Five hundred years ago, a deadly artifact called the Chains of Peter was stolen. Now, the chains have resurfaced in Mobile, Alabama, and the House of David, a secret organization that specializes in securing dangerous artifacts, has sent its most lethal operative to find them.
Judge Eden Dowler is all but certain the wealthy Bachman family is hiding the chains, and he has a win/win plan for securing them. As it happens, the Bachmans’ youngest son, Orion, is Eden’s estranged half-brother. All Eden has to do is convince his brother to join the House of David, and the chains are as good as his. Orion Bachman is the perfect candidate—loyal, intelligent, fit, and eager—and Eden is certain his brother’s healthy upbringing will benefit the House, which usually only recruits broken children.
There’s just one problem. A mysterious organization known will stop at nothing to keep the House from securing the chains.
As the House continues its bloody search for artifacts, Eden begins to question its integrity and the role he plays within it. Unfortunately, Orion is beginning to question everything else, including whether he should have ever put his faith in someone like Eden Dowler.
Five hundred years ago, a deadly artifact called the Chains of Peter was stolen. Now, the chains have resurfaced in Mobile, Alabama, and the House of David, a secret organization that specializes in securing dangerous artifacts, has sent its most lethal operative to find them.
Judge Eden Dowler is all but certain the wealthy Bachman family is hiding the chains, and he has a win/win plan for securing them. As it happens, the Bachmans’ youngest son, Orion, is Eden’s estranged half-brother. All Eden has to do is convince his brother to join the House of David, and the chains are as good as his. Orion Bachman is the perfect candidate—loyal, intelligent, fit, and eager—and Eden is certain his brother’s healthy upbringing will benefit the House, which usually only recruits broken children.
There’s just one problem. A mysterious organization known will stop at nothing to keep the House from securing the chains.
As the House continues its bloody search for artifacts, Eden begins to question its integrity and the role he plays within it. Unfortunately, Orion is beginning to question everything else, including whether he should have ever put his faith in someone like Eden Dowler.
Eden
Present Day, Alabama—Mission: Recover the Chains of Peter
Rain-soaked and humid, the city of Mobile swings into view beyond my windshield. The salty air coming off the Gulf of Mexico mingles with sweat on my lips. Glass and steel skyscrapers tower over the bay like unfriendly giants. It hardly seems the place to find the Chains of Peter—a biblical artifact that’s been missing for centuries, an object that can kill whoever touches it—yet the intel pointed here, so here I came.
I work for an organization called the House of David. Our objective is to secure every powerful, holy artifact before some fool discovers it and uses it to form a dangerous cult. This is what always happens when people discover artifacts like the Chains of Peter; they form cults. People love cults. That’s one of the first things I learned working for the House. The second thing I learned was that my own father had gathered intel for them before he retired. Apparently, he married an American woman after walking away from my mother, settled in Mobile, had one son, and then promptly died of brain cancer without so much as an apology to anyone.
Is it any wonder I signed up for this mission, specifically? I’ve never met my brother. I don’t even know what he looks like, to be honest. All I know is he’s lived in this city all his life with his shockingly wealthy family and their shockingly successful bakery. I doubt he even knows I exist, but he’s been the ghost haunting my thoughts for the greater part of fifteen years, and this may be my only chance to exorcise him.
I park my car downtown and stroll along the main boulevard while the rattle of a passing train fades in the distance. On the sidewalk, two beggars trade words and watch me, their voices drowned out by an echo of sirens. I don’t know why anyone would choose to live here, but apparently, some people like it. Maybe it’s because Mobile, which was a French colony at one point, feels a bit like New Orleans—with its Creole-style architecture, French doors, and wraparound mantels.
On Dauphin Street, tucked between two classier establishments, is a bar called The Opener. A corked bottle of red wine is proudly displayed on its rusty, hanging sign. The windows on either side of the door are cracked, the brick mortar crumbling, and the cement flower pots look like they’re growing cigarettes instead of flowers. Exactly my kind of place.
Inside, a three-piece band plays light jazz in one corner while couples at intimate tables talk loudly over their glasses. Picasso paintings and wine racks with triangular shelves line the brick walls. Some patrons are in their Sunday best, but others are casual enough that I don’t feel underdressed—not that feeling underdressed ever prevented me from enjoying a drink.
I lift myself onto a barstool and adjust my lumbar against the short leather backrest. Behind the copper bar are alcoves of liquor on mirror-backed shelves. The soft light makes every bottle look more enticing than even the most beautiful woman.
The bartender, a perky young woman with long, strawberry-blonde hair, dries an empty glass in front of me. She smiles, and I notice her full lips, bright eyes, and the subtle dimple in the middle of her chin. When I fail to smile back, she frowns. “So, black’s your thing, huh?” she says.
