Page 1 of The Secrets of Jane: Reborn

B L A C K W E L L

Back when Soren visited Blackwell and felt something menacing in the room…

DON’T LOOK AT THE CORNER.

It’s fucking hard pretending like there isn’t a god of misery in my room, penetrating his gaze right at Soren and me. His existence to everyone else is thinner than smoke,whileI’mthe unlucky bastard that has to see him in all his terrifying glory.

Being subjected to such darkness should be considered asacrificewith my efforts to secure Skull’s Row. Sure, cocky cunts like Soren will drown in what’s to come next, but those that comply will live a controlled, yet stable life within these walls.

A new world will be born, and I the king.

That ismyreward for suffering.

Continuing to deny any acknowledgement of the god in the room, I fix my gaze onto Soren as he rises from his seat with a loud scooting of the chair. He downs the shot of rum and places the glass on my table, pushing it forward with weathered hands.

Sea glass eyes burn through me like hot iron piercing flesh, but I bet he gains absolutely no information. He’s grossly misplacing his confidence in his senses.

It’s histrueweakness.

Hopefully by the time he learns that lesson, it will be too late for him.

“You’re certain?” Soren’s rough timbre breaks through the thick pause between our words.

What were we talking about?

“The bastard is a warlord,” I retort, referencing our conversation once it returns to me. I inhale deeply as I put on my best face for deception. “The Basilisk is out there trying to steal land that he sees as open, but we all know it’sours. Someone has to go take care of this, and the Corsairs know that craggy coastline the best. To which they’ll only listen toTempest. So yes, I’m certain that she goes. If Basilisk gets afootholdin the Crimson Isles, he’ll become a real problem for Skull’s Row.”

Almost as soon as I release those words, an uneasy chill sweeps over my body, the hairs all along my skin rising, even down to my balls.

Don’t look at the corner.

If I dare glance that way, I know I can’t cover the abject fear that even a drunk pirate could see. Just the merethoughtof those onyx eyes with tiny, orange glowing pupils burning into the two of us, as if unwinding our souls, seam by seam, is enough to keep me noticeably on edge.

They’re eyes that Soren remains oblivious to; nearlyeveryoneis, ifhewants it that way.

“That’s a lot of men to sacrifice for something sopetty,” Soren remarks.

He doesn’t believe me.

“Tempest is the one risking it all, so if she agrees, I don’t see what the others are bitching about. Including you,” I snap, wanting this conversation over with.

Just let it fucking happen as Misery wants and shut up. Do we really care about the Crimson Isles? No, but Misery wants Basilisk dead, along with Tempest, and you, once he’s done using you, anyway…

Soren’s inscrutable eyes flash with an irritating insight that I’m growing to despise. The more he’s among us, the more he’s learning us, and the bastard is clearly aware that something isn’t quite right. Which is impressive given that we’re fucking with his powers, making it nearly impossible for me to be read.

Misery, no doubt, is aware of Soren’s perception.

Soren continues to move in his stance like the floor is immeasurably uncomfortable. “If you insist, Blackwell.”

Without more pushback, he heads toward the door as if he’s suddenly gotten word that he has better things to do.

A faint smile tugs at my lips as I consider living in a Skull’s Row where this man’s body rots at the bottom of the ocean, tied to a large stone with ropes I’ll force him to knot himself. Misery’s restoration will be the death of the Council, and I will be there to stand in their ashes with a crown on my head, like the pompous cunts in Belstead.

Mycrown will be made of naprese gold and bones.

When Soren’s grip is on the handle of the door, my gaze almost immediately drifts to where a shadowy figure resides, one that holds a large, black staff. Darkness eats away at any light that reaches that corner, an ebony, ethereal cloak covering the body underneath. Long, gray arms emerge from a heavy hood that covers his face. His hands are clawed and veined, slowly wrapping around the staff. His pupils are like candlelight that doesn’t flicker, burning with a depth that Sorenwisheshe had.

The Zenith before me has the audacity to pause before opening the door, turning his head to stare right at the spot thatshouldlook empty to him. My jaw drops as I nearly back away from whatever encounter this could become; my heart rarely races this fast. I’ve seen my share of warfare, but the devastation that this broken god can bring isdisturbing.