Page 2 of Stroke of Shadows

Brows pressing together, George’s attention flickering between them both. “You don’t know—”

“He’d be disappointed,” Sythe interrupted gently, fuelling that spark of doubt. “Angry that his best friend was so easily caught. Do you think he’ll believe you when you say you didn’t break? That you didn’t crumble against our interrogation?” Sythe called arcane to his hand, hovering it over George’s thigh. The magical flames licked out, brushing, burning the already seeping wounds.

“Please… don’t,” he choked out, tears streaking down his cheeks, over the bruises that had started to mottle beneath his skin.

“Let the Light guide you,” Sythe repeated, forcing himself not to grin as George’s shoulders softened into a defeated slouch. “And all this will be over.”

“What… what do you want to know?”

Excitement made Sythe fidgety, his movements erratic as he fired question after question, each answer another puzzle piece slotting together inside his mind. He wanted to know everything, every insignificant little detail that would help build the perfect character to interact with Wyatt fucking Beauchamp.

He wanted to know where he hung out, his friends if he had them, and the parties he’d regularly attend. He needed to know the type of drugs he preferred, and even his fucking shoe size.

“Last one,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Why Daemons?”

George frowned. “What are—”

Sythe sliced his throat with a quick flick of his wrist. “Absolutely useless piece of shit.”

The blood was hot against his skin, his right arm aching at the unwanted heat, but he ignored the pain. Knowing it wasn’t real.

“Well,” he said, wiping the blade against his own thigh. “Not entirely useless, but he didn’t know anything about the possessions.” He was sure of it, his ability to read people pretty damn good if he said so himself.

“So, who’s Wyatt Beauchamp?” Jax still leaned relaxed against the back wall, his thick arms crossed.

Sythe turned to his brother. “Come on, big guy. Surely you recognise the surname at least?”

“Beauchamp?” Jax frowned for a second. “As in the Beauchamps?”

“Bingo.” Sythe carefully cleaned the blood splatter from his right arm, the skin bare to the air, while his left was covered in fighting leathers. “This fucker happens to be tight with Wyatt Beauchamp, the heir to the Beauchamp estate.”

The Beauchamps were one of the oldest families in the city, and well known in many of the higher society social circles. Their name adorned golden plaques, hospital wings, as well as a whole section of the British museum.

“Fucking hell, Sy.” Jax rubbed a hand down his face. “So why him and not the father?”

Sythe had been working for weeks with his network, untangling the weeds of the Church of the Light and figuring out who was behind the organisation. There were whispers, rumours that a certain family could gain a personal visit from the Leader. That they had influence over the church.

The deeper Sythe dug into the Beauchamps, the more dirt he found. Angel Beauchamp was the CEO, president, and the chairman of a selection of luxury art galleries with a rumoured net worth in the billions. On the outside, he was the aristocratic man with a surname as old as the city, but beneath the surface, there was something corrupt.

People connected to them would go missing. Accusers, business competitors, and even detectives. No charges would stick, despite the RAP sheet for Wyatt was almost as long as his own. His father, on the other hand, was squeaky clean.

“Angel Beauchamp’s old money is surrounded by distrust and security. He’s supposed to be ruthless in his personal life as well as his business.”

It would take him too long to infiltrate if he struck Angel head on. Months, if not years. And Sythe didn’t want to go dark for years, estranged from his brothers. His family.

No, he needed to be discreet. Infiltrate at a weaker link and bring the family down from the inside out. Cut off the money, and the church will crumble.

Jax straightened, brow raising. “There’s other ways to do this, Sy. You don’t have to go dark.”

“Dude, it’s rude to read thoughts that weren’t meant for you.” Sythe shook his head, then pushed his brother from his mind. “No one else can do what I do.”

“What, be a narcissistic arsehole?” A smirk, one that caused Jax’s facial scar to distort his upper lip.

Sythe grinned, placing a palm against the centre of his chest. “Ouch, brother. You’re mean when you’re jealous.”

Jax simply shook his head. “I assume Angel’s the money behind the church’s sudden growth.”

“According to my network, yes.” Sythe had recruited men, women, and a few children over the years to be his eyes and ears over the city and beyond. He paid his team generously, as well as offering his own services, and sometimes that of his brothers, if needed. They were heavily vetted, and usually people he’d helped in the past. They were loyal, and he had utter trust in the information they’d provided. “Angel may not run the church in name, but money controls everything.”

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