Page 42 of Stroke of Shadows

Gideon’s Undead have made waves within the Undercity, men taking sections of the city and claiming them as their own by any means necessary. At first they were just whispers, but in the last six months the reports of men who wore the faces of skulls became too much to ignore. The Lessers, also known as Skulls, were disposable soldiers, bodies poisoned with the same magic that created Daemons.

Bodies that couldn’t handle the magic, and slowly deteriorated until they were nothing but empty shells. They’d take a group out, only for more to appear weeks, if not days later. It seemed the Church of the Light was the ones providing soldiers the entire time.

Bit counter-intuitive considering Daemons were definitely not human, and therefore inferior in the eyes of the ‘Gods.’ It just showed how morals were ignored when power was involved.

Lorraine’s gaze was direct. “Gideon’s already taken almost thirty over the months. Wyatt knows I’m running out of willing participants.”

The Guardians knew of Gideon’s struggle with creating more Daemons, the ritual having less than a one percent success rate. Druids were the only Breed able to transition, but many of their bodies were not designed to withstand such a powerful intake of black magic.

Lessers, on the other hand, had a much higher success. Even if it was a death sentence.

Anyone could become a Lesser, the ritual not that much different to the one of becoming a Daemon. Except the power would consume them from the inside out, with the weaker the body, the faster the deterioration.

Humans were the weakest, which meant she was essentially sending her people to their graves.

“Why?”

A line appeared between her brows. “Why?”

“You’re sacrificing your people for a Daemon. So tell me why. What does Wyatt have against you that you’d hurt your own people?”

Panic. Fear. Yearning. So many reactions flashed before she settled with anger.

“I’ll send Wyatt your regards,” he said, inclining his head. He knew she wouldn’t say anything else right then, but that was okay. He was patient.

Lorraine’s jaw clenched, and he pressed closer, needing her to fear him as much as she seemed enamoured with Wyatt. Except something flashed in her eyes that he didn’t quite catch. She was keeping a secret, a puzzle piece he couldn’t wait to find and expose.

“Let the Light guide you, my Leader.”

Chapter 16

Sythe

Sythe enjoyed hauling the snivelling excuse of a man by his throat more than he should. It wasn’t an act, his own anger blending seamlessly with the character he was portraying.

“You told me I’d have an extra week!” the man gripped in his fist whimpered, clawing at Sythe’s hand. “I need more time!”

Wyatt watched with amusement, his blue eyes dancing between them as he leaned against the single snooker table. “Miles, it’s a pleasure to see you, as always.”

From the way Miles whimpered, he didn’t seem to agree with the statement.

“Weedy little cunts like you don’t get an extra week, do they, Sy?” He looked up at Sythe, and Sythe tightened his hold a fraction. “No, they don’t. Now, tell me again how you’re going to get us Angel’s money?”

“I’ve already called her! She’ll pay, I promise!” Miles tried to wiggle, gasping for breath. “She owes me. She’ll pay everything I owe. I swear!”

Wyatt pursed his lips, blue eyes glacial before he nodded, and Sythe released his grip without warning.

Miles became a dead weight, landing heavily on his knees with an audible crack. He’d already been beaten, the hits landing harder than Sythe was supposed to when they picked him up not even an hour ago.

He was human, his bone structure unable to handle the strength behind his blows, but Sythe found he didn’t actually care. Not when they’d tracked the worthless piece of crap to a rundown snooker club that just happened to be in Wyatt’s pocket. He’d been out in the alley behind, using his own knuckles against someone smaller. Weaker.

Sythe stood over Miles, waiting. For all of Wyatt’s faults and erratic behaviour, he seemed to thrive in this type of environment.

“You’re lucky I haven’t already thrown you in the Thames,” Wyatt said with an air of boredom. “You see, I don’t like to be fucked over and my father definitely doesn’t take kindly to cunts like you stealing our money.”

“I didn’t—”

Sythe struck out, his foot kicking against the side of his head. “You don’t get to speak back.”

---