Page 7 of The Order: Rise of the New Empire (Order #4)

Chapter six

Forest

" W hy are you doing this?" the man questions in between gasps.

Bleeding out onto the floor, his nails are ripped clean from his fingers, his eye pulled from his socket well into the first ten minutes of Elyon's unprompted interrogation.

Having only spent fifteen minutes wandering the downtown portion of the Precipice, it took Elyon seconds to spot a Marked. He was crafty in the ways he chose to hide his apparent runed skin.

Despite the thick layer of makeup the man wore on his skin, one clean swipe from Elyon with a damp cloth unveiled the true power festering in the man's blood. Now crammed into the depths of a back alley distant from observant eyes or closely listening ears, the man remains bound, a thin IV taped to his forearm, slowly filling a bag with the rich liquid Elyon savors so deeply.

"They always love to ask that question," I sigh, the deep-rooted betrayal each Maked feels when subject to death by our hands adamantly apparent.

It's one thing to be persecuted by those who fear what you are.

It's another to be hunted by your very own kind.

"Seems like you don't have an answer," the man spits, my stomach recoiling the longer I stare at his empty socket once housing an eye.

For Elyon, the kill of the Marked he chooses to flush out from the cities must always be theatric, resulting in extravagant torturous ways of forcing the Marked to bend at our will before ultimately ending their lives.

"I suppose I love the way your screams fill the air each time I push you a little further," Elyon gripes, twisting one of the man's fingers. My hand clamps over his mouth before he can release another scream.

I hate this.

I fucking hate this.

Glaring down the alleyway, our guards stay on high alert, ready to tip us off at any given moment someone from the Precipice, that we'd rather not explain this to, decides to take a glance at our outlet for control.

"I've heard of you both, you know?" the man spits, his eye focusing on me. "You're Forest Evermoore. The one that started the Revolutionists," he hisses, wailing to me as if the woman he speaks of is long gone. "How in the hell could you be caught up with another faceless dictator? Your whole purpose was to save us all from the creator-"

"Things get complicated when you're related to said creator," I hiss, giving Elyon a long glance.

Now narrowing his eye at Elyon, the man shakes his head.

"You're the Prophet. The first Marked," he gasps. Elyon's face twists into a vindictive smile.

"I love to hear my reputation proceeds me," Elyon smiles, driving his hand into the man's chest, twisting and pulling until all life has left the man's one good eye.

"He should know the cost of knowing my true origin," Elyon gripes, poking the blood bag with one of his bloodied fingers. "Plus, we got all from him that we could."

Watching the Marked slump to the ground, I rise to my feet, observing as Elyon helps himself to several mouthfuls of the rich liquid. Devouring it with little to no shame, he wipes his mouth, extending the treat out to me. The last thing on my mind is the urge to partake in any of the liquid.

"Imperfect Marked," He smiles. "But damn good blood."

Shaking my head at the offer, I bite back bile once more. Slowly taking in breaths, I try to regulate the flood of anxiety rolling through me.

Keep it down, Forest.

Keep it down-

Unable to stop myself, I let the release happen, doubling over with nausea, expelling myself until there is nothing left in my stomach. Leaning into the wall, I wipe my mouth clean, watching Elyon's wide eyes observe the action. His hand holds the blood in the air between us.

"Since when does a kill bring you sickness?" he questions. Doubt festers in his mind.

"I told you," I hiss, staring the man down. "I was fucking hungry!" I snap, grabbing the blood bag away from him, forcing down several drinks of the liquid, hoping it settles more comfortably in an empty stomach rather than a full one. "And your driving was fucking horrendous," I gripe, taking a step toward the fallen Marked. "But do not question my willingness to kill in your name," I push, holding my hand out, forcing my Hold on the man's skull, closing my palm until every bone within the man's cranium has shattered, leaving a bloody mess to pool from every open hole on his face. His eye rolling toward me with a horrible squelch, I stop it with my foot. Bending down to peel his Veil off the pupil, I wipe the remnants of the Marked's brain matter off of it. I add it to the collection around my waist, taking all of Elyon's self-doubt away with the action.

Glaring at the horrendous display of force, Elyon shrugs his shoulders, giving me a wide-eyed grin.

"And you say I live for the theatrics," he smiles, squeezing my shoulders. His hands are as cold as ice. "I was willing to let the rats do the work in deforming him," he pushes. His lips are inches away from my ear. "I suppose I'll be more cautious on our drive home."

Feeling his hand pat my lower back to urge me to move, I shove the blood bag into his chest, making my way close to the alleyway entrance, putting an end to this horrendous interaction. Wiping my mouth clean of blood, Elyon casually walks next to me, trying to figure out what is going through my mind.

"You've been off," he says casually as if that much is not apparent.

"I'm in a new place and have been doing nothing but dirty work for nine months. You sure know how to make a woman feel special," I snap. His mouth is pulled into a smirk.

"As if you don't live a life of luxury back home," he pushes, once more reminding me how little say I have in what I am allowed to consider a home.

"I just feel off," I admit, forcing as much sympathy into my voice as I possibly can. "All of this is so new, and the last thing I want to do is disappoint you because I don't know what I'm doing," I admit with some honesty.

Disappointing Elyon is the last thing I want to do.

Giving him any reason to question my fealty is the one thing I have tried to avoid these past nine months.

"The only thing that could disappoint me, Forest, is a lack of trust between us. Your fear should reside in breaking my trust, nothing else," he says, something malicious lingering in his words.