“Say what?”
“You’re decked out all in black like a priest.” She twists her hair into a bun before tapping a finger on the glass she just dried. “So, what’ll it be, father?”
I give her a smirk. She thinks she’s insulted me, but she doesn’t know the half of it. “I just like the color black.”
She scowls, and I’m becoming more and more certain she makes her tips with her looks and not her attitude. “Technically, black’s not even a color, you know. It’s the absence of color. So your favorite color is nothing. That’s almost as depressing as your outfit.”
I burst out laughing. Her lack of self-censorship amuses me. In a way, I find it charming. Most people are intimidated when I walk into a room, so this is a refreshing change. “Whatever you say. I’ll take a glass of white. Surprise me.”
She leans over the counter until she’s inches from my face. “Say please.”
“Please… Uh, I don’t know your name.”
“Phoebe.” She grabs a bottle from below the counter and starts to pour.
“Please, Phoebe, will you get me a glass of white?” I say, even though she’s already handing it to me. I swallow it down in a few gulps, and a warm sensation floods my body. My shoulders loosen, and I sink into my seat.
Phoebe looks momentarily horrified by my lack of respect for wine, but her attention is quickly taken by someone new who’s just come into the bar. “Hey, O!” she hollers over my shoulder. “Knew you’d come. You can’t stay away for long.”
A young man with a stained apron swaggers through the door like he owns the place and sits at the end of the bar. “What’s up, Energizer Bunny?” he says as if he and the bartender have been friends since kindergarten.
She grins at him. “Haven’t seen you in a while. So, how’ve you been? How’s the fam?”
He pinches his chin in mock thought. “Eh, can’t complain. I’ve been busy with school, and the folks are chilling.”
The kid’s sitting just a few stools down. I glance over at him and suddenly find it difficult to breathe. What were the chances? I’ve never been a lucky man, so I find it hard to believe I’ve somehow run into my brother at the first place I stop in Mobile. I don’t know why I’m surprised he’s white; our father was. I guess I expected him to look a little like me, but he doesn’t. He’s got golden hair, sky-blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion. I can almost see his slowly aging portraits plastered up and down his family’s halls and staircases. Maybe in one, he’s learning to skate. In another, he’s graduating high school. And in another, he’s holding a soccer ball and trophy in his team uniform. His hands are full with all of his accomplishments.
While he flirts with the bartender, I dig an old photo out of my pocket. It’s worn and yellowed, folded in half with one corner torn off. In it, two men stand side-by-side in front of the Palace of Versailles. One of them is Joseph Cain, the current leader of the House of David. The other is my father and the reason Cain sought me out when I was thirteen, pulled me off the streets, and offered me a place in the House. I study the photo and the young man sitting two barstools away from me. He’s the spitting image of my father. It’s like I’ve gone back in time and found the man himself, long before he even met my mother in Cairo. I press my thumb against the top of my middle finger and add pressure until it hurts.
Phoebe pauses her conversation and turns to me. “You gonna just sit there, or are you planning to order something else?”
“I’ll take more of the same.” I hand her my glass, and she fills it again. Then I down it all like I’m dying of thirst.
Her jaw drops. “Uh, would you like another, Norm?”
I barely register her voice as I push my glass toward her. The wine is finally hitting the way I need it to, and thank god for that. This situation was not one I thought I’d be dealing with tonight. I’m not remotely ready.
Phoebe cocks her head and examines me. “Mister, you don’t look so good. You gonna pass out on my bar? Just tell me whether you’re drunk or crazy, okay? I won’t judge, but it’ll be good information to have. Like which men in white coats should I call?”
I scoff and lean back in my stool. “I’m not crazy.”
“You sure? I mean what sane person chugs wine? And why do you keep staring at Orion?” She waves her hand in my face to stop me from doing just that. “He’s spoken for, you know. I’m going to snatch him up as soon as he’s done with school.”
Orion laughs and blushes. “Sure, Phoebs. Cradle robbing now, are we?”
“Shut up, O. I’m not that old.”
My vision is starting to swim, but I continue to study the guy Phoebe called Orion. This has to be my brother. It figures our father would give him a weird name like mine.
Orion hops off his barstool and sits on the one next to mine. Then he offers his hand in a gesture every bit as warm and welcoming as Phoebe isn’t. “Hey. I’m Orion Bachman. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You look like a guy with an interesting story.” He’s so open. It’s like the world hasn’t beaten him down a little more with every year he lives. I can’t believe in someone like him, especially not someone who’s in any way related to me.
I take his hand. “Eden Dowler. I’m not from around here.”
