ONE
LILLY ST. CLAIR
I walkthese halls every day, every night, and still, they never get any less intimidating. Any less ominous. Foreboding. Downright spooky, too. But the difference between us and them is, well, the residents know the spook factor—that creeping pit in the center of your chest that refuses to go away, that racing heartbeat and heavy weight in your stomach that makes you feel queasy, the glue that forms on the bottoms of your shoes and slows your footsteps—it's all caused by the people who roam these halls. The shadows you see are only a fraction of the shadows housed here, and it's the ones youcan'tsee that you should fear.
I've been killing people for as long as I can remember, starting with my parents when I was eleven. They had it coming, honestly. The man I'd been forced to call father beat me every chance he got, and my mom, too. He was a lousy drunk and a pedophile of the highest order, and when my tits started to grow in, I finally got to see his teeth. Got to see him for what he really was.
Scum of the earth. A vile creature. Not worth the air he breathed.
And so, when my mother dared to stand in front of the pistol I wielded, the one I'd found at the bottom of his sock drawer, wrapped all nice and neat in a pair of her stockings, I shot her, too.
Good riddance to them both.
I wandered the streets as an urchin, surviving off whatever scraps I could find, stealing what wasn't offered, and learning the ways of the perpetual criminal until I turned sixteen.
Then, I found them. A group of people with similar pasts to my own, dark upbringings that made them into some of the most hardened, jaded criminals I'd ever met. And they taught me things I'll never speak on. Things I shouldn't have been learning at such a tender age.
And they made me who I am today.
We started The Guild in the seedy back alleys of Port Wylde, slumming it wherever we could, whenever we could, blending into the shadows and avoiding the cops. Hell, after a point, we did more for the genuine good citizens than the actual police did. But we grew restless, and so did the city—understandable, with a pack of infamous criminals roaming the streets at night.
So the city council got together and decided to give us a home, provided we agreed to stay in it when we weren't conducting business.
The Asylum.
Out of commission for years, the asylum was a massive building with peeling paint, broken windows, and a cracked and sinking foundation. But it was a home, one we didn't have to leave when the owners found out we were in it. And when they signed the deed over to us, we formed The Guild, a business entity allowed to run within the confines of our own laws and regulations, of which we had none.
We instated dues and took donations, and within a year, we transformed that shabby place into an airtight, if still abysmal,functioning home. We got public utilities, patched the holes in the walls, and even installed new windows in spots. It wasn't the Taj Mahal, but it was ours.
But it wasn't long before anormie,your average Port Wylde citizen, stumbled upon us and our lack of rules and ruined it for the rest of the group.
TWO
FERGUS—THE SCOTS CREW
"If I told ye once,I told ye a thousand times, Fergus—ye have more fun if you dinnae kill 'em all straightaway. Play with yer food some, live a little!"
A floor above me, my half-brother Angus dangled a very distraught, barely alive man from the broken railing of the second story in the asylum foyer. Blood dripped from his head like water from a sieve, splattering messily on the floor below them, just feet in front of where I stood watching. I had no taste for the toying Angus enjoyed—I preferred to take out targets with finesse, quickly and efficiently, like a smart man would. Not my brother.
No, not Angus O'Leary.
Angus had a predilection towards torture, thanks to his less-than-civil upbringing. His father was out the door before he'd dropped outta his mother's cunt, and on to the next conquest. His ma wasn't all there, but she did her best, and good ole Angus was the fine result of a rearing that was more the work of the family livestock than any adult.
I watched with irritation, one brow cocked, as he jangled the man upside down, taunting him as he shook from fear. Therewas still a bit of light in his eyes, almost like he thought there was a chance he might be gettin' out of this if he was lucky.
I always hated to be the bearer of bad news, but that man was gonna get his hopes dashed one way or the other.
"Hey there, buddy, I hope yer not thinkin' that fucker's gonna let ye go. He's a wily one, a right cunt, and he'll make ye suffer afore ye bleed to death." I pulled the pistol from my side and cleared my throat, careful not to let my brother see the weapon. He'd protest if he thought I was taking his toys away from him. But if I was quick enough, it might keep him from gettin' us both in trouble. "Angus, Lilly'll be right put out if ye stain her new entry rug. The lass just bought it a week ago."
His laugh was less a chuckle and more a feral growl interspersed with grunts, but I knew it for what it was. A ragged hand dragged across his scraggly, filthy beard, and his face split just enough for me to see the whites of his teeth. Man had crawled around in the fucking mud to chase down the target, and instead of cleaning like an ordinary man, he decided to start torture instead.
I swore this shite was the only thing that got his cock hard these days. Not that I wanted to know shite all about his cock, but when you live in such close quarters with a man, sleep in the same room on separate bunks, you tend to notice things. Like when he beats his meat, for example.
Again, not that I really had any interest in knowing such a thing about my own brother.
"Ah, come on, Fergus, live a little! He's no' even pissed hemself yet!"
I could hear the familiar, telltale clacking of high heels on the tiled floor, closer than I'd have liked, and shrugged, taking the steps two at a time to reach my brother before the woman who called herself our leader came around the corner and spotted him doing something she'd not approve of. We were supposed toconduct ourselves with a little bit of discretion and respect our home, and I was sure that killing a man in the foyer wouldn't pass her approval. But if I could just get him in the still-empty rooms and off him quietly where she wouldn't see, then Angus could play in the blood all he liked, and Lilly St. Clair'd be none the wiser.
