by Raven Dark
Tea and breakfast finished, I dressed, combed out my hair, and gave my teeth a quick brush in Pretty Boy’s washing closet. I looked longingly at the water pitcher, wishing I had time for a bath. It would have to wait.
Along with the much more subdued cadris, appropriate for such a dour occasion, I wore almost none of the jewelry I had at last night’s party, only a simple gold necklace resting against my throat, nothing to draw attention to me.
We headed out over a dozen or more walkways, nearly a fifteen-minute trek before we reached a wide spread of green. This one was almost twice the size of the one where the barbeque was held, with about eight of those tall solar trees standing at the very edges, where the cliffs rose high all around, isolating the green. The sky overhead allowed only weak sunlight, the sky the color of grey steel.
As we drew closer to the green, the sound of the motorbikes grew louder until Pretty Boy and Steel had to raise their voices to be heard. Why would the men have the bikes here, at an execution?
When the throttle of the bikes died down, the babble of a large crowd filled my ears. Spectators for the execution. My stomach clenched. The bikes roared again, engines revving.
I followed Pretty Boy and Steel, walking a little behind them, as was expected at a formal function.
When we walked out onto the green, I found myself trying to look everywhere at once. Out at the edges of the field, in a semi-circle, large logs had been laid out for sitting upon. Where the trees for them would have come from, I didn’t know, but they’d been set out in rows, on a slight incline, allowing those seated there to see the middle of the green with ease. A path ran between the spectator’s seats, dividing them into two sections, the path vanishing into a deep cave where I could see the flash of steel from motorbike chrome. I guessed that’s where the bikes on the green had been brought out. It looked like the entire population of the Grotto, about two-thousand people, were seated on those logs, like at those huge coliseums bigger zones had.
Engines revved again, drawing my unwilling attention to the middle of the huge green, where the execution would take place. I stared, never having seen such an odd sight.
Twenty or so bikes stood out in the middle of the field, most of the higher members of the Dark Legion sitting astride or standing close to them, the reaper skull and crossbones displayed on every cut. There was an aggressive, pent up energy that reminded me of the night of the barbeque, but it had a certain lethal intensity I’d never seen before. It was the four bikes that stood in front of the crowd, slightly separated from the others, that held my attention, though. They were positioned in a square, each at a corner, facing out, like they were meant to take off in four different directions. The site made no sense to me, but it made me uneasy all the same.
“Why are those bikes sitting like that, Masters?” I asked, letting Pretty Boy and Steel lead me to an empty spot on a log beside Dice and Cherry.
“Here, have a seat, Princess.” Pretty Boy’s voice was uncommonly low and wouldn’t look at me. Neither did Steel. Pretty Boy sat next to me, Steel beside him.
“You doing okay, Violet?” Cherry patted the log beside her, indicating for me to move closer. I did, grateful for the comfort she offered.
“I’ll be fine. I wish everyone would stop worrying about me.” I folded my hands in my lap, willing myself to be unafraid. Dark Legion members saw what was about to happen as a necessary part of life, and this was my home now, so I had to learn to see it that way, too. “I’ll be fine.”
Dice, who’d been talking to someone beside him, looked over at me with a grandfatherly nod. Then his salt and pepper brows winged down, and he leaned toward Cherry, whispering something.
Cherry searched my face with a scowl. I must not have hid my fear well, because she bent forward and gave Pretty Boy an accusing glare. “She looks like she’s gonna pass out. Why is she here, you two?”
“Cherry,” Dice drawled, squeezing her arm in warning.
“Really, I am fine,” I told her as gently as I could manage, “I’m not going to pass out. I—"
“Are you the leader of the Dark Legion, Cherry?” Steel snapped. “Are you the General, now?”
“What? No, but couldn’t you have—"
“Sheriff’s rules. Everyone has to be here.”
“We’ll decide what’s best for her, Cherry,” Pretty Boy added.