Phoebe butts in with a chuckle. “You can at least look a guy in the eye when you shake his hand. Didn’t your mama teach you better?”
She seems to want attention, so I give it to her. I turn to face her, staring openly as I say, “As a matter of fact, my mother died the day I was born. So, no.” Her eyes widen, her cheeks flush, and she walks away. Clearly, my full attention isn’t the gift she thinks it is.
Orion doesn’t seem to register the tension between myself and his future girlfriend. “So what are you doing in Mobile, Eden Dowler? Most people don’t wind up here on vacation. Is it a work thing?”
“Yes,” I answer without inflection. “It’s a work thing.”
“Where are you from originally?” he asks.
“Hell.”
He throws his head back and laughs. I know he’s not as drunk as me, so this must be his genuine personality. “Well, Mobile’s a decent city—with a few nuts—but you’ll enjoy yourself.” His voice is warm. It gives me peace and mental stillness. I hate that. I think I hate him.
I grab my freshly filled glass and swallow all of it. “Woo! Well, I’m the Grim Reaper come for your soul, golden boy. Better run while you can.”
Phoebe returns and takes my glass. “You’re clearly drunk,” she says. “I’m going to have to cut you off.”
My posture stiffens. She’s just uttered the unforgivable words. She seems to think it’s funny, but I disagree. “I can’t win with you, can I?”
“Nope, but I’ll make a deal with you.”
I lean in closer. “What’s the deal?”
“A truce.” She holds out a bottle and waggles it in my face. “If you go sit at a table and leave us alone, you can have the rest of this bottle.”
Orion chuckles and sips his wine. “You’re so mean, Phoebs.”
I snatch the bottle from her and move to a booth at the back of the bar. I can still see both of them, but I can’t hear them anymore, which is a mercy. Phoebe’s casual cruelty is one thing, but Orion’s kindness is something I can’t tolerate. Every time he gives me the benefit of the doubt, I want to strangle him a little more. To be this trusting, his life must have been so easy. I knew his family had money. What I didn’t know was they also had endless supplies of love and support. Dear god, they probably had family game nights.
I pull out the photo of my father and stare at it. I can’t picture this man—this secretive, danger-addicted nomad—sitting down to play a board game with his family. Orion and his mother must have been important enough for him to retire from the House of David. My mother and I were not. I rest my head in my palm for a moment and resist the urge to tear up the photo in a rage. Phoebe’s right. I’m too drunk to think straight. I leave four hundred dollars on the table and get up to leave.
“Later, weirdo!” Phoebe calls from the bar.
“Hope to see you around,” Orion says sincerely.
I keep my focus on the exit so I don’t miss it and run into the doorframe. The night sky is black and glittering. There’s not a cloud in sight, only stars and a waxing moon. I breathe deep and appreciate the distinctive smell of the gulf as my shoulders starts to relax and my world begins to make sense again. Forget my brother. The Chains of Peter are why I’m really here, and nothing could remind me of that more reliably than the blow to the head I receive just a few paces from the bar.
Ah, yes. Here’s my life again. Here’s the song I recognize. One more sharp crack to my skull, and I’m kissing the ground.
A raspy voice behind me says, “You’re here for the chains, aren’t you?”
I touch my head and find blood on the tips of my fingers. “Who the hell wants to know?”
The mysterious stranger kicks me in the chest before I can turn to get a look at him. “Whiteface doesn’t like people who get in Seditio’s way.”
Well, that answers the question of who I’m dealing with and what he probably looks like. Members of Seditio always travel in pairs, and they always wear their stupid, designer masks like the childish terrorists they are. Their organization is the antithesis of the House of David. They want all artifacts scattered to the wind, all death cults alive and well, and all extremists doing what they do best.
I clamber to my feet and turn to face my enemy. Wild eyes stare back at me from behind a red fox mask. The pitted skin of the man’s neck stands starkly against the smooth lines of his blue suit. Next to him, a man with gray hair in an African lion mask grips a length of steel pipe. I’d bet my last dollar they think they look badass. It’s sad, really. I can’t help but laugh.
“What’s fucking funny?” says the man with wild eyes.
“Nothing. Just your pretty masks.”
He glowers at me, and his comrade hands him the steel pipe. “I can give you a prettier mask than mine, boy.”
He hits me in the head again. No doubt I already have a concussion. This is just overkill. Before I can get back to my feet, he grabs me by the hair and smashes my face into the curb. Blood drips over the sidewalk. People pass by, but the man with the lion mask keeps saying, “Move along, unless you want the same fucking beating,” in a noticeably Appalachian accent.
Then I hear another voice. “What the hell are you doing? Get off of him!” I can hardly open my eyes, but I already know that voice. Orion. The racket must have drawn him out here.
