Page 4 of Grim Justice

Lucifer’s visit changed nothing. “Lucifer’s games don’t affect our choices. We have a murderer to bring to justice. Reaping his soul is all that matters.”

Fists pounded the table in agreement as my brothers took to their seats.

My gaze flicked around the room, noting their determination. We would end this war and send Razr to hell, where he belonged—no more delays.

“Mammoth.”

“Yeah, pres?”

“We still have that box of fireworks?”

A wicked smile curled the corners of his mouth upward. “We do.”

“Rael?”

“Anything you want, pres, I can get it.”

“Smoke bombs. A lot of them.”

“No problem.”

“Wraith?” I asked.

“Pres?”

“Feel like pulling a little disappearing act?”

Wraith could pass through walls. It was a handy trick.

“Sure. Always ready for a little ghostly action,” he joked.

“Shadow?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell the shadows to be ready to play.”

“It’ll be a pleasure, pres.”

Good. “I need everyone ready to leave at dusk.”

Something in the room shifted. An unforeseen force that had seemed to bog us down now disappeared. Shoulders squared and backs straightened. Several nods followed my words. Tension fizzled. Eagerness sprang into the eyes of my brothers. This was a historic moment for the club.

“Church is dismissed,” I announced, rising to my feet to slam the gavel down. “Tonight, we ride.”

Chapter 2 Grim

“You familiar with the Grim Reaper? What he does?”

Yep. “Like killing people with a scythe?”

He smirked. “You could say that. A true reaper harvests souls. He sends them to hell for eternity. It’s the soul that matters.” He knelt before me, careful not to get a speck of dust or sand on his suit.

“For you, I’ll throw in a little something special. Auras are the true reflection of the soul. You want to know who’s worthy of the Reaper’s blade? The darkest souls. Those covered in ebony shadow.”

The devil laughed and stood, snapping his fingers once more as a piece of parchment appeared out of thin air. An invisible pen began writing words in onyx ink quickly down the page, leaving two blank lines at the bottom. He lifted his other hand and bit off the edge of his finger as blood dripped from the digit, and he signed the bottom line in his dark crimson blood. The wound healed immediately.

“Your turn.”

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