I noticed he said nothing about him and Steel trying to get me out of having to watch the execution. Even so, I could see the regret in their eyes, they’d have given anything to cart me out of there. It warmed my heart but also reminded me that I needed to start adapting better to life here. This was what I chose, and I knew I had it in me to deal with whatever came my way.
Cherry made an angry noise but gave no further argument. Instead, she looked me over, and I swore her face grew whiter before she shifted an inch or two closer to me on the log. Privately, I loved her a little right then.
“Go to another place, Violet.” Cherry’s voice was a low rasp.
“What?”
“When the moment comes, right before they…” She swallowed, her eyes riveted to the green, to the four oddly arranged bikes. “Just go to another place inside your head, where what you see doesn’t reach you. Your body has to be here, but your mind doesn’t. Sheriff can have you whipped for non-compliance, but he can’t control your mind.”
Light of the Maker, goosebumps broke over my skin. I couldn’t imagine anything getting to Cherry. Before I could ask what any of this meant, a loud series of five drumbeats sounded from somewhere behind the crowd. Silence fell over the green.
“Citizens of the Grotto.” Sheriff’s voice rang out, clear and strong and resonant, making me look up.
Halfway up a cliff wall to the left of the field, a terrace had been built in front of the large mouth of a cave, overlooking the entire execution grounds. Sheriff stood on the terrace with two or three of Hawk’s guardsmen flanking him.
“You are brought here to witness the lawful execution of a member of the Dark Legion for treason against the club,” he went on coldly.
The formality with which he spoke didn’t feel like his natural voice, and I had a feeling this was something he only did on occasions like this one. Right now, he sounded more like Damien.
I shuddered.
Sheriff eyed the crowd, then looked out toward the path that cut through the spectator area. “Bring out the traitor.”
Another five pounds on the drum, and many in the crowd glanced toward the path where four men brought a livid looking Patch down toward the center of the green. Bear and Crank held one of his arms each, the other two men, two of the guardsmen, walking a pace behind. I’d never seen Bear or Crank look so mad. Patch twisted, and Bear growled something at him.
My heart rate sped up a beat at a time. Cherry squeezed my hand, the second time I’d seen such an unlikely gesture from her, and I couldn’t help but squeeze back. Pretty Boy touched my knee, the barest gesture, and Steel looked back at me like he was checking on me.
Once in the middle of the green, Bear and Crank stood Patch about ten paces from those four bikes. They turned him to face the crowed, the guards staying close.
In case he got free of Bear and Crank and ran, I knew.
“The executioner will now come out,” Sheriff said.
Yet another five beats on the drum, and someone else came down the path, headed for the green. My brows shot up, and horror lanced through me.
Hawk.
My yellow-eyed master stalked out onto the green, carrying four long lengths of thick steel chains in his fists. A manacle hung off the end of each. He took up a position behind Patch, with a nod to Bear and Crank. The two men released Patch and took seats in the front row of the spectators.
From here, I couldn’t see Hawk’s face overly well, but I swore the shadows under his eyes looked worse, the lines on his face deeper. He looked no less deadly or hard, though, and as Patch twisted and shouted at him, he put a blade under his chin. Hawk sa
id nothing, face expressionless, but Patch stilled.
“Before we give the traitor what he deserves, there is another order of business to take care of,” Sheriff said. “T-Man and Pup, step forward.”
T-Man stood from a seat in the front row of the spectators, along with another young man who couldn’t have been more than nineteen. T-Man picked up something that had been sitting beside him, and with the young man at his side, walked over to Hawk, setting whatever it was down in front of him.
I leaned forward to get a closer look. He’d set down a metal container filled with burning hot coals. A single metal rod stuck out of it. The container and the rod both looked exactly like the one the maids had used when I was branded. Heart in my throat, I turned my head away, closing my eyes, preparing for the inevitable, then forced myself to look back at the execution about to take place.
Only it didn’t. T-Man took up a position a few feet from a struggling Patch. The other man, who must have been Pup, stood beside him.
“As some of you know, it was T-Man’s information which led to the discovery of Patch’s betrayal,” Sheriff called out.
