The blindfold is ripped away, and I’m met with thick, putrid darkness—so dark, the only thing I can see is the iridescent, oblong gold mask three inches from my face. A serpent winds around the outer edge, curling up so its mouth extends into the air just above the wearer’s head.
“Avernia’s long awaited a proper Death’s Maiden. You volunteered your service and, as such, are expected to carry out the responsibilities of loyalty and honor. Do you accept this role?”
It’s a woman’s voice, distorted by some sort of technology.
Who brought me here?
How do they know it was me who volunteered?
Though I want to believe it was a random member, someone simply coming to collect a debt they were owed, the fact that thewhole note from Sutton was likely fabricated makes me highly suspicious. That person would’ve had to know we’re an item and would also have to know we’re having issues.
They’d be close.
My veins seem to constrict as the possibilities race through my mind in an endless parade of anxiety.
Also, the person before me used my full name, even though the whole point of Death’s Teeth is anonymity.
They know me. Intimately.
They know I’m an Anderson.
Unease sparks on my shoulders. On either side of the serpent-masked figure, lanterns flicker to life, illuminating just enough so that I can see we’re situated in one corner of the square stage built into Tartarus.
I can feel a crowd below, watching the action up here. Anticipating their show.
Nausea rolls through me, sudden and alarming. I don’t want to be here.
Leather cracks against itself, the sound reverberating in my ear. A beat later, I feel a tingling on my lobe, and when I reach up, I feel a drop of blood beading on my skin. The serpent-masked figure leans in, and I notice the whip they clutch in one hand.
She just whipped me.
If I previously had any belief that Death’s Teeth was a farcical organization, even after what I’ve seen with my own eyes, that idea is fading rapidly.
“What happens if I don’t accept the responsibility?” I ask in a low, quiet voice.
The figure chuckles softly. Their voice is somewhat familiar, but I can’t be sure of their identity because the cloak hides everything. And I can’t imagine anyone I’ve met being this willing to pull me into deep shit.
Not even Sabrina, who dragged me into it in the first place. She wouldn’t do this.
Right?
There it is, still hacking away at my resolve: the kernel of hope I’ve carried that whispers maybe everyone isn’t out to get me. Maybe I can get ahead by merit alone, and maybe people don’t give in to their selfish urges when left to their own devices.
But I’m living proof of the exact opposite. When given the choice between fighting and taking the easy way out, I opt for the latter with hardly any questions asked. It’s why I wound up lost that night eight years ago, why I ran off to LA and fucked up majorly there, and why I’m sitting here even now.
The path of least resistance is paved with insecurity.
“If you refuse,” the masked figure says, reaching to grab my chin with their bony fingers, “you die. And so does he.”
Brow furrowing, I try to jerk away from her grip, but she squeezes my jaw and motions with her hand to someone behind her. Two more anonymous members enter the stage area, rolling some sort of apparatus between them. It takes me a second to adjust as they emerge from the shadows.
A large wooden pole supports a man’s weight. He’s bound to it, his legs encased in a rectangular barrier. The scent of kerosene or gasoline becomes pungent, invading my senses as I stare at the new additions.
Based on the lighter color of his skin, it’s not Lexington. And I know it’s not Sutton—these people may be chaotic, but killing their esteemed member seems a little unruly, even for them.
Which means it’s either Asher or?—
Percy’s face is a mix of horror and confusion when the hood is ripped off him. A cloth is tied around his face, shoved between his lips, keeping him gagged even as the situation registers.
