Chapter One
Damon
Three months ago
CHAINS RATTLE AGAINSTthe faux concrete wall as the man in front of me struggles against them. “P-please don’t do this. Please stop . . .I’ll do anything you want.”
I’ve had him chained up for the better part of an hour, ever since he followed a teenage girl into the haunted house I run. I know for a fact he isn’t related to the girl, because his stepdaughter is the one who sent me to find him.
To get rid of him.
Well, technically she sentus, the Venatores, after she tried to report him to her school counselor for assaulting her and no one did anything. Then she tried CPS. He lied his way out of it.
But I know what he did, and I’m not letting him walk free any longer.
Now, his once pristine polo and golf shorts are covered in blood from his face, and his hair is dripping with sweat.
“Does Sara beg you to stop when you sneak into her room at night? Do you ever listen to her?” I ask as I walk around the torture chamber.
It’s a hidden space attached to the final room in the haunted house. Impossible to stumble upon if I don’t lead you here. It’s decorated like the rest of the rooms, except the knives, chains, and other tools in here are real. And actually used to hurt people.
The piece of shit sobs, like he’s the fucking victim here. “I-I—”
“I really don’t give a shit what you have to say. I was sent to do a job, and I’m going to finish it.” I yank his chained hands farther above his head, pulling until he has to stand on his tiptoes. “And then Sara is going to sleep peacefully, every night for the rest of her life, knowing you’re gone.”
He tries to speak again, probably to offer me money or a fancy car—I’ve heard it all before from assholes like him. They think their money and status can protect them, and when it comes to typical avenues of justice, they’re right. That’s where we come in. The Venatores organization is around to ensure those who have suffered abuse or assault get the justice they deserve.
I don’t give him another chance to speak. I grab my knife and stab him in the gut.
The squelch of flesh and blood is overpowered by the ringing of my cell phone.
His eyes widen as I hold up a finger, asking him to wait a second while I check this. It’s the Venatores, the one caller I would never ignore.
“Make it fast, I’m in the middle of something,” I answer, never one for pleasantries.
“We have a new assignment for you,” Jake, the man behind the desk for the whole Venatores organization, informs me. “Three months out. Small town in Oregon. We’re sending the whole fair.”
“What’s the town name?”
He hesitates for a beat before he says, “Ridgewater.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will away all the emotions that come up at the mention of my hometown. The pain I suffered in that place still haunts me.
When I don’t respond, Jake asks, “You good, man?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
“We can send someone else if—”
“No, I can do it.” Jake, and everyone at the Venatores, knows I’m from Ridgewater. They also know that I grew up with an abusive father, which is part of the reason I never went back. Too many bad memories. But I also left people behind. My mom, my sister,her. At first, it was because I was worried about turning into my father, about reminding them of himor hurting one of them. And because of the guilt I felt for not doing more to stop him. But after I joined the Venatores, it became about keeping them safe from all this. Safe from the monster I became. I’m not like my father. In fact, I’ve dedicated my life to torturing and murdering people like him. But I am still dangerous. “Just send me the info. I’ll be ready.”
“Okay, man,” Jake says then hangs up.
I look over at the strung-up man, no longer seeing the pristine golfer but my own father instead. His eyes are filled with fear—fear for himself—but no remorse for what he did. I think people like him are incapable of feeling that. I pull the knife from his stomach, blood pouring from the wound. Then I raise it and bring the handle down swiftly on his jaw. The crack of bone is music to my ears.
His lower jaw hangs limply, and he’s passed out.Wimp.
I usually take more time with my targets, ensuring they feel the same dread and pain their victims did before they meet their end. But the news of my next assignment in my hometown has soured the experience, and it’s going to take a minute for him to regain consciousness. I just want this night to be over.
