Page 58 of Stroke of Shadows

Wyatt and Angel Beauchamp were fucking traffickers.

A few more cries escaped, and Sythe grit his teeth from reacting. He committed every single face of the men who allowed the transition to happen to memory, knowing he was going to take great pleasure in hunting them down one by one when his job was complete.

“They’re nothing more than possessions,” Wyatt mused, stepping towards the open container. “To be preserved as part of someone’s collection.”

Sythe moved behind him, taking every ounce of control to keep himself calm. Inside was just as horrifying as he expected, the women chained to the walls. They wore clothes, but what little they wore was filthy. Many were limp, arms dislocated or even broken. The chains themselves were velvet lined, designed to protect the wearer’s skin. In fact, everything inside seemed to be designed for safety. There wasn’t a single sharp edge, and even the floor was soft. The only visible injuries seemed to be self-inflicted.

“Do you know how much people pay for someone beautiful?” Wyatt continued, his grin sickening. “These people will either be preserved in crystal caskets or transformed into specialised dolls. Many of our buyers prefer to do that themselves, but some buy already prepared.” He nodded to the few boxes carefully stacked at the back, away from the chains and covered in soft fabrics.

“Dolls?”

“Covered in porcelain and posed, I don’t fucking know. I think the eyes are replaced with glass ones and their expressions are sewed into place after death. At least, I assume it’s after death.” Wyatt shrugged. “All I care about is the money. I don’t understand collecting shit. That’s my father’s thing.”

Sythe turned away, scanning the darkness once more. Rage burned through his veins, so hot he thought he was about to lose control to his beast. If he shifted, he’d be able to take out every person within seconds, but he couldn’t risk it.

He needed to remain the level-headed man. He had to wait. Be patient.

He had to take down Wyatt and Angel at the top of the chain, and then he could hunt down every single collaborator that dared hurt the vulnerable.

The Guardians were created solely as warriors to destroy Daemons and Shadow-Veyn. They were supposed to be nothing but obedient soldiers, given orders with strict expectation to follow without question. At first that was what they did, but it wasn’t long until they broke free from the Order, and the old Archdruid’s control. They acted on their own, continuing to take down the Daemons in which they were created, but also becoming protectors of those too weak to defend themselves.

The first thing Sythe’s father did when he became the Archdruid was try to force the Guardians to come back to the Order. To solely protect the druids and go back to being obedient soldiers. Sythe had told his sperm donor to fuck off then, too.

“Yeah, I’m not really into collecting shit, either,” Sythe said, forcing the words out. “So, are they all women?”

“Mostly.” Wyatt shot him a curious look. “Men aren’t worth as much, although we get them sometimes. Why, you want one?”

“What the fuck would I do with a doll?”

A guttural growl, loud enough inside his mind he wasn’t sure whether the sound had reverberated through his chest. Sythe jerked his head to the side, the hair on the back of his neck standing on edge.

“Sir, you need to…”

Sythe drowned everything else out, his beast on full alert. “Fuck!” He yanked Wyatt back. “We’ve got to get out of—”

“Get down on the ground!”

Sythe swept his gaze across the ten or so officers who’d appeared from within the shadows, each holding their own gun and dressed in full riot gear. He counted mostly humans, but there was at least one shifter amongst them and maybe a vampire.

Before Wyatt could react, Sythe shoved him down, pulling out his gun and shooting several warning shots. He didn’t want to kill any officers, but he also couldn’t let them fuck everything up.

Fuck the Fates!

With a snarl, he gripped Wyatt’s collar, shoving him towards a set of containers that would act as a shield. “Back there!” Wyatt went without protest, pulling out his own gun in a steady grip. Bullets pierced the metal beside them, and not once did either of them flinch.

“Fuck’s sake!” Wyatt screeched, his lips curled in a snarl as he carefully peered around the side of the container. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

A bullet came very close to Wyatt’s nose, the container dinging at the impact.

“I thought you said you’d found the rat?” Sythe growled.

Wyatt turned to shove at his chest. “Just concentrate on getting us out of here alive, you cunt.”

“Fuck!” Sythe gripped his gun tighter. “How do we get out of here?” The terminal was a maze, and he hadn’t prepared for a fucking police operation.

Wyatt licked along the bottom of his lip, his cheeks flushed and pupils dilated. “There’s another way we can go. Maybe five minutes at a run? We’ll need to get to the outskirts, then call for backup. The car’s likely surrounded.” He turned his back, pulling the trigger a few times when an officer came closer. His bullet hit the officer in the chest, forcing him to the floor. Stepping forward, Wyatt raised his gun for a final shot to the head, but Sythe stepped between them.

“Leave him as a distraction. We need to go. Now.”