Page 3 of Gods and Graves

CHAPTER THREE

EVERETT

“ T arget just left. I repeat, the target just left,” I say into my earpiece from where I crouch on a neighboring roof of the pub we’re staking out.

“Roger that,” Zaid says simply.

“Aye, aye, captain,” adds Rafael exuberantly.

Krystian remains silent, but that’s not necessarily a surprise. He may not be able to speak in his current position.

Our target—a wolf by the name of Dennis—stumbles just in front of the bar, his eyes glazed from intoxication and sweat coating his cheeks.

“How much did the fucker have to drink?” I ask no one in particular.

Krystian, who’s currently in the bar, says, “About…five?”

“Five what? Five beers? Five shots? Five fruity fucking cocktails?”

A feminine giggle sounds through my earpiece, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course Krystian would be using the opportunity to flirt. It’s not as if we’re on a job or anything like that.

“Following him now,” Zaid tells me, and below, a collection of shadows takes form and trails behind a stumbling, hiccupping Dennis.

Sometimes, I love my accelerated vision.

Other times, I fucking despise it.

Like right now, when I watch Dennis shove down his pants, grab his tiny cock, and aim it at the side of the building. A steady stream of piss gushes from it, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

“Is he peeing?” Amusement laces Rafe’s tone, and the psychopath breaks into laughter. “Please tell me he peed on Zaid.”

“Fuck off,” Zaid grumbles, still in his shadow form a few feet away, out of range of the piss shower.

Smart thinking.

As a wraith, Zaid is able to alternate between his real body and this shadowy, incorporeal one. Makes him a fucking terrific spy. However, he can only hold this form for about an hour and usually only during the day, when the shadows are the most prominent.

“Krystian, get into position,” I order.

There’s another feminine giggle, a heavy sigh, and then what sounds like footsteps.

“I apologize, ladies. I have to head out,” my elf teammate says formally, his British accent more pronounced than usual.

“Awww.”

“Really? You just got here?”

“Maybe we can change your mind…”

Three? Three women? Fucker’s only been in the bar for a half hour, at most, and spent most of that time watching Dennis and reporting his movements to us.

Of course, most women—human and supernatural alike—can’t resist Krystian, with his white-blond hair, golden skin, and slightly pointed ears. His good looks draw them in, but his sunny personality keeps them hooked.

Krystian excuses himself from his adoring fans then steps outside. His gaze automatically drifts to me, high up on the roof next door, and he flips me off.

“You couldn’t have given me a few more minutes?” he asks, amusement quirking up one corner of his lips.

“That’s how long it takes you? No wonder women don’t come back for seconds,” I quip.

Krystian chuckles. “Oh, they come back for seconds. I just send them away.”

“Can we focus, please?” Zaid asks in his soft, sibilant voice. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can return home.”

Rafael mutters something about the compound not being home, but we all ignore him. The compound is the only home any of us know.

Especially since the world has changed so drastically from when we were first put to sleep, almost three or four centuries earlier.

When the truth of supernaturals came out to the humans, about four hundred years ago, the gods also revealed themselves.

They vowed to be the protectors of the humans, saving them from rogue creatures that kill indiscriminately.

Thus, the elite teams came to be. Each of them was chosen by a god with one purpose and one purpose alone—to protect those who can’t protect themselves.

Centuries ago, I was born with a birthmark shaped like a sword and a shimmering haze surrounding me.

Ares chose me as one of his champions.

The other three were all born within minutes of me, and together, we trained and learned how to utilize our skills as supernaturals to protect the innocents.

When we reached the age of twenty-five, we were put into a deep, catatonic sleep, which would only end when we were needed, since there’s only ever one team active at a time.

We woke up two years ago, after Aphrodite’s team was slaughtered by a feral giant.

“Target is in position.” Zaid’s voice cuts through my thoughts like the slash of a whip.

Immediately, I hop to my feet and take a running jump into the alley four stories below. I land in a crouch, my senses heightened, and meet up with Krystian. For once, his cocky smirk is no longer on his face.

“Let’s get this over with,” he tells me, reaching behind him.