“What the hell is y’all’s deal?” And Phoebe too. Jesus.
“Get away,” I say to them, my voice barely a gurgle in my throat. “Run.”
Orion doesn’t budge. “But you need help.”
Phoebe covers her mouth and scrunches up her nose like she’s seeing a rotting deer on the side of the road.
“I’ve got this!” I bark at them, pushing myself to my feet. This needs to end quickly, but I can’t finish it here. I begin to back away from my attackers. They follow, no doubt assuming this is my retreat. They couldn’t be more wrong. To demonstrate, I crook my finger and beckon them with a whistle. I call them like dogs, and I’ll be damned if they don’t fall right into the trap. I already feel my face stitching itself back together. The Finger of God is doing its job well.
I lure my attackers into an alley. They think they’ve cornered me. The man with wild eyes pulls out a silver nine-millimeter and points it at me. “Sleep!” he shouts. He pulls his trigger, and the bullet hits. Hot lead pierces my body. It feels like I’ve been punched in the chest, and I fall to the ground. “Hope you’re still laughing in hell,” my killer says.
Slowly, I push myself to my feet, and I steady myself against the side of a building with one hand and reach behind my back with the other. The only weapon I have on me is far less practical than a gun, but it’s sentimental. I carry it in a custom holster against my back. It’s an ancient war scythe made of real Damascus steel, the kind they’ve never been able to replicate. The only original part of the weapon is the blade, which came with the name True Winter and was rumored to have been wielded by Archangel Gabriel. The current handle was crafted using advanced technology, so it’s collapsible without sacrificing strength.
None of this matters to the man in front of me, whose eyes widen when he sees my weapon. “Shit,” he mutters, fumbling with his gun. He points the shaking barrel at me and fires four more times. I have to give him credit for being a good shot at least. But the sliver of the Finger of God under my skin has been activated, and once it’s already working, I’m practically impervious. It still hurts to be shot, sure, but normal bullets won’t stop me.
I extend the handle of my scythe and advance on the man as he continues to fire his weapon. In the distance, I hear his partner mutter, “They didn’t say it would be him.” I wonder which Judge they were told they’d be up against. The poor goons were lied to. I laugh at that, and the man who shot me stumbles back.
“Can’t you smell them?” I ask. “The flowers. I’m almost certain they’re gardenias.”
“There are no fucking plants here, you psycho. Just fucking die!” He swings the steel pipe again. I catch it two inches from my skull. Sweat starts to bead on his forehead.
“You can’t kill me,” I assure him. “I’m already Death.”
He tries to back away again, breathing heavily and clutching the pipe. “Fuck! You… you… you—”
“Yes, they’re definitely gardenias. You see them now, don’t you? Tell me you see them now.” I spin him until his back is to me. Then I kick him to the ground. “It would be a shame to let them go to waste, don’t you think?” He’s face down on the pavement. His comrade stands frozen. I step over his body and slip my blade under his neck. “Hold still now.”
He doesn’t hold still, which is a shame. My blade slices his throat but not at the right angle. He would have bled out quickly if he’d just listened. Now he’s holding his own neck as blood pours through his fingers onto the street. I turn him over and weigh him down—one foot on his chest and the other on his face. I slip my scythe beneath his neck again and stare down at him. True Winter’s blade is exceptionally sharp, and one good pull is enough to sever his spinal cord. I throw my weight into it until his head is rolling free.
Now he’s just a trampled flower on the pavement. I cock my head at him and look up to see not one but three faces staring back at me. Fantastic. My idiot brother and his future girlfriend peek around the corner of the building, eyes like saucers, mouths hanging open. Normally, I’d dispatch the second man as quickly as the first, but… I shake my head and address the fool in the lion mask. “Take this back to Whiteface.” I kick the body at my feet. “All of it. Tell him it’s a gift, an apology for getting in Seditio’s way. Tell him my presence here can’t be helped, unfortunately. He’s welcome to complain again if it makes him feel better, and I’ll be happy to apologize a second time.”
The man in the lion mask lifts his companion’s body with shaking hands. He frequently looks up to make sure I’m not aiming my weapon at him, as though I would need to trick him to kill him. I watch him struggle with the head.
“I find wrapping it in a jacket makes things easier,” I say. “Use his. He doesn’t need it anymore.” I step past them but turn back one more time. “Oh, and tell Whiteface to put it in water right away, otherwise it’ll start to wilt.”
I collapse my weapon and start down the street toward my car. It doesn’t take long for me to notice I’m being followed. For some unholy reason, Orion and Phoebe are behind me, jogging to keep up. Orion has his phone out. “I’m calling an ambulance,” he says.
