Page 110 of Stroke of Shadows

Harper took a second to take him in, trying to control the rising panic. “Wyatt wants to become a Lord, but what do you get from this?”

“I get my kind to thrive without laws. To live as kings, superior to every other Breed. But first I need to create a stronger legion, ones more like me. Ones that survive when touched with my power.”

“The chalice.” The bead popped, releasing a gentle puff of air. “You’re going to use the chalice.”

Gideon’s smile was cruel. “Daemons are almost impossible to replicate, with the number able to survive the transition minimum. Their souls break before completion, but with the chalice, I’ll be able to bind their souls.”

“Maybe there’s a reason your Breed doesn’t survive.”

Gideon’s face twisted with anger, and Harper pressed herself harder against the wall.

She needed to stop speaking. The blood loss was making her delirious.

Gideon’s hand shot out, and Harper expected pain. Instead, he brushed the back of his hand against her blossoming bruise.

“It’s a shame you’re needed as a sacrifice.” His wings flexed, knocking over more boxes with a thump. “But with you, I’ll be able to eradicate everyone and everything that stands in my way.”

His fingers clamped on her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“I’ll fell cities and make leaders bow at my feet. Your soul is the catalyst that’s going to be the end to the world as it is, because I was once a king, and now I’m going to become a God.”

Chapter 38

Sythe

White marble walls were definitely a trigger. As was the labyrinth of entwined corridors and halls that made up the abbey in which he grew up. He’d memorised every nook and cranny as a child, obviously that was before he’d been sent off to be trained as a killer.

He’d spent his time between tutors and following his father around like a puppy, who at the time was a Vector for the Archdruid. Sythe wasn’t surprised when Bartholomew Edwards took over when his predecessor died; his father had been coveting the position since before Sythe was even born.

“What the…”

Sythe made sure to smile at every druid he came across in the halls, even politely greeting some he recognised. Bar one, who was blind, all were horrified at his presence. Which was a bit rude considering he hadn’t stepped foot in there since he was a kid. You’d think some of the men he’d grown up with would be a little more welcoming, even if Sythe did hold the severed head of a Daemon.

They shouldn’t really be surprised, though. It was his job to kill Daemons. That was the whole fucking point the previous Archdruid created the Guardians. He just hadn’t predicted the Guardians would grow tired of the Order, and tell them all to go fuck themselves.

Anticipation vibrated his every step. His father was a loose end, one he intended on cutting off entirely.

A group of druids rushed from Archdruid Edwards’ office, a familiar presence already inside. Sythe smirked, the druids slipping in the blood he was leaving a trail behind.

“Be very careful who you threaten, Councilman Edwards. You’re not immortal,” a feminine voice warned.

Sythe shoved at the door, amused to find Titus’s redhead slicing a pretty line across his father’s face, all while his brother watched. He had no idea what was going on, but he was a fan.

“I’m not your dog,” Sythe growled in dramatic interruption, hoping the scent of copper, death, and rot ingrained into the room and stuck around forever. He tossed Bishop’s head with a thud onto Edwards’s desk. It surprisingly bounced, landing face forward.

‘Looks like you’ve been busy,’ Titus commented, connecting mentally.

Sythe met his brother’s gaze, still not used to the deep red. ‘This one’s for you.’ He flicked his eyes to the woman. ‘And your new mate?’

Titus nodded, and Sythe all but did a happy dance.

‘Fucking hell,’ he continued in his mind. ‘What else have I missed?’

Edwards recoiled from the head, the chair scraping as he pushed it back. “Is this the Daemon that murdered Vector Wallace?”

“The very same, your highness.” Sythe bowed, making sure it was as flamboyant as possible. “But this wasn’t done for you, it was for my brother.”

“He’s not your brother,” his father snarled.

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