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Chapter 27
Daxen
Walking into Redmark is like walking into Fight Club, except everybody talks about it.
The overhead lights are fluorescent and bright, the floor is concrete (because apparently it’s easier to clean bloodstains), and there’s always a random male in the rings beating the shit out of someone to make himself feel better.
I hitch my messenger bags up on my shoulders and head straight for the stairs. As much fun as it is watching some of these males fight, it’s the last thing on my mind right now.
No, that unreliable thread of mutinous bullshit is saved for the Omega back at HQ. The one that’s hopefully locked tight in her attic room, and not running around causing more havoc for my brothers.
I head toward one of the meeting rooms and flip on the lights, dropping my shit on the table. I appreciate that Riven keeps rooms like this on-site. I have far more space here compared to the library at HQ. I can set up laptops, pin maps on the walls, and lay out all the books I’ve confiscated to my most referenced pages.
But once I’ve got everything set up, I realize I still have a glaringly obvious problem.
I still have no idea what the fuck is actually going on, and no idea where to start looking for answers.
Sure, I can keep sifting through reports, but that won’t get me any closer to answers for the questions that matter. Like, why is this shit happening, and why is it happening now?
While researching, the pattern was easy enough to pick up. The reports make it clear there’s been an uptick in the frequency of strange events over the last two decades, but sometimes numbers don’t tell the whole story. The increase could easily be due to the fact that, in the last twenty years, humans have started recording everything and putting it online.
But an increase in social media usage doesn’t explain why, in the last thirty-six hours, the frequency has increased almost sevenfold.
That’s a drastic jump in repeat occurrences. But why? Why now?
There’s an answer buried somewhere in all this data, I know there is. I just need to find it.
I unfold the two strangest examples of “what the fuck,” and pin them directly on the wall. Calla and Daniella’s ramblings—for lack of a better word.
I am absolutely not calling them “prophesies,” despite how hard Vae tries to convince me it sounds “more official.”
Ramblings, or prophesies, or chemical hallucinations, whatever they are, they’re a part of all this as well.
I just don’t understand how.
Just as I start powering up my laptops, the door swings open and Riven saunters in, all bold confidence and charming swagger. His hair’s artfully styled, and he’s holding a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two lowball glasses in the other. As always, he’s dressed in a custom three piece suits.
“I’ve never understood how you wear those Mafia Romance Daddy costumes all the time,” I mutter, gratefully accepting the booze and glasses, setting them on the table.
He smirks. “And I’ve never understood how you manage to make raging bitterness and an inability to let shit go a lifestyle choice. Yet, here we are.”
Riven and I have always been opposite sides of the same coin. I don’t give a shit about public opinion, have a short fuse, control issues, and no patience for games. Whereas Riven’s spent centuries curating an expertly worn mask people always mistake as cool and casual, but actually hides a sharp wit and keen mind.
He’d gladly let you believe he’s forgiven you for a slight, just for the chance to gut you with a smile years later.
The biggest difference between us is that I’ve always dealt in facts. Logistics, equations, statistics, all things that make sense and can be backed up by actual data.
Riven deals in vibes. The asshole can walk into a room and announce he’s made a life-changing decision based solely on “gut instinct.” Like that’s not completely fucking pathological.
And it pisses me off how often it works out for him.
“Gav said you’d probably be by. I expected you earlier,” he unbuttons his suit jacket and drapes it on the back of a chair. His necktie follows, and within moments, he looks far less presentable and far more relaxed.
“Yeah, I got sidetracked,” I mutter.
“Sidetracked by what?”
By throwing a glass at an Omega’s head.