I whirl around and bat the phone out of his hands. “No, you aren’t. Did you miss it? His head’s off. Not much an ambulance can do now.”
Orion sighs down at his broken phone. “Not for him, for you. You were shot, remember?”
It takes me a second to register what he’s said. “You just watched me decapitate a man in an alley. Why would you care what happens to me?”
He just blinks at me and speaks more slowly. “You… were… shot.”
I can’t believe him. “That wasn’t an accident.” I point back at the alley and speak to him like he’s a child. “I didn’t have to take his head off. I did that on purpose. Got it? On. Purpose. I could kill you next if you’re not careful. Why don’t you just go back to your perfect life and forget about all this? If I die, I die.”
Orion shakes his head and turns to Phoebe. “Do you have a phone?”
On cue, mine starts buzzing in my pocket. I answer, holding up one finger to quiet my new groupies. A familiar voice says, “Eden. I’ve received firm confirmation the Chains of Peter are in Mobile.”
“Good, but where are they hiding?” I’ve all but forgotten my audience and resume walking to my car. “I’m on my way back to the Gate. Alert Cain that Seditio is here.”
“No, we need you to find the artifact ASAP. If Seditio is there, they’ll be looking for it too. We’re running out of time. I’ll send potential leads.”
The call ends, and I pocket my phone. Orion is walking beside me with Phoebe on her phone a short distance behind. “Who’s Seditio?” he says.
“Doesn’t concern you.” I continue down Dauphin Street, past the cathedral, to where my rented black Mustang waits. I unlock it, get in, and turn the key. The engine revs to life, but Orion has his hand on the door. He really needs to stay out of this.
The crease between his eyebrows deepens. “You were shot like five times. I saw it with my own eyes. I don’t understand how you’re still walking around. Who are you? Why don’t you want to go to the hospital?”
I decide to give him a sample of truth to get him off my back. “First of all, it’s none of your damn business. Curiosity killed the college kid, you know.”
“That’s not how the saying—”
“Second, I do this for a living. As a professional, I have the right equipment to deal with gunshots. And third, what the hell is wrong with you? I just killed a guy in front of you, and you’re still perfectly comfortable waltzing up to my car and questioning me. You might have some serious issues. I suggest you get help.”
He’s shaken but shrugs in an attempt to hide it. “Sorry.”
As he backs away, I hear Phoebe shout, “Orion, you idiot! That guy just killed someone! I’ve called the cops! Stop acting white and get your ass away from his car!”
At least one of them has some sense. I put the car in reverse and notice a dark silhouette in the alley. It looks so clear in my periphery, but as soon as I turn to see it straight on, it vanishes. I look back at the steering wheel, shake my head, and drive away.
* * *
There are four leads I’ve been sent to investigate—four families connected to someone who knows of the chains and what they can do. Bachman, Leon, Helton, and Scott. Leon and Scott are good candidates, but the Bachman’s are even better. They’re likely listed because of my father’s involvement with them. I assume Orion took his mother’s name at our father’s insistence, but there’s no hiding from the House.
The Heltons, on the other hand, are a relatively harmless middle-class family with no criminal records. There’s every chance the House of David never found the chains because they only looked in the obvious places. I hope that’s the case.
My 2:00 p.m. drive through the Heltons’ neighborhood is painfully uneventful. It’s a suburb of mostly identical houses—black roofs, red bricks, and mailboxes close to the curb. The Heltons’ house is number 432. I’ve decided to begin my search with them, not because they’re the most likely candidates, but because the most likely candidates are the Bachmans, and I really, really want to be wrong about them.
I park a couple of blocks away and walk down the road past pollen-covered vehicles and perfectly cut lawns. It’s a beautiful day. The sky is clear, the air fresh. When I arrive at the Heltons’ place, I ring their doorbell. A few moments later, a female voice from behind the door asks, “Who is it?”
Ready, set, lie. “My name is Micah Smith. I’m with the Department of Public Works. I’m here to ask if you’ve seen any changes in your water. There’ve been reports that sewage is leaking into the public supply.” The door opens, and Mr. and Mrs. Helton look exactly like their file photos. He’s a fifty-year-old man with a short salt-and-pepper beard. She has a bright smile and eyebrows so blonde you can barely see them. They have a seventeen-year-old son named Kyle, but I don’t see him around.
“That’s very concerning,” Mr. Helton says.
“Yessir! I’m going door-to-door to ask questions and check water quality.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Helton says with a warm smile. “We’ll do whatever we can to help you fix this mess. Come in.” She steps aside to let me in.
“There’s no need for me to come in just yet, ma’am. But could you answer a few questions?”
“Sure,” Mr. Helton says.
