God of Malice (Legacy of Gods #1) by Rina Kent

Ravens and sparrows line up along the top of the gate and shriek in unison as they fly away.

Okay. A hundred out of a hundred on the scary factor scale.

The group of students I followed queue at the end of a long line of about thirty people.

At the gate, there are two men wearing black suites and creepy bunny masks whose lips are smeared with blood.

Fake, hopefully.

One of the bunnies seems to be checking the students' QR codes. Then upon seeing something on his device, he confiscates their phones and mechanically feels them up for other phones, cameras, or electronic devices.

All of those go into a basket with a number tag on them. Then the other bunny straps a white mask with a number on each participant’s face and ties a bracelet with the same number on their wrist before letting them inside.

As my turn approaches, my whole body starts shaking. Second thoughts swarm my mind and I stare behind me, only to find others queuing on and on.

If I leave now, nothing will happen.

If I leave now…

No.

How is that different from being a coward all over again? Dev’s death hit me so deep, and I couldn’t deal with it for such a long time. This is my first real opportunity to get past this.

So what if there’s danger? I can take it.

Not sure how I got the invitation, but maybe that’s a sign to be here and finally get closure.

It’s my turn to give the creepy bunny my QR code. His dark eyes scan me before he takes my phone and mechanically searches me. Once he’s sure I have nothing on me, he nods to his friend and the other bunny shoves a mask on my face and a bracelet on my wrist and points inside.

Sixty-nine.

That’s my number. Blimey. What an unpleasant coincidence.

My steps are careful as I drift to what seems to be the front garden of a mansion. The giant building sits in the far distance with the imposing presence of a gothic chapel.

We’re all lined up facing it, as if we’re waiting for a grand opening or something. Some students chat with each other, some speaking in American accents, others in Russian and Italian. Some even in Japanese.

They are definitely all from The King’s U. I don’t dare speak or I would be picked up as the weakling from REU, as Anni so eloquently put it.

Instead, I focus on other students filtering in from the gates. With the masks on, we’re all anonymous here, like at a twisted costume party.

Some time passes before the last participant comes inside. One hundred.

That’s the number of students taking part in this fucked-up ceremony.

The gate screeches in unison with the crows as it slowly closes. I stare at it the entire time, along with the creepy bunnies who remain outside with all our belongings.

“It’s finally happening,” a giddy male voice, number sixty-seven, whispers to his friend, number sixty-six, in an American accent. Both of them are standing beside me, and unlike me, they’re only focused on the closed doors of the first story of the mansion.

“We failed last time, but we’re definitely getting in now,” sixty-six says. “What do you think the challenge will be this time?”

“As long as it’s not a mind game with the red or the orange mask, we’ll be fine.”

“You’re right. Those two are brutal.” Sixty-seven pauses. “But even the white mask can get tricky if he chooses to.”

“Let’s hope it’s physical this time, but even that will get us in front of that beast. By showing up, we gave him full consent to use us as a punching bag.”

Punching what?

I stare at the closed gate again and regret not leaving when I had the chance. Surely, they’ll give us a chance to retreat, right? Because I’m definitely not going to get involved in any violence kink these bored bastards have.

Besides, isn’t the fight club the place for violence?

Silence falls on the participants as the upper doors open with ceremonial noise. Then the lower ones open, too, and countless men in creepy bunny masks circle us.

And they’re men. I refuse to believe that some college students are built like an ancient Greek temple.

Five figures dressed in black step out from the upper doors, all wearing black purge style masks with neon-colored stitched faces.

The orange one takes the center, the green one stands on his right, and the red on his left. The white and yellow ones occupy the sides.

Like all people present, I can’t help gawking at them. They haven’t done or said anything, but their aura is enough to spread both fear and dread in anyone who’s watching.

I’m almost sure they’re Jeremy, Killian, Nikolai, and Gareth. But who’s the fifth one?

Is there another member of their club they forgot to mention?

Not that it matters right now. Seeing Killian from this position while being completely at the mercy of his games—in the literal sense this time—causes sweat to trickle down my spine.

Static fills the air before a loud modified voice echoes around us. “Congratulations for making it to the Heathens’ highly competitive initiation. You are the selected elite who the leaders of the club think are worthy of joining their world of power and connections. The price to pay for such privileges is higher than money, status, or name. The reason why everyone wears a mask is because you are all the same in the eyes of the club’s founders.”

People start murmuring to each other, probably some rich kids who aren’t used to being told that they’re like everyone else.