God of Fury (Legacy of Gods #5) by Rina Kent

A door beside the big gate opens, and about a dozen or less people exit. I contemplate joining them and putting an end to this madness, but I’d never, in good conscience, abandon my brother.

Never.

The distorted voice returns. “Congratulations again, ladies and gentlemen. We shall now begin our initiation.”

I lift my head to the five Heathens, who remain unmoving. Completely grounded, absolutely apathetic about the promise of violence they’re unleashing on the world.

All except for one.

The anomaly.

Violence on steroids.

Yellow Mask clenches and unclenches his fists at a rhythmic pace as if he’s performing a ritual. That guy needs to be locked up instead of being allowed to be part of this nonsensical initiation.

“Tonight’s game is predator and prey,” the voice continues. “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.”

Barbarians. The lot of them. Hopeless, outrageous savages with no grace whatsoever.

But then again, what to expect from mafia people?

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

The girl beside me and her companions sprint so fast, the pebbles crunch beneath their trainers. Everyone else rushes in the direction of the forest and I’m left with the option of following or remaining here like easy prey.

Cursing under my breath, I run as fast as possible. My heart rate remains the same—unperturbed, calm, and completely unaffected by the lick of danger and the lust for the thrill that hangs in the air like splashes of magenta on turquoise blue.

I guess that’s the upside of having an abnormal brain. This type of nonsense doesn’t affect it.

Despite going late, I manage to run faster and farther than the other participants. I might not be into these types of events, but I’m an athlete, pretty much a professional runner and also the captain of the lacrosse team at REU.

I take my physical activities seriously and never miss a day of training and running, whether for the team or for myself.

It’s important to keep order and discipline, and I’m nothing short of perfection in creating stability and habits.

Besides, if I don’t maintain a routine, I’ll only slither down that rabbit hole of nothingness and eventually skid into an unfortunate freak accident.

No thanks.

In no time, I manage to reach what looks like the middle of the forest after losing the rest of the students. Late afternoon light casts ominous patches of orange on the dirt and between the huge trees. But soon enough, the gray clouds strangle the beams of hope and swallow them into darkness.

I crouch behind a large bush that covers my entire frame and wait.

That’s all I can do at this point.

Stay low. Wait. Observe. And never ever draw attention to my presence.

An activity I excel at.

If Lan shows up, whether as one of the Heathens—which is highly unlikely—or one of the participants, I’ll get a gut feeling thanks to the useless twin hunch.

A few people run by like a pack of wolves, squeals of excitement falling from their lips and painting the sky in blotches of brick red on midnight black.

The stench of mindless violence lingers in the air and forms sinister halos around the participants' heads.

Their thrill is short-lived, though. Orange Mask stalks right after them, carrying his vicious club. I silently cringe when he hits one of them so hard, their face swings to the side, and blood explodes on his mask, which cracks in two.

I catch a glimpse of someone walking around dazed with an arrow stuck in his shoulder and a limp arm glued to his side.

Eliminated students’ numbers are announced by that disturbing robotic voice, sometimes one after the other. I think the process is automatic, because whenever I catch a glimpse of someone getting hit by an arrow or Orange Mask’s club, their number is immediately announced.

Throughout the whole freak show, I don’t move, and when I do, it’s only to adjust my position.

Where are you, Lan?

While I take pride in my stamina, I probably can’t keep this up for an extended period of time.

Maybe I should strategically move to another nook of this extravagant forest in case my brother is on the other side—

A sudden chill scrapes the back of my neck, followed by scorching hot heat as a deep, rumbling voice whispers in my ear, “Why aren’t you running?”

My senses saturate in a rush of overwhelming external stimuli and my brain is unable to keep up with the overload. I lose balance and fall on my arse, hitting the ground with an impact that reverberates in my bones.

I stare up, my eyes clashing with the yellow-stitch mask that’s marred with splashes of dark red.

Blood.

It’s everywhere—clinging to his mask, staining his dark shirt, forming rivulets on his neck, covering the tattoos on the backs of his hands like gloves, and sticking to strands of his jet-black hair that falls in waves to his shoulder blades.