The crowd thumped its feet and clapped.
“For his role in saving the Dark Legion and the Grotto from disaster, he’s rewarded with a promotion.” He nodded to T-Man, who’d looked up at him and smiled. “For four years, T-Man has served as one of the best go-to men for taking care of the Dark Legion’s dirtiest business. Those who cross the Dark Legion have met with his swift justice.”
More clapping filled the green.
“In the last year, young Pup has showed promise, helping Patch to bring in much needed members from other zones to our ranks. Today, as Patch leaves us, Pup is awarded with his position.”
Pup’s youthful face beamed with pride.
“T-Man, Pup, remove your cuts,” Sheriff told them.
T-Man slipped his leather cut off without missing a beat. Pup did the same. Two of the men standing by the bikes stepped forward. One took T-Man’s old cut and slipped a new one over his shoulders. I noticed a new patch on the cut, though I couldn’t see what it said from where I was. The other man took Pup’s cut, leaving him without one. A moment later, I realized why.
“Since the creation of the first road warrior crews after the virus hit,” Sheriff went on, “all Generals have been proud to name a single man to take the role of his personal exactor of justice against non-members. The role has long been known as “The Executioner.” From today forward, T-Man is now my Executioner. But since Patch will be leaving us, we will need a new scout. A new man to recruit new road warriors into the Dark Legion’s fold. After two yeas of helping to bring in the best, members have voted that Pup is ready to take the lead. I therefore find it fitting that he should bear the cut of the man whose role is now his.”
Sheriff nodded to Hawk.
“Wait!” Patch screamed, whipping around to glare at the General. “You can’t do this!” Anger and humiliation burned in his voice. “I’ve given my life to this club, to you! This is how you repay me? Pup, I taught you everything, how could you?”
Sheriff said nothing, just waited while Hawk took the blade from his belt—the same one he used on me the only night we’d been together—and sliced off the patch on Patch’s cut stenciled with his name and rank. Then he ripped the cut off him. Two men by the bikes stepped forward and held a struggling Patch. Hawk turned, ceremoniously putting the cut on Pup like a cape. He then pressed the patches he’d cut from Pup’s predecessor’s cut into his hand.
He clapped Pup on the shoulder and Pup clasped his hand in a brotherly handshake. With a nod from Hawk, Pup returned to his seat. Then Hawk returned to Patch, and while the two other men held him still, he cut off Patch’s clothing, every stitch. Naked and exposed before his Brothers, Patch hung his head, evidently realizing there was no way out of this.
I should have felt a sense of relief, or perhaps even dislike for him, but I only felt my stomach twist, dread spilling into my veins. This whole thing reminded me too much of the night Damien had betrayed me.
“Breathe, Princess.” Pretty Boy’s whisper cut through my racing thoughts. His hand squeezed mine for the barest second, but that instant would last a lifetime. “He’s a criminal. It’s justice. Remember that.”
“Patch,” Sheriff’s voice cut the air. “Today, the entire Dark Legion will see you branded a traitor and executed as such.”
T-Man stepped toward the container of coals. He took up the branding iron that was placed inside and walked toward Patch. Patch’s eyes rolled in his head and he started screaming and thrashing. The end of the iron had been fashioned into a metal brand whose letters clearly read “Traitor.”
Hawk grabbed Patch’s hands from behind and his other hand gripped Patch’s head from behind, holding it in place as effectively as a vice while T-Man advanced on him.
With T-Man’s back to me, I couldn’t see his face, but I had a rare moment to see Hawk’s. His expression was…well, he didn’t have one. His face was like slate, without emotion, alarmingly cold.
A whole new chill swept through me. I usually admired Hawk’s Yantu warrior stoicism, but at the moment, he didn’t look stoic. He looked terrifying.
When T-Man came to within a foot of Patch with the branding iron, Patch started to buck and holler like an animal caught in a trap. I tried and failed to keep my eyes closed, but it didn’t stop the sound from stabbing at my brain or make me forget what was happening to him.
