God of Wrath (Legacy of Gods #3) by Rina Kent

Considering the fact that the mansion is situated off-campus, and therefore has more land than dormitories, it’s huge and, most importantly, secluded.

A large forest surrounds the property, but from what I’ve heard, it’s all wired, surveilled, and no other soul aside from the Heathens, or whomever they invite, is allowed access.

The double doors with demon-like knobs barge open and countless men in bunny masks rush outside in a sea of terror.

Not a word is spoken, but the combination of quickening footsteps, deformed sights, and the number of people involved is enough to make me freeze.

They circle us in systematic order, their Halloween-esque masks serving as the only features they project onto the world. Thirty-five. That’s how many there are.

And they’re all huge, burly, and definitely guards.

Because, of course, the members of the Heathens have their own security. They’re mafia princes after all, with empires of blood to go back to.

Their parents wouldn’t allow them to go to university without security shadowing their every move.

The casual chatter comes to a halt when the double doors on the top floor swing open and five people dressed in black stroll out to the balcony.

All eyes focus on them.

Every face, every breath, and every bit of human attention is on the Heathens’ main members, who look down on us like we’re peasants.

Neon purge-style masks cover their features, each a different color. Red, white, green, yellow, and orange.

And since it’s near dusk and cloudy as usual in England, the colors pop against everything black.

A bad pop.

A spine-chilling pop.

A pop that would make anyone remember those colors and masks should they meet them in the dark.

Static fills the air before a distorted voice speaks.

“Congratulations for making it to the Heathens’ highly competitive initiation. You are the selected elite 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 everyone wears a mask is because you are all the same in the eyes of the club’s founders. The price of becoming a Heathen is handing over your life. In a literal sense of the word. If you aren’t willing to pay that, please exit through the small door to your left. Once you leave, you’ll lose any chance to join us again.”

A door beside the big gate opens, and exactly ten participants exit with their heads bowed.

The remaining ninety don’t move from their spots. After all, everyone came here with the promise of power and positions that would benefit not only their university life, but also their futures afterward.

I would’ve left as well, if I hadn’t made a promise, but I did, and I need to keep my word.

The voice rings out around us again, definitely from overhead. “Congratulations again, ladies and gentlemen. We shall now begin our initiation.”

My attention slides to the five on the balcony—unmovable, silent, and intimidating without having to move a muscle.

True power isn’t shouting or issuing orders. It isn’t flexing muscles or showcasing weapons. It’s standing with utter confidence, like these guys, and knowing precisely that they have everyone here by the throat.

True power simmers beneath the surface, its energy almost bursting at the seams.

“Tonight’s game is predator and prey. You’ll be hunted down by the club’s founding members. That will be five to ninety, so you have the upper hand. If you manage to reach the edge of the property before they hunt you down, you’ll be a Heathen. If not, you’ll be eliminated and escorted out. The founding members have the right to use any methods available to hunt you down—including violence. If their weapon of choice touches you, you’ll be automatically eliminated. Bodily harm can and will happen. You are also allowed to inflict violence on the founding members—if you can. The only rule is not taking a life. Not intentionally, at least. No questions are allowed and no mercy shall be granted. We don’t want any weaklings in our ranks.”

Everyone’s attention, including mine, zeroes in on each member’s weapon.

Red Mask’s fingers circle a baseball bat that’s resting nonchalantly on his shoulder.

Green Mask is holding a bow and has arrows with rubber points in a quiver that’s slung over his back.

White Mask strokes a huge chain that’s draped around his hands like a snake.

Orange Mask’s gloved hand rests on top of a metal golf club that’s propped on the ground.

Yellow Mask has no weapon at all, but his fists are balled.

When they said violence, they really meant violence. I knew that, spent last night mentally preparing for it, actually, but reality is different from anything I could’ve imagined.

Or predicted.

“You have a ten-minute head start. I suggest you run. The initiation has officially begun.”

All at once, feet shuffle around me, then everyone is running in different directions.

I stare back one final time at the Heathens in their black clothes, neon masks, and unmoving stances.

They watch the scattering of participants without a change in demeanor. No reaction. Not even a flicker of excitement.

These are people who were taught to always stay calm—to bide their time, wait for opportunities, and never show their eagerness. Even when I’m sure the hunt is nothing more than gratification for them.