Page 31 of Nocturne
There, between rubble and moss, the camouflaged compartment waits. Kneeling down, the rusty lid comes off. The sniper’s still there, assembled, silent, lethal. Like it’s been waiting. Fingers wrap around the grip gently, like holding something sacred. Blood stains every inch. Soul? Blessed by death, every body just handed over.
Landon Steele came to Boston looking for war. And now... he fucking found it.
?????
The room looks more like a fortress disguised as a meeting room. The walls are covered with dark panels, where dozens of weapons are perfectly organized, each in its rightful place like pieces of art on display.
The center of the room is dominated by a long, dark wooden table, surrounded by leather chairs that look made for long-ass discussions and decisions about who lives and who dies. Up front, a black, empty screen watches everything, like it’s waiting for something.
The smell in the air is a mix of leather, gunpowder, and expensive cigar smoke. O’Connor’s leaned back in hischair, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the other holding a still-burning Montecristo cigar, slowly blowing out smoke with a patience that pisses me off.
He’s wearing a flawless black suit, but what really catches your eye is the thick metal ring on his finger, a symbol of power, command, and that nothing happens here without his say-so.
Next to him, Carter’s on the same vibe: dark blazer, shiny shoes, posture like he’s never bowed his head in his whole life. The two own the room, own the territory, own the table… but the energy between them screams cold war. The truce might be signed, but their eyes are still sharp as fuck. Enemies sitting side by side, waiting for the first fuck-up.
Damon’s right beside me, but he says nothing. Doesn’t need to. The tension between us speaks loud enough already.
Across the room, lying on the cold floor, is Ghost, O’Connor’s white husky. He watches everything with that almost human look, like he’s judging our decisions too. The leather collar with the gang’s symbol shines when the light hits it.
I reach out my hand to him, but he doesn’t move. Just stares back. A silent warning, maybe. The dog’s presence here isn’t just for show, it’s tactical. Every detail in this room, from the cameras in the other wing to the cataloged weapons, says the same thing: here, nobody fucks up. Not even me.
“Here’s the deal...” Carter says, opening a case on the table in his private room. Inside, weapons lined up,shining under the cold light. He picks one up slowly, no rush, loading the clip with bullets.
“You guys are just gonna scope the place out, no hero shit, no trying to be smart, got it?”
Damon and I nod at the same time.
“If you feel like something’s off, get the fuck out. But don’t come back empty-handed. Anything — a name, a whisper, a trace. Bring back some useful shit.?” O’Connor’s voice sounds serious but without a hint of fear, he knows the guy going in is Iron Requiem’s deadliest motherfucker.
?????
The road stretches out like a cold scar cutting through the white that swallows everything. Tall trees line both sides of the highway, their branches stiff with ice, like they’re silently watching us pass. The sky is gray and heavy, like it could dump another wave of snow at any second. We’re in Waverly Heights, a remote neighborhood outside Boston that feels like it either stopped in time—or got buried by it.
The hills are coated in white, layered so thick they’ve swallowed the trails, fences, and any sign of life beyond the forest. The houses around here are big, fancy log cabins made of dark wood, with tall windows and steep roofs, all sunken into thick snow. Every inch of this road looks like the perfect setting for a crime scene or a buried secret.
Inside the car, the silence is just as heavy as thesnow outside. Damon hasn’t said a single word since we left the city, and I haven’t asked anything. No music, no radio, not even static. Just the low rumble of the engine and the soft drag of the tires against frozen asphalt. My shoulder leans lightly against the door, and I keep my eyes on the road, pretending I don’t feel the heat of his body so damn close. It’s weird, being this close to the person I’m fucking obsessed with—just inches away—and still not being able to say a goddamn thing. I want to say something. Anything. But what the hell do you even say to someone who hates you without having a fucking clue why?
I take a chance and say something — not ’cause I’m sure, but ’cause I can’t swallow it all in silence anymore. "Do you always drive like someone’s out to kill you?" I ask, my voice low but tight with tension.
"Maybe 'cause someone always is." Damon doesn’t take his eyes off the road. The answer comes cold, sharp. "If you wanna bail, now’s your chance."
"And miss the show of you crashing and burning? Not a fucking chance."
"You talk too much."
I almost smile. Almost. "And you think too little."
His grip tightens on the wheel. His jaw clenches. Something between us starts to boil — quiet, dangerous.
"You gonna get in my way there?" he asks, still not looking at me.
"No. Unless you deserve it."
The silence that follows is heavy. The kind of silence that comes before a disaster — or a kiss. Hard totell which one we’re craving more.
"Funny..." I murmur, letting the words drip slow. "When I first saw you, I thought you were just another spoiled kid with a thirst for blood."
He shoots me a quick, cutting side glance.