“How long have you lived in Mobile, and when did you first move to this neighborhood? Have you seen changes in your water’s color or smell? Do you have any children or relatives here? Have you heard anything from your neighbors about their water?” I know my line of questioning is ridiculous, but I also know social pressure is a powerful tool, and people are more likely to answer than admit confusion.
Mr. Helton’s eyebrows raise as he exchanges glances with his wife. I’m almost worried he’ll be one of the few who doubts me. But then he answers, “Well, if you must know, I’m from Mobile, born and raised. My wife is from Ringgold, Georgia. I have one son and no relatives in the area. We haven’t had any problems with our water lately and haven’t heard anything from our neighbors either. Why do you want to know about my family?”
I wave a hand to dismiss his concerns. “Oh, I know some Heltons in the area, so I was just curious if you were related to them. I apologize, sir. It’s none of my business.” Maybe this was a dumb idea. There’s no sign of deception in his answers, but I’ve got to be sure. “Would you mind if I check your backyard and outdoor plumbing first?”
“Sure,” Mr. Helton says. “The sooner you get this fixed, the better.” He leads me to a six-foot-high wooden fence, lifts the latch on the gate, and yanks it open to reveal his backyard. It’s a typical backyard with one pine tree and a big shed in the corner. “Knock yourself out. When you’re done, just holler at the back door.”
“Will do,” I say, surveying the area.
The grass is well-trimmed. I search the yard for ground that looks uneven or disturbed. Anyone who knows what the chains can do would hide them somewhere safe, away from loved ones. Burial seems likely, but nothing on the property seems out of place, and I don’t have a metal detector to search further. Upon further inspection, I find no visible markings or damage on the tree either.
The only thing left to check is the shed. I turn the doorknob, surprised it’s unlocked. Inside, I pull a white string, and a dusty lightbulb flickers to life. On the left are heavy-duty extension cords, a leaf blower, two rakes, and hedge clippers hanging on a mounted rack. On the right, Christmas lights are stored in rubber bins and labeled in perfect handwriting. If this family were a color, they’d definitely be beige.
On my way out, I shut the shed door behind me and catch a glimpse of Mrs. Helton cooking in the kitchen window. Mr. Helton appears at the back door with a tentative expression. “Hey, sir, there are two men out front asking for you,” he says.
“What do they look like?”
“They’re wearing weird masks and black suits.”
Seditio. There’s no time to explain. “Go inside and lock the doors. Hide. Now!” Mr. Helton must be used to taking orders because he immediately obeys. I run to the shed, grab the rake, and break it across my knee. I didn’t bring True Winter with me this time. It might’ve blown my cover. Anyway, I don’t need it.
I approach the gate and open it to find two hulking men waiting for me. The one to my left is wearing an Okame mask with red, smiling lips, slits for eyes, and pulp-red cheeks. The man to my right is wearing a brown wolf mask. I grip the rake handle and prepare for a fight.
The man with the Okame mask raises both hands. “Hang on! We’re only here to talk. My name is Drone, and my partner here is Fall.”
My left eye involuntarily twitches as I lower my weapon a little. “Those are some dumbass code names, if you ask me.”
Drone shrugs. “Whatever you say, Eden. By the way, did you prefer Mr. Eden, or should I just call you Garden Of?” He thinks he’s so clever. “Anyway, you’re looking for the Chains of Peter, right? So are we. We thought we might negotiate a temporary truce.”
“Why would anyone negotiate a truce with terrorists like you?”
Fall jerks forward. “You know nothing. You’re just a demon in the field of lost souls.”
I glare at him. “Looks like you’ve gone and volunteered to die first. How brave.”
Drone grabs Fall by the shoulder. “Calm yourself, brother. We didn’t come to spill blood.” Then he turns to me. “Our organization is in turmoil, in case you couldn’t tell. Our new leader has appointed Whiteface to an unusually high station. He’s uncontrollable, a complete psychopath.”
“Noticed, did you?” I sneer.
“We don’t like the direction Seditio’s moving in,” Drone says.
“And you want the House of David to save you? Are you hearing yourself?”
“Not the House of David.” Drone shrugs. “Just you. Take out Whiteface. We’ll give you intelligence on him—all the intelligence you’ll ever need. Kill him, and we can all go back to the way things were.”
I balance the rake handle on my shoulder. “Why would I want to go back to the way things were? They were bullshit then, and they’re bullshit now. I’ve seen firsthand the sort of behavior your ‘organization’ encourages, and I say the best thing for you people is total collapse. Implode for all I care.”
“If Seditio implodes, it’ll take the House of David with it.”
