Page 8 of Venomous Games

I turn a fraction. My gaze flicks toward her again, taking in the barely noticeable movement of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin, the way she subtly shifts her weight from foot to foot. She’s ready for something, ready to act if the night turns ugly. That kind of awareness draws my attention.

I inhale slowly … vanilla.

“I showed my face, I’m going now,” Soren says.

Soren is our Lord, and everyone in the Forsaken answers to him. Membership in the society is for life, and it has many rules. One of them includes marriage, though it’s always up to the discretion of the Lord. It’s usually suggested that if you’re over the age of thirty and have not yet found a wife, the Forsaken will help with that.

While I’m over thirty and not married, I don’t plan to take a wife anytime soon. My life consists of work and the Forsaken. Every now and then, I’ll take pleasure with a woman, but I’ve never met one who has held my interest long enough to even contemplate seeing them twice.

“I’ll be going soon,” I tell him, which draws his gaze to me. This is one of my responsibilities as a member of the Forsaken Society. It would usually fall to his second in command, Reon, but like Soren, he’s married, and if he came, he would bring his wife, who would probably stab someone. Arlo, another high-ranking member, is off with his wife, and hates coming to these events as much as Soren and Reon do, which leaves me to oversee things. And in doing so, I’ve learned that some members don’t have their heads screwed on straight.

For example, Bailey. He could never take a leadership role. He might be able to in his work life, but his outside life is chaotic.

The Forsaken Society has been around for generations. Some members are second or third generation, their fathers and grandfathers having been members, and that’s how they got involved. Others join for money and connections. But we don’t let just anyone join. Actually, we haven’t had a new member for quite some time.

Though, things are about to change. Soren said we need to grow, and I tend to agree. We’ve lost a few members to stupidity, and as a result, our numbers have dwindled.

And there is power in numbers.

I’ve been a member for many years. Soren somehow found out about my extracurricular activities—that when the justice system was failing, sometimes a suspect would wind up dead—and offered me a better opportunity, which didn’t take me long to accept knowing my father was once a member.

I handle all the background checks on members. I also help find the sad sacks we pick for the hunt, though Soren always gets the final say.

The hunt is a tradition in the Forsaken that takes place twice a year. We handpick people who are depraved, who wouldn’t matter if they went missing. Lately, I’ve been choosing killers, interfering in investigations to make it seem like the killer can’t be caught. But we have them, and we lock them away until the hunt.

Then, when it’s time, we let them loose in the forest. The forest becomes their courtroom, and we become the judges and executioners. There is discipline to it. Some may think it’s about the thrill, the chase, the blood. And that’s definitely part of it. But that’s not what it is for me. The thrill is in knowing exactly who deserves it, and in tracking them, studying them, learning their patterns until they’re predictable.

Control.

Justice where the courts fail.

Purpose where others look away.

And when it ends, it’s clean, final. There are no appeals, no loopholes. We hunt them down, our faces hidden behind masks passed down from member to member. The founding member had a badly disfigured face, and the mask was made of broken mirror pieces, so when you look at it, it’s a cracked version of yourself staring back at you. We were all told that same story, and we each wear a mask every time we hunt.

“Well, hello.” Marcus’s voice cuts through my thoughts. Soren drifts away, leaving me exactly where I’ve been since I arrived.

“Not interested.” Her voice echoes behind me. I smile because they were the same words I said to her not that long ago.

“Come on… I’m sure I can show you a good time.”

“Still not interested,” she purrs.

Now I can’t help but turn toward her. She isn’t even facing Marcus. Her back is to him. I don’t particularly care for Marcus, but he serves a purpose in the society.

My gaze drags over her before I can stop it. The line of her spine is straight but relaxed. The way she holds her weight, it’s like she could move in any direction without warning. The dress clings just enough to suggest, not demand. The heels anchor her, but I don’t get the sense they would slow her down. Then there’s her face when she finally turns.

Her eyes are blue and sharp. Not soft, not inviting. Watching, always watching.

I shift my attention to Marcus, catching his eyes, and give him a small nod toward the crowd. Leave.

He hesitates for half a second, long enough to annoy me, then backs off without a word. She doesn’t move or thank me. She remains still and silent for a time before her voice drifts over, smooth as silk but with an edge to it. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” I reply.

“If you say so.” She pushes off the bar, finally turning enough for me to see her fully. My eyes catch hers again, and there it is, that same awareness. She’s not flustered, not impressed. Just noting me, the same way I’m noting her.

“She’s going to be a while,” I say, following her line of sight to her friend. Her gaze snaps back to me, her blue eyes, lighter than her hair and sharper than they should be, lock on mine.