Page 9

My racing heart still hasn’t slowed from the hallway. From him. That sick bastard who’s now lodged himself in the back of my mind.

Screw him.

“Blair?”

Someone just said my name. My head jerks toward the voice, and the moment recognition hits, my eyes widen.

…Sloane?

She’s staring at me from across the table, eyebrows pinched, fire-red curls already slipping from her ponytail. Christian, her jock boyfriend, sits rigid beside her, jaw locked tight.

No. My best friend got wrapped up in this shit, too?

I didn’t even notice her amidst the storm inside my head.

“Lolo?” I whisper. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She opens her mouth, but a figure steps forward. His mask is blank white porcelain, same as the asshole in the hallway. “No talking until Archon arrives.”

That’s when I notice the other figures. Five or six identical blobs, standing spaced out along the edges of the room. They wear full black cloaks, no hands visible, no shoes, no indication of the body underneath beyond the vague human outline.

I let my eyes wander around the room, taking in every detail I can. This place is stunning, but underneath all the beauty… something unsettling lingers.

There are no overhead lights whatsoever.

Candlelight flickers in the corners and on the table, casting long shadows that dance over cracked family portraits. Their eyes seem to follow my every move. The walls feature dark stained wooden panels, draped with blood-red curtains. Massive arched mirrors reflect the room on itself, multiplying the rows of intricate crown molding that fade into shadows and cobwebs.

I’m not sure if the gold chandelier above is actually swaying or if that’s just my nerves. In the center of the table sits a—hopefully fake—human skull, its bone carved deep with unrecognizable symbols, surrounded by small trinkets, dripped wax, and rose petals.

Good God.

Do these people worship the devil or something?

As if on cue to my bad joke, the double doors to the dining room swing open with a low, ominous groan, and a devil incarnate walks in.

He’s tall, draped in a floor-length black cape trimmed with crimson that looks wet in the candlelight. Behind him, a nervous guard scurries forward, lifting his train so it never once touches the dirty floor. Every other guard in the room lowers their head. The air itself seems to bow to his presence.

One of the guards steps forward from his position. “Sir Archon, Lucien Viscount, has arrived.”

Archon.

I turn the word over. It sounds… exactly like the man it belongs to. Like old power, inherited power, the kind that doesn’t even need to explain its own origins.

He wears the same style of mask as the guy in the hallway: black and white with ornate gold inlays, devil horns and all. Maybe that’s why he reminds me so much of him.

Upon reaching the head of the table, he stops, his voice arriving deep and textured. “Contestants.” His gaze sweeps over us slowly, assessing. “You are here for one thing: need. You need money. You need power. You need resources. And unfortunately, need never comes without a cost.”

He pauses, letting the words sit.

“So tonight, you will work for it. You will bleed for it. And only the strongest will claim victory. Then, and only then, will your needs be fulfilled.”

I scoff under my breath. Christian was right when he said the Legion is comprised of a bunch of rich sociopaths who jerk off to their own power.

As he drones on, I count the other contestants.

Seven. That means I’ll have to defeat six of them.

Some seem easy to beat, like the older lady to my left. If I had to guess, she’s my grandmother’s age, and hopefully has the same declining cognitive function as her.