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Prologue
Cigarette smoke hung around the bar like silvery fog, around bottles, stools, people. So many of them. They wore their long hair in loose buns, and had their thick arms decorated in tats. With their leather garments, it was clear who they were—All Saints. Chatter dissolved into folk music, the air filled with excitement. The velvet curtain was closed tonight, but right now, right here, they were about to start a different kind of entertainment.
He flicked his eyes to the other guys around the round table while his throat worked around the lump formed there. No matter how often he swallowed, the taste of bile wouldn’t go away. Nor would the dread that had formed a tightness in his chest. He fidgeted once more on his seat. He was the only one who hadn’t been tied up, though he didn’t need rope to secure him against this chair. This was the end. This is how it always would have ended.
Vengeance.
A heavy swallow, followed by a sweep of Nate’s unhinged gaze, and then the man cracked. They were all in trouble, but having Nate in their clutches was the cherry on the cake. And he knew it.
"Please listen to me!" Nate begged. But he couldn't. Cotton had formed a heaviness in his head that made it impossible to think clear. Pressure built, together with the increasing noise. Fear and trepidation shuddered through me. And yet time appeared to stand still in this godforsaken bar, this cave that he'd escaped for the past few weeks.
Everything is connected.
Vengeance.
“Alright boys, who wants to play?” His eyes snapped up at the taunting sneer, clashing with a cruel, icy-blue glare.
Members approached the round table with an approving hum, the smell of their booze, cigarettes and leather invading his nostrils. It made him splutter, coughing up bitter fear as he did so—fear that was laughed away as they poked each other and started their bets. “Four traitors, and only one single round.” Someone spun the revolver around his finger, its metal glimmering in the hazy twilight. “That’s pretty fair, don’t you think, guys?”
More snickering turned his blood into ice. It was the sound of their amusement that made his bones rattle and his forehead damp with sweat. His chest was so freaking tight that he could barely breathe. With a heavy clunk the revolver landed onto the table, making the three guys around the table jolt in agony. It madehimjolt in agony.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he pleaded with his memory to bring up those strong arms and warm, demanding lips. The scent of sandalwood and strength, confidence andhome.
Icy-blue eyes stared at Nate, a mouth curled into a wicked smile. “Since it fills me with strange delight to see you on this side of the table, you get to choose who goes first.”
His twitching eyes peered down the table, to where the revolver was waiting.
Where had everything gone so wrong? And why was life this cruel, giving him a glimpse of desire, of warm, strong arms around him, only to take it right back away from him?
It was only an hour or so ago that they were together. That his body was touched,cherished, his mind consumed, promises made. He was about to be forgiven. But then, when he ran into a new life? He'd been taken. And it had left his core a spluttering mess.
Because to All Saints, hewasa traitor. And they were right, he had failed, in the name of illusion. Shattered hope. His misguided loyalty would cost him his new love—hisonlylove. It would cost him his life. This was it.
He inhaled deeply through his nose when the first smell of burning wood, smoke, and ash invaded his system. “If you can’t make a decision, I’ll make it for you,” the voice boomed, and with theatrical movement, icy-blue-eyes took the round in his hand, spun the cylinder, then placed the muzzle against the head of one of the other guys at the table. He jerked away when the cold material connected to his temple, lips parting on a silent cry. Someone pulled the trigger, and the pistol clicked. Nothing. Still, the guy fell apart. Thick tears rolled down his cheeks as he panted in fear. It was that, mingled with the smell of urine, that increased the taunts of the gang around them.
“You’re a lucky traitor,” icy-blue-eyes decided, and a rumble of sarcastic agreement swept through the crowd. “Let’s see if the same fate awaits you.”
“Please!” The other guy begged when the pistol connected with his skin. They had never met, but there was something familiar about him. Because he was a cliché, a typical wanna-be gangster, with his cheap suit and his slicked-back hair. He’d lost the sunglasses a while ago, when they’d picked him up in the streets. They were nothing like those onyx strands that curved ever so slightly, dark eyes that carried a permanent glare, and a mouth so full it should be a sin. Oh, the filthy words that spilled past those lips. “I'm innocent!” The guy writhed on his chair in a last attempt to escape his restraints, much to the laughter of the guys around them. “But I know who did. I know who did it!” The pistol was spun once more, and the crowd started cheering. “I know who did it!” The guy yelled again when the metal touched his skull. “Please!” The trigger was pulled, and the guy shouted another plea. Nothing. “Dios Mio, Dios Mio,” he mumbled through tears, his voice rough from shouting. More urine soured the stench in the room, provoking more jokes and insults.
More burning wood.
“Another lucky traitor,” the crowd decided, and Nate took that moment to get up from his chair. The fool had found a way to wriggle his wrists out of the ropes. They met each other’s gaze, eyes wide with fear. One of them was going to die. It was only fair that it wouldn’t be Nate. The writer of illusion. The giver of heart-break, wrapped in hope.
Vengeance.
Nate struggled out of the remaining restraints, but didn’t even make it two steps before he was caught by strong, grasping arms that held him down, back onto his seat.
“He goes next!” Please, not Nate. His poor mother.
“I’ll do it!” He cried out, and lunged forward in a desperate attempt to grab the pistol, but icy-blue-eyes snatched it away with a snarl.
More burning wood.
A shout, somewhere in the back. His eyes flicked around, only to collide abruptly with a face, an elegant, Venetian mask, in the back of the bar. Its colors, white mixed with curls of gold, melted away from the scorching stare that was sent his way.
Move.
More shouts. People started shuffling. When he looked again, the man with the mask was gone. And the pistol. Oh, God, it spun and spun as it found its way against Nate’s temple.
