face.

My smile fades as I take in the fucked-up state of his mouth. That’s going to be a problem.

“How is he supposed to talk if his jaw is broken?” I shoot Mavros a glare, one he feels even through the fabric of our masks. It took us months to track Tony down. Despite earning his death ten times over, the fucker is too valuable to lose. We need answers first. Then we can play.

Mavros lifts a bulky shoulder, shrugging as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“Don’t blame the big guy,” Erik says from behind me, sauntering into the ring. He’d say he’s more easygoing than I am. I suppose all of my brothers would. We’ve each had our own battles, but unlike Erik and the others, I can’t forget that I have to work for every inch I take, fighting my way through all the shit weighing me down.

Nothing is easy. Good things don’t come to those who wait. That’s just another lie the powerful want you to believe. Another pacifying notion they whisper to make you believe those who are deserving will receive.

I know better.

So do my brothers.

But somehow, each of them has managed to continue living—sometimes fucking or fighting through their pain—but they’reliving. They laugh and joke, eat and breathe, while every expansion of my lungs, each beat of my heart pushing another wave of blood through my veins, feels like a betrayal.

She’s out there. My sister.

The world moved on—god, even Tempest, my little sister, isthriving in college, set on becoming a doctor and shit. She was too young to remember. I don’t blame her exactly, but Morana is stuck in a cycle of abuse, being passed around by fuckers like Tony, while everyone else just kept going. And knowing that fucking kills me.

Erik is the one person who comes close to understanding. I spare him a glance, noting the purple lion and matching stitches across his mask—Pride. The sewing is rougher than the others, with harshly dyed twine used instead of smooth thread. Just like mine. The imperfections of it are an eyesore, one Erik typically wouldn’t tolerate—the cocky bastard—but some things are more important than perfection.

My fingers were stained for weeks after dyeing and stitching Erik’s mask, the rich violet hue lingering long after I’d scrubbed my skin raw. It was nothing compared to the emerald green marring his own hands. It was a pact between us—the first two demons to claw our way out of the turmoil we’d been born into.

The rest of my brothers wouldn’t dare speak during interrogations, not when I’m seeking answers like these, but Erik and I grew up together. We suffered through hell, fought our way out, and established a pack, collecting the others until our evil little club of princes was complete.

I’d kill for each of the Seven, as they would for me, but unlike the other princes, I know Erik would die for me. Erik was there when Morana was taken—the worst day of my life. He’s been there at my side every step of the way as my death toll climbs. And fuck if I don’t enjoy reaping the souls of the corrupted. Especially those involved in the world of buying and selling women and children. Like the fucker whimpering at my feet.

“He can still answer our questions,” Erik says, sounding almost cheerful as he stoops, crouching on his knees just outside the growing pool of blood. “Can’t you, pal?”