Page 46 of Dead Devil's Playground
He hesitates, his one good eye darting between Ry and the door as if weighing his options.
"You're not leaving here," she informs him calmly. "But how you leave is up to you. In a body bag, or in pieces. Your choice."
Something in her voice must convince him because he swallows hard and nods.
"There's talk," he begins, voice trembling, "on the streets. People saying this year's Dead Devil's Night will be different. That it'll be returned to the way it used to be. That something will happen at the new club to kick it off."
Before we took control, Dead Devil's Night was a nightmare—a purge where the worst elements of the city ran free, where murder and rape and torture were just part of the celebration. We changed that, imposed our own order on the chaos. Made rules. Consequences.
"Who's saying this?" Rev asks, stepping closer.
The man licks his bloody lips. "Everyone. It's spreading through the ranks. People who've been waiting for the old days to come back. When there were no rules, when it was every man for himself."
"And who," Ry asks, her knife tracing idle patterns in the air, "is going to make this happen?"
The captive's eye widens, fear making him hesitate again. Ry sighs dramatically, then plunges her knife into his thigh. His scream echoes off the walls as she twists the blade.
"I asked you a question," she says pleasantly.
"Silas!" he screams. "They're saying Silas is back! That he's going to bring back the true Dead Devil's Night!"
We all freeze at that name. I feel like someone's dumped a bucket of ice water down my spine. Beside me, Rev has gone completely still, his face a perfect mask of control that doesn't fool me for a second. I can feel the rage radiating off him in waves.
"Silas," Ry repeats, her voice eerily calm.
The man nods frantically. "That's what they're saying. That he's been planning his return for years. Waiting for the right moment to take back what's his."
There's no way. No fucking way that Silas is back. Our father—if you could call that monster a father—is dead. Rev and I killed him ourselves two years ago. I remember the way his blood felt on my hands, the sound he made when Rev cut his throat. The satisfaction of watching the light fade from his eyes and knowing he couldn’t return to hurt us.
"You're lying," I say, pushing off the wall and approaching the chair. "Silas is dead."
"I'm just telling you what people are saying!" he protests, shrinking back as far as his restraints will allow. "I don't know if it's true! Please, I'm just repeating what I heard!"
The door to the warehouse slams open, cutting off whatever bullshit our captive is about to spew next. Hudson strides in, his expression grim and posture rigid—the way he gets when things have gone sideways. Blood spatters his jacket, none of it his from what I can tell. His eyes lock with Ry's immediately, a silent conversation passing between them.
"Well?" Ry asks.
Hudson's jaw tightens. "Camden," he says instead of answering her, "finish this." He nods toward our bloody captive.
Camden straightens, already pulling his sidearm. "Yes, sir."
"Wait," Ry protests, stepping between Camden and the captive. "I'm not done with him."
Hudson's hand wraps gently around her upper arm. "Yes, you are. We need to talk." His voice drops lower as he adds, "All four of us. Now."
Something in his tone makes her relent. She tosses her bloody knife onto the metal table with a clatter, then follows as Hudson leads her toward the small office at the back of the warehouse. Rev and I exchange glances before falling in step behind them.
The office is barely more than a closet—a desk, a few chairs, and walls thin enough that we'll hear the gunshot when Camden executes our captive. Hudson closes the door behind us, then runs a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of someone else's blood in the dark strands.
"Bren Cade is dead," he announces without preamble. "Someone got to him before I did. Professional hit—two to the chest, one to the head. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing."
"Fuck," Rev mutters, leaning against the wall.
"The warehouse on Fifteenth?" Ry asks, her voice unnervingly calm.
Hudson shakes his head. "Empty. Cleared out. Not a fingerprint, not a shell casing, nothing. Whoever we're dealing with is thorough."
I slam my fist into the desk, sending papers scattering. "So we've got nothing. Again." The frustration burns in my chest, made worse by the ghost of a name that shouldn't be possible. Silas. Just thinking it makes bile rise in my throat.
