Page 4 of Black Hand
“I believe there was a good reason you kept us waiting, Brooklyn.” Isaiah slanted his eyes, and the glint there told me he would kill me without batting an eye if I said a word wrong.
Jet black hair was tied in a low ponytail at the base of his head and his red lips stood out stark against his white skin. His black robes folded over his body in layers, allowing the red piping to stand out like droplets of blood being sprinkled across the fabric. It matched the attire of the other two males in the room, who were watching me with equally bloodthirsty stares. Frozen in their mid-thirties, the three Council members could’ve been ruling over Hollywood while being admired by men and women alike around the world. They were so perfect it almost hurt to gaze at their beauty, but that was only skin deep. They were all angelic on the outside, but there were no bigger monsters if you looked inside. Instead of admiration, they chose fear as their reason for existing. Older than dirt, all three were what supernaturals were afraid of. It was very simple in their world.
The Council of the Syndicate understood only power.
And you’d better not have more than them.
If you did, those like me were sent to fix the problem.
“Johnathan wanted to join me, Sire.” Bowing my head in submission that rubbed me wrong on so many levels, I kept my voice soft and meek. “I meant no disrespect. I thought it will please you.”
“What of the scum?” Frederic, sprawled on the right of Isaiah, flicked a lock of his white blonde hair over his shoulder as he trailed his fingers over the arm of the woman swaying on her feet next to him. Red rivulets flowed down her arm, thick droplets splattering the top of the table below it. His lips were stained with her blood, and I watched his tongue poke out to lick it off.
A sharp pain stabbed me at the center of my chest, and it almost doubled me over.
“Dead.” The strain in my choked words couldn’t be helped, and the asshole gave me a malicious grin, all fangs and teeth as if he could feel the phantom pain in my own arm throbbing.
“Excellent.” Frederic purred, sinking his fangs in the woman’s arm again without looking away from me. The human didn’t have much longer to live.
I looked at her then. Her face was so pale it was graying on the edges of her cheeks, which stood high on a once-pretty face. Her blue eyes were unfocused and sunken on her expressionless face, and her thick hair was flattened to her skull from sweat. Her naked body was trembling and swaying while she blinked fast and tried to clear her vision. I willed her to see me, and when her gaze cleared for that one moment, I internally whispered a promise from the bottom of my soul that I would remember her face. Just like I remembered the others brought to this hell where they will die. Given as an offering for peace, or to pay off a debt, every human knew stepping in that they would not be getting out alive. It could’ve just been my imagination, but I thought her cracked lips lifted slightly at the corners in a sad, grateful smile before her hand went limp and she dropped in a heap on the floor. Frederic released her arm in disgust, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
I glared.
I couldn’t help it.
“Is there a problem, dear?” The sweet tone of his voice did not match the arched eyebrow daring me to say anything that would dig my own grave.
“Not at all … Sire.” I wished to remove the smirk off his face with my dagger.
But I just stood there.
“Perhaps I could talk some sense into her, Sire,” the kiss-ass next to me offered casually. “It seems our Brooklyn still struggles with obedience and manners.” I stiffened and my jaw clenched when he chuckled.
He still hadn’t removed his hand from my back.
“Remove your hand if you’d like to keep it.” Looking forward, my words were so soft that his arm dropped before I was finished talking.
“No need for that, Johnathan.” My chest stopped squeezing my lungs when I heard those words. “Your father would be so proud, child.” Samir, the third and last member, spoke in his calm deep voice.
My eyes darted to the portrait hanging away from all others that covered the mansion. This one was above the massive fireplace that took up almost an entire wall of the room. The same pale skin and electric green eyes stared back at me from a face resembling mine so much it couldn’t be mistaken whose child I was. His black hair was the only difference between us. My red hair came from my mother, just adding to the freakshow I turned out to be among my kind.
“I do try not to soil his name and reputation, Sire.” Which was true … to a point.
I didn’t know much about him, only that he belonged to the Syndicate just like I did now. Or so I was told, which didn’t explain why his portrait was sitting in this chamber. They told me he died in the war we had centuries ago when the rest of the supernaturals banded together in hopes to kill all of the Syndicate. My father’s portrait was placed in this room to show him honor because he lost his life to protect the Council members.
I didn’t believe a word of it.
According to the tales they spun, we won the war, and from that day forward even the slightest rise in power was punishable by death. They fancied themselves to be rulers and lawmakers. What the Syndicate actually depicted was the same as what the Mafia was for the humans.
Black Hand was what the rest of the supernatural world called us.
They never said it to our face.
“We should celebrate.” Blinking fast, I looked away from my father’s painting to see Isaiah watching me intently. “For a job well done.” The smile didn’t reach his eyes.
My nod was slow and wary because my mind was racing through ways I could get out of it. The three ancients were watching the internal war play out in my mind, but they grinned the moment they saw defeat in my eyes. There would be no getting out of it, though I knew any kind of celebration would be more like a massacre in this place. My deep sigh only widened their smiles.
“You are free to go, Brooklyn.” Isiah twirled his hand as if shooing me off. “Do not wander too far. The party will commence in a few hours. Understood?”