“Then let them both implode. Look, I think you might be mistaking my excellent work ethic for loyalty. I do what I’m paid to do. And right now, I’m paid to kill members of Seditio. I really don’t care how high up the ladder they are. A couple of loose cannons at the bottom of the food chain won’t give me a second thought.”
Fall thrusts his hand in my face, his forefinger and thumb about an inch from touching each other. “You’re this close to getting your head shot off, demon. Be grateful we didn’t come to kill you or you’d be long dead.”
“Interesting.” I smirk at them. “A member of your organization did try to shoot me yesterday. He’s dead now. Still want to give it a whirl?”
That’s the last straw for Fall, who comes at me with a left-hand swing. I duck, catch his arm, and pull it straight down. Then I drive my hand up into his chin with an open palm. He stumbles back. I grab his shirt, yank him in, and strike him in the liver. He collapses to the ground, gasping.
Drone pulls out a gun. “You House of David bastards are so fucking violent.”
“No, that’s just me.” I kick Fall hard in the back of the head.
Drone fires at my chest three times. Hot blood flows from my wounds, but they start to heal immediately. “I thought they were exaggerating when they said you people couldn’t die,” Drone says, panting.
I step over Fall’s unconscious body and advance on him.
Drone drops to his knees and clasps his hands together. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. Please!” At first, I suspect he’s putting on a show. Then I see him shaking.
I tip his mask back. He’s an odd-looking man with two protruding ears and a large, pierced nose. He’s crying like a kid on a playground, his face painted with tears and snot. “Why are you crying?” I ask. “You’re the one who shot me.”
“I’ve got kids,” he says. “You wouldn’t kill a man with kids, would you?”
I hold his head between my hands and lean in close. “I wouldn’t kill a man with kids.” He looks relieved for a moment, and then he doesn’t look like anything anymore. “But there’s no man here, is there? Just a pretty red-and-white calla lily.” The neighborhood is so silent I swear the sound of his neck breaking echoes for several seconds as his lifeless body drops to the grass.
Before I turn to leave, I pause. I should probably kill the other guy too, but the strangest sensation stops me. I feel like Orion is still watching me, and suddenly, I don’t want to kill anyone else today.
I shout to the Heltons to call the cops. They peek through the side window and answer, “We already did!”
Sirens blare in the distance as I calmly walk back to my car. Cain is going to kill me. He doesn’t like media coverage. I need to lie low now. No more dead bodies, Eden.
* * *
On my way back to my hotel, I spot a little place called Café Joe Cain. I can’t resist a coincidence. Inside, yellow and purple beads hang from green walls, and the smell of king cake floods my nostrils. The barista, a brunette with ombre highlights and multiple piercings on one ear, looks at me like she hasn’t seen anyone come in all day. “Welcome to Café Joe Cain!” Her voice is cheery and her smile big. “Would you like to try our cinnamon mocha?”
I sigh. “Coffee. Black.”
“Okay, that’ll be a dollar fifty.”
I dig in my pocket for some cash and give all of it to the barista. “Keep the change.”
An abandoned book sits on the counter. On the cover is a picture of a reclining woman who looks just like a classical Greek statue. It’s exactly the sort of book I imagine a student might read, and I mean a real student—someone who studied the arts and literature, not just combat and history. Someone like Orion. The title is familiar, so I pick it up. It’s The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. What do people get out of reading this sort of thing anyway? “Does this belong to anyone?”
The barista glances at the book in my hand and shrugs. “I don’t know how long that’s been sitting there. I think someone left it. You can claim it if you want.”
“Thank you.”
I make myself comfortable at a table near the door and sip my coffee. Small drops of rain roll down the window, growing fatter and faster as I watch. Soon the sky threatens to storm. I wonder why I feel so calm right now. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in quite some time. I crack open the book and begin to read.
It’s a kind of bliss, losing track of the world around me and discovering another on the streets of Paris, neatly folded into the pages of a book. Minutes into my reading session, the sound of the downpour gets louder, and I know someone has just entered the café. Phoebe drifts through my line of sight, wearing an oversized blue raincoat. Our eyes meet; she rolls hers. I do my best to ignore her, but if I’ve learned anything about this woman in the short time I’ve known her, it’s that she will not be ignored.
“Don’t you have any manners?” she says. “You’re not even going to say hello?”
“Hello,” I groan. She should not be talking to me. Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she have any self-preservation instinct?
She sits across from me and pushes the top of my book down so she can see my face. “Are you always this grumpy?”
I want to answer, only after I’ve killed a man or two, but somehow, I don’t think it would have the desired effect. So, I try my hand at casual banter. “Is it considered good manners to interrupt a person reading where you come from?”
She leans back and crosses her arms. “Nope. Not taking the bait.”
