“You’ll notice the empty seats,” Malakai begins, pointedlynotlooking at where the spaces are on the table. I can still feel their blood on my hands, can hear their screams.
“This is the smallest council in the history of this organization,” Someone speaks up and I turn my eyes to the older man, his hair speckled grey, deep wrinkles on his face.
“It is,” Malakai agrees, “but measures had to be taken.”
“I agree,” The man nods, “but what will we do now with the empty seats?”
“I will honor our traditions,” Malakai says, “while I do believe most of the rules, or laws or whatever you want to call them are archaic, this organization runs in our blood. It is history. However, with that said, any new members joining us will need to prove themselves. It is not enough to have been born into it. They must earn it.”
There’s a chorus of mumbles, some in agreement, some not but Malakai is king, and his word goes and if it doesn’t, well that’s why I’m here. To convince them otherwise.
“Bast,” Malakai calls on me, “Would you show the new members in?”
I dip my chin in a nod and get up from the table, unlocking the one way in and out of this room. A file of five men and one woman enters the room.
“That’s a woman!” Someone yells the moment she’s standing behind one of the vacant chairs.
Malakai rolls his eyes to the one who yelled, narrowing them, “Is that a problem?”
The poor girl shifts and fidgets under the sudden scrutiny. It is the first time, in history, that a woman has sat on the council. Fucking bullshit if you ask me but what was before and what is to come, are two very different things.
“Well, there has never been a–”
“I will cut you off there,” Malakai stands, leveling his glare on the guy who is making a scene, “Just because there never has been doesn’t mean there never should be. She is the daughter of a now deceased member, she has every right to be here, based on the old traditions.”
When no one speaks up, Malakai settles back into his seat, addressing the new people in the room, “Please, take a seat. Let’s get started.”
But my eyes snag on one of the newcomers, a young guy, around my age with cropped black hair and even darker eyes. There’s a look of quiet rage on his face, a fire burning in the depths of his eyes.
He’s one to keep an eye on.
“You’re here because our traditions tell us you should be.” He speaks to the newcomers directly, “Your predecessors have passed on and the seat you now sit in is yours, if you want it.”
“Passed on,” One of them scoffs, “They were murdered.”
I cast my eyes to the guy with the cropped black hair.His vitriol is potent, his hate a physical thing I can almost see.
“Murdered,” Malakai tilts his head back and forth as if contemplating the accusation. “Executed. Punished. For crimes against this organization.”
But the guy spits, “Not against the organization, againstyou.”
My eyes narrow, “And you agreed with your father’s treason?” I ask him directly.
His head snaps to me, I don’t know his name and can only guess it was his father who we eliminated. “Who the fuck are you?”
I grin at him, “Sebastian Levine.”
A touch of fear enters his expression, but the animosity snuffs it out quickly. That’s the funny thing about hate, it makes you feel stronger, more powerful but all it does is mask the fear and logic. You don’t think clearly when suffering with a bad case of rage and when that rage is fueled by that much hate, you may as well be working with one brain cell.
“What’s your name again?” I ask, pushing those buttons.
“Christian Stewart.” He spits.
I click my fingers, “Ah, yes, Stewart. Anthony Stewart, your father.”
“Yes.” He seethes.
I ignore the eyes on me, bouncing back and forth between me and the new guy who clearly doesn’t really know what he’s up against.