A second later, a bow and arrow set materializes as if out of thin air—though I know it’s actually a product of a powerful glamour.

We race the last few feet until we reach the destination we decided on earlier.

It’s a narrow street too big to be considered an alley, nestled between tall brick buildings.

The smell of garbage assaults my senses from the rows of dumpsters lining the wall, and I inwardly curse my enhanced shifter senses.

Zaid solidifies beside us.

“He’s there.” He points to where Dennis is attempting to unlatch the gate at the end of the street in order to get home.

We’ve watched him long enough to know he takes this route every day when he returns home from the bar. He believes it’s a shortcut, but the dumbass doesn’t realize it actually adds five minutes to his walk.

Krystian notches an arrow, and it zips through the air and embeds itself in our target’s leg.

He immediately cries out and falls to the ground, surprise and fear crowding his features as he turns in our direction.

“W-what? What’s going on? Please. Don’t hurt me. You can have all my money.” The pathetic waste of space begins to throw handfuls of cash in our direction.

I bite back a snort.

“We don’t want your damn money.” Krystian’s nose crinkles derisively, as if the mere idea we’re petty thieves is laughable.

“You’ve been a naughty boy, Dennis.” I tsk my tongue in mock disapproval.

“W-what are you talking about?” Dennis splutters. “How do you know my name?”

“Do you know what my arrows can do?” Krystian begins almost conversationally as he grabs one of said arrows and holds it in front of him. He reverently runs the pad of his thumb over the tip. “They’re called light arrows. Have you heard of them?”

Dennis whimpers and scoots away, until his back is flush against the chain-link fence.

“They eat away at your skin. I would say you have, maybe, five more minutes until you’re experiencing pain like you’ve never felt before.” A wide, terrifying grin spreads on Krystian’s face.

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that he’s just as insane as the rest of us.

He hides his monster well—buries it beneath carefully curated smiles and flirty winks designed to lure you in.

“You’re going to die for what you did to those women, Dennis,” I tell him, folding my arms over my chest.

I don’t feel an ounce of pity or guilt as I stare at the pathetic waste of space. He brought this on himself.

All of those human women he tore apart…

Dennis is the worst kind of monster because his acts were intentionally insidious. He brought those women to his house. He shifted into his wolf, knowing what his beast would do. He ate them alive, then he buried what was left of their bodies the next day.

“But I’ll let you choose how you die.” Krystian’s grin widens, revealing the dimple in his right cheek that drives sane women crazy.

“You can either let the arrows do their work, or…” He glances towards the far wall where Rafael has been watching the entire exchange silently. “You can let my friend end you.”

Dennis starts sobbing harder, obviously knowing his death is inevitable.

He turns tear-filled eyes towards Rafael, snot pouring from his nose. “Please. Make it quick.”

Krystian, Zaid, and I all wince.

They always choose Rafael.

And they always come to regret that decision.

“I’ll make it as quick as you made your kills,” Rafael says in a singsong voice, his normally stoic expression morphing into a demented, playful smile.

Then he pounces.

I quickly look away, my stomach muscles cramping. It’s not because I’m disgusted by the display of violence or feel pity for Dennis.

It’s because I hate that my teammate has turned into this…monster.

As a blood fae, Rafe has to drink blood more often than a vampire in order to utilize his powers.

But the bloodlust has corroded away his mind—chipping away a piece at a time—until all he cares about is violence and death.

He revels in tearing his victims apart. Listening to them scream. Having them beg for it all to end.

Krystian catches my gaze and nods at my unspoken question. “I put a glamour up. No one should be able to see or hear what’s happening here.”

“We’re going to need a goddamn trash bag for all the body parts,” Zaid huffs, frowning. “Again.”

As Rafe rips Dennis apart one limb at a time, I can’t help but think this is the only life we’ll ever know. We’re trapped in this routine, with no hope of escaping.

We get summoned.

We kill.

Then we repeat.

It’s what we were trained for, but I can’t help but wish for…more. What that “more” is evades me.

There’s no use wishing for something that will never be.

We’re stuck like this forever, so we better get used to it.