Page 11 of Deadmen's Captive

I looked back across the street and froze, seeing the guy who upset you earlier only ten feet away. He’s with another guy and they turn down the nearest alley. Something dodgy going on there. See, Paige. He’s a druggie. Definitely not the type of man you want to attract. I watched the alley, though really I was waiting for you to appear so I could make sure you got home ok.

A few minutes later, the taller guy reappears. It was the second guy you danced with. Did they know each other? He crossed the road, glancing around as he wiped his hands down his dark trousers. I watched as he climbed onto a motorbike parked opposite and took off down the road. Organ donors. That's what I called those idiots that drove reckless machines like that.

I glanced down at my phone, scrolling through your photos again, Paige. I got a bit distracted by them, and it’s only when a scream pierces the night that I look back up again. There's a commotion at the entrance to the alley, and a small crowd forming. I toy with the idea of going to see what's going on, and then make the decision to stay put as I hear the sirens approaching. I’ll just wait here for you, Paige and watch to make sure you get home ok. There’s some fucked up people on the streets tonight.

Chapter Five

TRISTAN

Istrode along the well worn path, the encroaching foliage and dark shadows of the surrounding woodland no match for the countless times I’d walked this path in the last four years. The greenish golden gleam of Victorian oil lamps burned in the darkness ahead of me, a more modern addition to the eighteenth century folly that marked the entrance to the Underworld. The building loomed before me, its Greek temple façade a stark contrast to the encroaching wilderness. A sanctuary and a prison, all forged in white marble and shadowed history. Our fathers' legacy weighed on my shoulders—a lineage of DeathKnights—and now, it was our turn to uphold the dark honour.

I walked up the wide steps and between the Corinthian columns. A hooded statue guarded the door: Charon, the ferryman. One hand held a pole for the ferry, and the other was outstretched holding a shallow stone bowl. At the bottom of the bowl lay two gold coins, each bearing an engraving of a skull with a dagger. The sculpture above the door bore the same emblem and the date. 1779. The date the university of Blackvellyn was founded and the year the Deadmen’s Club came into being. The dark, heavy wooden door stood open already, and I walked through, tossing my own gold coin into the bowl.

The Deadmen’s Club was one of the most whispered about secret societies amongst the elite private universities in the world, if not the most. The membership was made up from elite and wealthy families from minor aristocracy as well as sons from the most prominent banking, business and political families in the UK and across the world, including my own.

As the only son of Corey Blackwood, the tech and media giant, my place in the Deadmen’s Club had been assured since before I was born, as had all of our positions'. Nate’s father had held a position high up in the military before he retired, now relying on his criminal security and mercenary business to fund his lavish country estate and his gambling addiction, and Bast’s father, well, he was the highest of them all.

Edward Blake, also known as Cronos, was the head of the Shadow Syndicate, the real world equivalent of the Deadmen’s Club, where the world’s financial, business, royal and criminal empires did business. If all the conspiracy theories about a new world order were true, it would be the Shadow Syndicate that would establish the new order. If the rumours among their descendants were true, the Syndicate already ruled the world. Edward was grooming his son to take over, hence why Bast had assumed the mantle of Hades this year - the head of the Deadmen’s Club. Our future success, happiness and even our very lives depended on him. I’d been friends with Bast a long time, and I didn’t envy his position at all, though he was the most driven man I’d ever met. Determined to live up to his father’s expectations. What was that quote? It is better to be at the right hand of the devil than in his way. I pitied anyone who got in Bast’s way.

I crossed the marble floor of the folly, heading for the stairs that descended down into the earth. The green glass of the oil lamps gave the white marble interior a ghoulish hue and I felt the thrum of anticipation mix with the weight of history, each breath I took a silent oath to the legacy of power and secrecy that the Deadmen’s Club had upheld since the days of its inception.

The stairs led to a short corridor opening out into the feasting hall which stretched out like an opulent dream from a forgotten age. The air was thick with the musk of incense, the walls adorned with tapestries depicting epic battles and gods long dead. Long wooden tables and benches ran most of its length with a head table at the top, and three carved wooden thrones behind it. The two on either side bore roses and skulls, but the centre one bore the skull and dagger of the club’s emblem. Within the week, this place would be the very centre of decadence and indulgence, but now it stood watchful and silent, waiting.

I moved down one side, taking one of the side doors that led to the offices beyond. Nate and I each had a small one, and Bast, as Hades, had the largest. It was here I found him and Nate. Bast sitting at the mahogany desk, flicking through folders, and Nate sitting off to one side, the gleam of his knife catching the flickering torch light as he scraped away crimson evidence from beneath his nails. I wondered who had pissed him off tonight, and whether they were still breathing.

"Trouble?" I asked.

"Nothing worth mentioning," Nate replied. "Handled."

I knew better than to press further. Nate's brand of 'handling' often left blood on his hands and bodies for us to bury. Handy, though, having our fathers' connections—especially within the university and the local police. It made our nocturnal activities less... problematic. We were DeathKnights, after all, each of us holding dominion over our fated slice of this dark empire. None of us were innocent by any means.

I took the seat across from Nate, tossing the skull mask on the desk with the other two, and took the glass of brandy Bast passed me. He flipped open three of the folders, revealing the information within and I leaned forward to look, even though I already knew their contents.

"Persephone," Bast said. "It's time we decide. It’s Halloween in two weeks and we’ll need time to prepare for the first trial. What do we know so far, Tristan?"

"Sarah Pickford," I began, picking up her folder from the array and flipping it open. Her picture stared back, pretty but no longer an option. "I dug into her background. Seemed almost too good to be true, but it turns out that she's tied to the Tridents. We can't touch her without starting a war."

"Agreed," Bast said. "I’d prefer to stay on good terms with them, especially with Dominic as Poseidon this year."

I nodded. I’d met Dom a few times at various society functions and although he was extremely reserved, I knew him by reputation, and he was said to be fair, though he demanded absolute loyalty from his friends and colleagues. He was similar to Bast in that way, except whereas Bast ran hot as hell fire, Dom was as cold as ice. He was also related to Sarah and that meant she was off the cards for Persephone. The Trident Brotherhood wasn't just another gang; they were power, legacy and money. Another branch of the Shadow Syndicate.

"Off the list, then," Bast concluded, his fingers already dismissing her existence as he flicked the folder aside.

Bast flicked the next folder open with a predatory grace. "Amelie Crane," he said. "Well connected, intelligent. Studying French and Law with a specialisation in Contracts. And let's not pretend looks don't matter—she’d play the role well.”

I leaned closer, my gaze skimming over the dossier's contents. Photos of Amelie, caught unawares, her posture speaking of confidence, her smile calculated, dark hair caught back in an elegant French twist, curves in abundance, and impeccable style. Connections mapped like constellations, each star a powerful name.

"Passable," I admitted. My mind was elsewhere, on another contender—one whose image seemed to burn behind my eyelids every time I blinked.

"Passable?" Nate snorted. "She's perfect. What's not to like?"

"Sure, she’s hot," I said. My fingers itched for the third folder, the one that held my true interest. "And she’s well connected, and if the rumours I’ve heard are true, she pretty much thinks she’s a shoe in. But if we’re choosing our Persephone, my vote’s elsewhere."

Bast’s eyes narrowed. “You prefer the third option? Interesting choice.”

"Paige, yes. Smart, talented. And yeah, completely fuckable."

Nate made a sound that almost sounded like a grunt of agreement, and raising one eyebrow, Bast flipped open the third file and leaned back in his chair, the creak of leather loud in the stillness of the office.

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