Page 1 of Stroke of Shadows

Prologue

SYTHE

There was something beautiful about a grown man whimpering like a child and begging for his mother. Music to Sythe’s ears, considering he didn’t usually get to deal with the torturing side of stuff.

But George, the bastard, was one of the most loyal people he’d ever had the honour of tormenting, and Sythe would’ve been impressed if the scum wasn’t a member of the one organisation he held a personal grudge against.

“Now,” Sythe all but purred, his smile making even the strongest flinch. It was too friendly, too open to interpretation.

Was he simply a happy guy? Or was he just bat-shit crazy?

“Are you going to co-operate? Or is my friend here going to remove your pathetic excuse of a dick with a rusty spoon?” Sythe purposely dropped his eyes to the piss stain on George’s trousers, and then to Jax, who glowered at him from the shadows.

‘What?’ he asked his brother, connecting their minds telepathically. ‘Too much?’

Jax blinked, the briefest flash of his beast appearing before it swirled back into his usual icy glare. ‘You don’t know the meaning of ‘too much.’’

Sythe could hear the subtle humour in his brother’s tone, even if his scowl–an almost permanent fixture on Jax’s face–said different.

‘He’s not budging,’ Jax continued, cracking his knuckles. ‘You’ve lost your touch. Let me have a go.’

‘And take all the glory when he finally does crack?’ Sythe snorted a laugh, making George’s eyes widen further. ‘You’re almost as bad as Kace.’

A quiet grunt from the corner. ‘At least I know how to share.’

Sythe let out a full-blown laugh, the sound startling in the dark, concrete room.

“You’re fucking crazy,” George spat, blood trickling gently from the corner of his lips.

“And you’re one stubborn fuck who’s about to lose his precious dick, and for what?” Sythe braced his palms on George’s thighs, right above the lacerations that were just deep enough to hurt, but not enough to kill. Yet. “A guy who doesn’t give a fuck about you.”

The first sign of uncertainty clouded over his eyes, giving Sythe the inch he needed.

Thank those traitorous Fates.

“We despise people like you,” George growled, but there was less anger than before, fear a gentle quiver as he finally accepted his situation. “Inferior against God’s perfect image, one of strength and intelligence. We don’t need magic to be whole. We’re exactly as we’re meant to be, and I hope the light burns you in its presence.”

Sythe cocked his head, his fingers digging into George’s muscles until he sucked in a pained breath. “Don’t worry, it already burns.”

Jax flicked his gaze over, but Sythe ignored the flare of concern, needing to concentrate. He would not lose the fucking bet.

“You’re all just leeches, ruining this once normal world,” George said.

They were words Sythe had heard many times, thrown at him, and all those that weren’t entirely human for as long as Breed had shared the earth. Which was fucking forever, but around three hundred years since the shit really hit the fan. After the Great War, Breed were finally acknowledged as citizens. Humans accepted that they weren’t alone, and over the centuries, the prejudice had fizzled to nothing. Well, almost nothing.

The Church of the Light had grown in presence over the last few years, a place in which humans went to worship hostile Gods and condemn those that were different. They may not have the most followers, but they sure as fuck shouted the loudest.

The Church of the Light would stop at nothing to share their toxic ideologies.

They were dangerous. Terrorists. And recently, they’d seen a suspicious amount of Daemonic activity within their ranks. Fucking ironic, if you asked him, but it was his job to figure out why and put a stop to it.

“Your own friend abandoned you to a very Breed you despise. Forgotten you, and yet you remain loyal to him rather than your Gods.” Sythe enjoyed studying people. Watching every twitch of muscle, every drip of sweat along their brow and how their eyes betrayed emotions.

“You know nothing.” George licked across his broken bottom lip, wincing as it met a small cut.

“Let the Light guide you,” Sythe said, forcing the phrase out calmly, a friend rather than the enemy. “Tell me about Wyatt Beauchamp. Tell me what I want to know, and you can receive sanctuary within the light.” The words were acid on his tongue.

“Your Gods will welcome you for your courage,” Jax added, his voice a deep grumble. “For your continued fight for the cause. Mr Beauchamp will not.”

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