Hawk held him tighter. T-Man pressed the brand to Patch’s forehead, and the resulting scream filled the green. When T-Man took the iron away, Patch had a clear red welt in the shape of the word “Traitor” on his forehead. His scream echoed in my head, and every muscle in me coiled tight.
Cherry’s hand seized mine so suddenly I almost jumped.
“It’s almost over, Violet.”
I believed her.
While Hawk continued to hold Patch, T-Man took the chains Hawk had brought out. Then he and Hawk both looked up at Sheriff.
The General gave single cold nod. “Kill him.”
Cherry’s hand tightened until it became a death-grip.
Hawk and T-Man dragged Patch over to the middle of the bikes. T-Man kicked him in the gut and he dropped like a stone. With the men bent over him, from this angle I couldn’t see what they did, but Patch was kicking and screaming. When Hawk and T-Man stepped back, they left Patch clearly visible. There was a manacle around each of his ankles and wrists. Hawk held two of the chains at the other end, and T-Man held the other two. Giving the crowd enough time to murmur and call for Patch’s death, they walked over and hooked the ends of the chains to the backs of each of the four bikes.
Realization of what was about to happen slid through me, cold and terrible. I lifted my fingers to my mouth slowly, my stomach spasming.
“Maker…no…”
Cherry’s grip on my hand hurt.
Four road warriors got on the four bikes and the engines roared to life. The whole crowd exploded in roars and woops and calls for death.
“No. No, no…” I must have tried to rise to my feet, because Cherry hissed at me to sit down.
Pretty Boy grabbed my shoulder, mashing me into the seat.
“No,” he growled fiercely. “Don’t. Move.”
“I can’t watch this! ”
“You have to!” he snapped. “It’s the law, Princess.”
My whole body hummed with the need to bolt from this place, but I knew he was right. Sheriff could see me in the crowd, and Hawk’s guards were everywhere. There was nothing to do but watch.
The bikes revved. The riders all looked up at Sheriff, who gave a final nod.
Patch’s scream was like a screech from hell.
The bikes shot off in four directions. Chains yanked, hard. I jerked my head away, but nothing could have saved me from knowing what came next.
Bones popped, there was a tearing sound…
Patch went silent.
Someone screamed,
and it took me a second to realize the sound was coming from my own throat.
Chapter 9
Savages
The rest of the day slid by in a blur. If anyone had asked me what happened following Patch’s execution, I couldn’t have recounted more than a few disjointed memories of the next few hours.
My thoughts kept replaying the execution in my head. The sound of Patch’s screams, the roar of the bikes, which had once more become terrifying and dark again. The image of the branding on his forehead. Hawk’s chillingly cold expression. The sight of a man dying more brutal a death than I’d have ever imagined before today. There didn’t seem to be room for anything else in my mind.
Except for one thing that seemed to stick out in my thoughts for some reason.
On the way back to the clubhouse with Pretty Boy and Steel, I’d seen Hawk up ahead in the crowd. He’d turned to look behind him, and for the briefest moment, our eyes met.
“Wait, Masters, please.” I’d tugged on Steel’s hand, and he and Pretty Boy both stopped, watching the exchange between Hawk and me. Tension pounded off both of them, expectant in a way I didn’t understand.
What they’d been waiting for, I didn’t know, but they didn’t get it, and neither did I. I’d been hoping for some flicker of emotion from Hawk, reassurance, anything. Instead, his eyes were utterly cold, without feeling.
My heart squeezed. He’d executed someone, and while I didn’t condemn him for that—it was his job, something someone in every society had to do—it unsettled me how matter of fact he looked. He made it look…easy.
There was nothing in his eyes for me, nothing that hinted that he needed me, that he missed me, that he even cared at all. Maker, he might not even have seen me at all, but had, in fact, been looking right through me.
Which is why, hours later, as the party that evening fell into full swing, I sat on the lawn on the green where the barbeque had been held days ago, head down, thoughts spinning like a dervish. Feeling utterly gutted and empty.
