Page 5 of Dark Shadow of Guilt

He knew how to keep a party lively.

Pushing three hundred pounds, all of it solid muscle, Dom was a full head taller than most of the patrons. His long hair flowed to the middle of his back, as black as the darkness that surrounded his soul. He was the biggest, though not the oldest, of the Feard. That honor went to Ely.Yeah. Kudos to him for being a bit younger than dirt.

Dom tightened his rock-hard jaw, donning his stone-cold-killer expression, while he adjusted the intimidating leather patch over one eye. He didn’t mind the flaw. Goddesses in Vast and female Scourges in Angor told him that the savagery it implied made him an enticing hunk of meat. That fact got him laid. A lot.

His true love, though, was his work as an assassin for the OneCreator. Whether it was a capture or extinct assignment, he lived for the job. One and done. Brush that asshole off the list.

When the bartender came through a rear door, he spied Dom and attempted a hasty retreat. Too late.

“Hey, there, asswipe. Get me a drink,” Dom growled, daring the barkeep to disappear into the back room.

The guy stayed put. He knew better. “What kind?” he asked, his voice quivering.

“Surprise me.”

Scourges came in four flavors—Flesh Eaters, Blood Leeches, Mind Rats, and Soul Suckers. The one behind the bar was an Immortal condemned to Angor by the OneCreator. His malady? Well, the pearly white fangs and taste for a vein were dead giveaways. He was a Leech. Not a vamp, though. Immortals didn’t swing that way. He craved blood but didn’t need it to survive. He just enjoyed it and the pain he caused when he took it.

Nobody knew why some of their kind contracted a malady, developed an unhealthy obsession, and changed physically. Not even the OneCreator. Rumor had it that Chaos, the boss’s now-extincted brother, was the cause. Something about how that Sibling’s destructive powers altered Immortal DNA, forever making the species vulnerable to the affliction. Another rumor claimed the cause was the pressure of eternity.

So-named Scourges, who succumbed to a malady, met one of two fates. If they were beyond saving, the OneCreator issued an order to extinct them, to end their existence. The justice was deserved, swift, bloody, and legit. If the OC deemed the malady-infected Immortals salvageable, an assassin dropped them in Angor where they had a chance to redeem themselves. Happy times and job security.

If Harmony, Angor’s head honcho in the OC’s absence, or the OC pronounced a Scourge rehabilitated, they returned to Vast, reformed and their physical perfection restored.

While some Immortals contracted maladies, others successfully fought the disease or remained uninfected.

The bartender looked as if he might piss his pants. “Fuck no, Dominion. The last time I prepped a surprise drink, you broke my jaw.” His mouth dropped open, showing two yellowed fangs peeking below an upper lip.

Dom didn’t feel sorry for the guy who had swept through Vast on a rampage when he succumbed to his malady. In a haven, a home for newly-created Immortals and a supposedly safe place for the young from infancy to maturity, the Blood Leech bartender had drained four toddlers. The only evidence left behind was their withered skins. When he was found, his victims’ blood still dripped down his chin onto his soiled shirt. The OC condemned him to Angor, believing he would truly reform after doing penance for his crimes. Dominion had delivered the sentence, bagging him and dropping him off in the dimension where he would be punished.

Though mature Immortals could be extincted only at the hand of the OneCreator, Michael, or the Feard, toddlers were not so lucky. They had not settled into their eternal form yet. So, the bartender’s victims had died slow, terrifying deaths. Shouldn’t happen to kids.

Dom uncoiled from the barstool, his movements fluid. He leaned on a bent, thickly muscled forearm, his good eye freezing the Leech. “Punishment is part of the gig here. What’s your complaint, wuss?”

“You never appreciate my choices.” The guy shook, imitating a willow in a strong wind.

“Not true. I just enjoy breaking your bones. Any Scourge who is in here for your crimes deserves a constant reminder of his sins.” Dom continued his intimidation while Ely and Remi looked on.

The bartender groaned. “Isn’t it enough you confined me in this pit where I’m regularly tortured at the Ordeals?”

Once in Angor, Scourges were assigned to different Ordeals for their punishments, each specializing in a torment. Drowning. Fire. Limbs torn off or chewed on by predators. Strangulation. Whips. Knives. Fun times, fashioned specifically to fit each malady.

In between torments, the OC, or Harmony in his stead, gave the Scourges brief stays, believing that downtime increased their fear. They got to think about what was coming. A little icing on the cake of agony.

But not all punishment occurred at the Ordeals. For grins and giggles, wicked malady-stricken attacked their own on the streets or dragged them out of their quarters for impromptu pain.

Trustees, those Scourges who were nearly rehabilitated, got to be the punishers at the Ordeals or moved into management positions, running a restaurant, a shop, or a bar.

“No biggie,” said Dom, answering the bartender’s question. “By morning, you heal. Refreshed, hearty, and eager to start a new day.”

The barkeep continued his sad story. “I get no reprieve. When my daily dose of torture ends at the Ordeals, I go home to the pits where it stinks like backed-up sewage.”

“Invest in air freshener,” said Dom.

“There’s noise, too. Screams. Pleas. Never-ending cries for help.”

“Boo hoo,” said Remi. “Have you tried Air Pods and heavy metal?”

“Can we get that stuff here?” asked the Scourge, his eyes lighting with excitement.

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