I sigh, close the book, and set it on the table. “What do you want from me?”
“Well, I usually come here to get coffee, so unless you’re a barista, nothing.”
“Okay. Well, I’m not interested in”—I gesture back and forth between us—“whatever this is. I just want to sit here and enjoy my book.”
But she doesn’t move. “What do you want from Orion?”
“Not a damn thing. How about you?”
She smiles and looks out the window at the pouring rain. “I’ve known the kid for years. He has lots of friends who aren’t really friends. They use him because he’s smart and his family’s wealthy, but he never suspects a thing. He could go anywhere in the world, but he stays in Mobile to help his mother and grandfather. He’s such an innocent thing for his age.” Her tone is almost wistful.
I massage my forehead. “What are you getting at?”
She leans in, placing both forearms on the table. “Yesterday, after he saw what you did, he couldn’t stop talking about it. I’ve never seen him so intrigued. It’s almost like he was curious about what it’s like to kill. So, I’m gonna need you to stay away from him, even if he contacts you—especially if he contacts you. You’re a bad influence, and he’s too impressionable.” She laughs like it’s a joke, but I don’t think she means it that way. “Listen. That kid’s an angel. Keep your grubby paws off him.”
“I have no intention of putting my ‘grubby paws’ anywhere near him. He’s the one who followed me. Have you even considered the alternative? Maybe the Orion you think you know isn’t who he really is.”
She rests her chin on her hand. “Yeah, but you think you’d know a guy after screwing him a few times.”
Why would she tell me this? Not to mention it’s an obvious lie. The way Orion blushed when she flirted with him, I highly doubt they’re regularly intimate. I groan and pick up my book again. “I’m done playing therapist now, if you don’t mind.”
She frowns and stands with a dramatic huff. “Okay, fine. I know when I’m not wanted. I can take a hint. Jeez!” Humid air hits my face as she pushes open the café door. She pulls her hood over her head and turns back to me. Out of nowhere, her tone is deadly serious. “I’ll see you again, Eden.”
I can’t help but wonder why she never bothered to order coffee. This is getting out of hand. Two civilians are involved and shouldn’t be. I should never have taken this mission. But I wasn’t the one who got Orion’s people involved, was I? No, it was our father. Orion’s been involved his whole damn life. He just hasn’t known it—or has he?
My head aches. I don’t want to think about the mission anymore. How do normal people manage to lose themselves in books when life refuses to just leave them alone for five minutes? I glance down at the page and read one line that infects me to my core: I can’t stand to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it. I read it over and over again, and my hands start to shake. It isn’t fear I’m feeling now; it’s anger. Because suddenly, for no reason at all, I feel as though something irreplaceable has been stolen from me.
Q.K. Petty's debut novel, True Winter, is a captivating fantasy-adventure that takes readers on a thrilling journey through a world where secret societies vie for power and supernatural forces struggle for supremacy. The House of David, a group dedicated to hunting down religious artifacts that can wreak havoc in the wrong hands, is pitted against the evil Seditio organization in a violent battle between good and evil.
The story follows the ruthless killer Eden Dowler, also known as The Grim Reaper, as he sets out to find the Chains of Peter, believed to be hidden in the house of his half-brother, Orion Bachman. Eden saves the Bachman family from certain death and recruits Orion to the House of David, but as they travel the world in search of more artifacts, Orion begins to question whether he made the right decision in joining the organization.
Petty's writing style is fluid and easy to follow, and the alternate world she creates is both intriguing and realistic. The line between good and evil is blurred, just as it is in real life, adding a level of complexity and depth that is often missing in traditional fantasy novels. The character development is superb, with Eden and Orion's struggles and internal conflicts driving the story forward.
The action in the novel is fast-paced and gripping, with psychopathic villains, breakneck adventures, and a scythe-wielding protagonist who will leave readers breathless. Petty's attention to detail and skillful world-building create a rich and engaging reading experience.
I would rate True Winter a solid 4 out of 5 stars. The author, Q.K. Petty does an excellent job of crafting a unique and captivating story that seamlessly blends multiple genres together. The character development is superb, and each character is distinct and memorable. The fast-paced action and exciting plot kept me engaged throughout the book, and I found myself eagerly turning the pages to see what would happen next. However, at times, the slow building of the story did cause my attention to wane slightly. Despite this minor issue, "True Winter" is a fantastic book that is sure to please fans of the supernatural, action, and fantasy genres.
True Winter is a genre-bending gem that will appeal to readers of all ages. The book's unique blend of fantasy, adventure, and suspense is sure to keep readers on the edge of their seats from beginning to end. I highly recommend this book to anyone looking for a thrilling and thought-provoking read.