The way he sayswemakes me wonder how many times we could have dealt with them before. How many generations of the Eye have sought our counsel and failed. What would they think, if they knew how it would all end?
“That’s where I come in.”
His head bobs slightly. “No one, other than her, walks out alive. Any questions?”
“No.” There will be time enough for questions when this is over.
He takes off his mask. Underneath is an aged man with salt-and-pepper sideburns and messy stubble. I’ve seen hisface many times before, but never like this. I see sadness in his eyes, for what he’s giving up, but a warm smile is on his face because he’s handing it to a worthy successor.
He holds the visage out to me on his palm. I reach for it, but my fingers move painfully slowly through the air. For the first time in my life, my heart’s pounding erratically against my ribcage. I am eager to feel the ivory against my fingers, but apprehensive that I may fail to uphold the title.
Ghost gives me as much time as I need. Many years ago, he was in this exact position himself. Then, he too was desperate and yearning to fulfill his destiny, but doubting his own ability to accomplish it.
I feel the smooth front against my fingers. They start to tingle under the weight of all of those who have worn this symbol before me. Distant relatives and unknowns alike, each wore it as a badge of pride and honor for the Veil.
I slide it onto my face.
In this moment, I become no one. And everyone.
I become the Ghost.
“I brought you a present,” he says, as I grow accustomed to my new face. “Something to honor the occasion.”
With a flick of his wrist the bag on his lap splays open. Inside is an F2000 assault rifle. Its matte-green finish refuses to glisten beneath the full moon overhead. It’s locked, loaded, and primed for easy operation. Light onthe recoil and easy to fire in capable hands. His weapon of choice.
“I appreciate it.” I don’t reach for the gun. “But I have to carve my own path.”
Having trained me in a wide array of weapons, both long-range and at close quarters, Ghost knows my preference. Two suppressed Walther PPKs, as well as swords and a small arsenal of throwing blades. I prefer the whisper of blades over the blaze of guns.
“Then there isn’t much left to say.” He replaces the toothpick with a pre-snipped cigar from his pocket and lights it. “But you’d be wise to remember, you either walk out of there a Ghost, or you don’t walk out at all.”
“I am aware of the risk and the consequences of failure,” I say, struggling to hold eye contact with him. It feels wrong when I’m the one wearing the mask.
“Then have at ‘em,” he gestures with an open palm toward the woods. “Let loose the dogs of war and bring down our righteous might.”
I step toward the trees, accepting my final order as an Initiate.
Chapter Four
Lilith
Idon’t feel so good.
Did I say that out loud? I wanted to. I crane my neck up at Tom to see if he’s going to reply. I don’t get an answer. He just keeps flailing around, doing terrible dance moves while the heavy bass from whatever song’s playing reverberates through my bones.
Watching him is like looking at photographs. There is no fluid motion. I’m getting one blurry frame at a time. He’s down one moment, in the airwith his hands overhead the next. He’s laughing, singing, and dancing like he’s on top of the world.
Maybe there’s a reason for my confusion. Up until tonight, I’ve never touched an alcoholic drink. However, to solidify my place as one of them, I’d joined Tom for a drink. A shot of something bitter that lit my insides on fire and made my mouth numb.
If this is what being drunk feels like, I can understand the appeal. Not for myself, but for others who want to escape reality.
“Oh, shit, Lil,” Tom hooks an arm around my neck. “Are you okay?”
It’s at this point that I realize that my warped view wasn’t of him jumping in the air, but of me falling over. His hand goes behind my neck, saving me from smashing my head against the beautiful, gold-inlaid flooring.
I can’t answer him. My jaw’s too heavy to get full sentences out. Broken syllables and incomprehensible gibberish are all I can muster. What I am trying to say is,No, I’m not okay. Nothing’s okay. I feel like I’m floating, drifting. In that strange spot right before you fall asleep, half dreaming but still awake enough to know you’re not.
Tom gets me to my feet, and hooks one of my arms over his shoulder. His warm hand snakes around my body to help me stay upright.