Walking side by side, I grab his arm for support, feeling an oncoming wave of vertigo hit me. My step is misplaced every so often due to the sudden wave of disorientation.

"Still dehydrated?" he questions, eyeing me down like a small child.

Nodding, all I can do is agree.

For the past few days, spells of vertigo have come over me, making it impossible to predict when they may flare up. Taking a few seconds to compose myself, I continue, looking at the trail of bloodied footprints in the path behind us.

"I need you to figure out whatever has been going on with you, the last thing we need is either of us showing any weakness, especially now. Our control has managed to take grasp, spreading through the fear we have inflicted. If all goes according to plan, we will have authority in every single one of Sanctum's hubs, giving us all the resources needed to flush out the compounds and any strangling Marked or Revolutionists creeping in the shadows. Word of our presence has already had an impact. The last thing either of us needs is you suddenly so weak that others notice."

Letting go of my grip on Elyon's arm, I pull my shoulders back.

"I am the farthest thing from weak, Elyon Morgan. Do not be foolish enough to mistake the glimpse of humanity you have seen in me as weakness. That would make you one of the most foolish bastards there is," I snap, forcing more reassurance into Elyon's already constantly shifting thoughts.

"I never said you were weak. Though, everyone is subject to create their own shortcomings," he says, the outlines of our men in the alleyway becoming clearer the closer we approach.

We have already chased the Revolutionists out of New Haven, leaving nothing but the Marked slaves to serve at our will. They funnel us power and serve us with the snap of our fingers.

Whispers have begun of an underground division being created by those Revolutionists willing to test our authority.

Still, none of the whispers are loud enough to get an exact idea on where the Revolutionists would be foolish enough to set up an establishment.

As far as Elyon sees it, wiping out the Marked is the first step in creating a new divine breed, one easily manipulated by his hand, void of free will. Without me, there's no way to enact that dream without procreation. If it weren't for the power I hold in creating Marked, I often wonder how that night at the ball would have gone.

"What are you thinking about?" Elyon questions, offering me the opportunity to be honest with him before he has the chance to slip into my mind.

"Will you sire more children in light of the new breed of Marked you are trying to create?" I question, forcing every one of my thoughts to be genuine in regard to that thought pattern. "You are so adamant about flushing out the product of the Marked you once created. Do you not question what having a connection like Dove might mean for you?" I question. His mouth pulls into a straight line.

"I kept you alive, didn't I?" he questions. My nose scrunches at the insinuation he has care for me.

"But you raised Dove," I whisper. "What was different about her?" I question, the answer nagging at me, as much as I wish it wouldn't.

Stepping out of the bleak lighting of the alleyway, our men make a path for us, both of us drawing up our hoods as we walk.

"I suppose it was hard to leave Dove once I saw her mother's pregnancy to completion. It wasn't the first time I had a child, let alone known of their existence, but given how involved I was with Dove's mother during her pregnancy, I gravitated toward her more than most," his nails grind against his palms as he relays such sensitive information. "So many months of that little girl growing in her stomach-"

"Why are you insinuating the pregnancy was lengthier than normal?" I question. His head snaps my way.

"Do you not know how Marked pregnancies work?" Elyon questions. My throat is dry and void of a response.

"Due to the genetic makeup of the Marked, their pregnancies are more prolonged. It takes time to cook up a child with gifts, some having pregnancies that reach well past a year before completion, some not showing until their eleventh month. The longer a pregnancy, it is said, the more traits. In New Haven, with all of their medicine and regulated meals, most of the Marked children's abilities were watered down, making the pregnancies regulate to the traditional nine months. Without the flood of medicine New Haven could provide, a Marked pregnancy could go undetectable for months. Maybe that's why I didn't leave Dove's mother. By the time she was showing, well, I was too fascinated to leave at that point. I had to see it through. Power is possible even in the most unlikely of places," the man smiles, my hand grazing over my torso beneath the cloak.

Don't go there.

There's no way.

There's no fucking way.

One night.

One fucking night we spend together.

It's not possible.

"Why do you ask me all of a sudden about Dove?" Elyon questions, stopping us both dead in our tracks.

Pulling myself away from my swarm of thoughts, I look the man up and down, giving him a cold expression.

"You watched me for years, tormenting the people I love, using your daughter to do your dirty work," I snap. "The least you can do, is give me some clarity as to who you are, given I now seem to carry Dove's title," I hiss, his look of question quickly fading away.

Watching his pager blink at his side, he takes a quick glance, gravitating his focus away from the conversation at hand.

"We've been invited to spend a few days in the Precipice," he smiles, looking toward his men. "Let's see how much ruckus you and I can cause."

Moving away from my quiet figure, the man tucks his hands in his pockets, the creeping presence of his Call in my mind looking for answers casting a wave of unsettlement down my spine.

"Why'd you take a glance?" I question. His head rolls back to look at me.

"All this talk about family, made me wonder if you were reflecting on your beloved childhood with Katiana's mother."

Still caught up with his fascination of the Lockland woman, the man grasps at straws to see a side of the Lockland woman I had the exclusivity of knowing all too well.

"No," he sighs, giving me an empathetic look. "I wouldn't want to remember the torture either."

No longer entertaining conversation with me, the man moves forward, nothing but the memory of my childhood swarming my mind.

Touching my torso, a painful thought enters my mind.

I thought I was protecting Xavier and the others.

What the hell will I do for you?