Star Eater
Chapter Three

Mason fixed his tie in place and shrugged into his school blazer. There was no evidence of his earlier rage, but it simmered inside, anchored to his frustration at not finding the case. Then again, rage was a constant companion for his kind.

Footsteps echoed up the hallway and someone knocked on his door. The person didn't wait for permission before entering. It was Todd, the fat fuck errand boy for his father.

“Mr. Wright wants to speak with you,” Todd said without preamble.

Mason’s gaze flickered to Todd in the mirror. The errand boy was a minorling, an unevolved daemon like Mason, the lowest rung on the ladder. The urge to rend the flesh from his throat, to sink his claws into the other daemon’s back and just rip out muscles rose in Mason’s chest. He closed his eyes for a moment and listed the eight virtues of bushido to calm himself down.  

The urge subsided and Mason opened his eyes. Unlike Mason, Todd didn't have the family pedigree that demanded respect and guaranteed advancement. That didn't stop the bastard from being ambitious or treating Mason with no regard. He would pay for it eventually. Mason soothed his pride knowing that he could beat the shit out of Todd now, as they both were. Todd thought his age and weight gave him an edge. Mason knew better.

The younger man did not allow a grimace to surface on his face as he considered this impromptu summons. He just nodded. His father couldn’t possibly know. Then he realized the blood scent may have lingered. Daemons had sensitive noses. How could he be so careless? He closed his hand into a fist and said a small prayer. Even though the injury was gone, if the scent had lingered his father would know it was his blood.

Fixing his blazer, Mason stepped out into the hallway. He affected a nonchalance he didn't feel as Todd led the way. Instead of going to his father’s study, Todd led him to the dining room, where his father was breaking fast. Hope spread throughout Mason’s chest. Perhaps his father hadn’t even gone to his study yet.

There was no place set for Mason at the table, which was just so. Father and son rarely spoke.

Silas Wright was reading the paper, scanning the financial pages as Mason entered.

“Father,” Mason greeted.

“The Sharpe's investment in that online couch surfing company has paid off,” Silas said. His face was smooth but his voice was not. He was angry. “They wouldn’t have looked at it if not for one of their sons.”

Silas sneered, loathing their competitors, and on some level, blaming Mason for this oversight. Mason wasn’t sure which his father hated more, that the Sharpe family was more successful or that they had multiple sons left to groom.

“They have been nipping at our heels for a long time now,” Silas continued. “And their sons have begun to shape the future of their business.”

That was an understatement. The Sharpe sons had taken over after starting and winning the last war. Rumor had it there was only one Sharpe elder that had survived, though Mason and his family couldn't substantiate it. But Silas Wright would not lower himself to competing with daemons half his age, even if they were the same rank as him. So he always acted as if the Sharpe elders were in the shadows, playing the game. Perhaps they were. Mason didn't really care one way or another.

“It is time for you to start earning your place in our organization.”

Mason didn’t comment on the fact that the youngest Sharpe had graduated college and that Mason was just a senior in high school. He knew it wouldn’t matter much in this discussion. The decision had been made. Mason did not say anything. His silence was the only protest allowed to him and he employed it. The rage fought to come out again.

The eight virtues of bushido: righteousness, heroic courage, benevolence—

“Well?” Silas demanded.

“Is there a point to me saying anything?” Mason asked. “I thought you just wanted blind obedience.”

When Silas moved it was a blur. A hand with talons wrapped around Mason’s throat and threw him bodily against the wall. The hand held him and Mason hung a foot from the ground, choking. The claws sunk into his neck, barely missing his jugular while blood soaked into his uniform and he futilely pulled at the fingers.

Silas was in daemon glory—his head double crowned with horns, his skin a deep mauve, his eyes acidic orange.

“I expect gratitude from you for this opportunity to learn from a true leader and take your place in this family,” his father whispered, his voice deeper in his archdaemon body.

“And if I don’t?” Mason gasped. Black dots floated across his vision but he held those acidic eyes.

 Silas released him and Mason dropped, coughing on the ground.

“Then you will die,” his father said conversationally, human once more.

Mason actually chuckle-coughed until he felt the air thicken around him. A blood vessel burst in his sinuses, exploding pain behind his eyes, temporarily blinding him. He heard fluid dripping on the carpet in a pool underneath him. When his vision cleared, there was crimson everywhere. “Careful,” he said. “You only have one heir left.”

His father knelt beside him and whispered, “I don’t have to kill you to watch you die. There are pieces of your heart I can easily get my hands on.”

Mason’s fear betrayed him. With a sharp snarl, he threw his weight to the side, trying to bring his foot around for a kick. This time Silas laughed, throwing out a blurred punch before Mason could get into position. The boy slammed hard into the wall, his ribs creaking in protest.

“You hate me, which is good,” Silas said. “It will make you stronger. But you have played the honorable white knight too long. You will give in to the rage. We all do. And when you finally give in, you will love it.”

“Fuck you,” Mason spat, scrambling to his feet. He faced his father, ignoring the torrent of blood that would betray him. If this was his moment, so be it.

“Tonight, we will discuss your future,” Silas said. His voice carried the promise of so much violence that Mason flinched, but he stood his ground. Silas didn't seem to notice. He picked up his newspaper and walked out leaving a furious Mason behind.

The rage choked him. He stood bleeding, fighting to keep tears of frustration, terror, and anger from spilling out. A wave of hate so poisonous rolled through him it made his stomach turn and he almost committed. He squeezed his eyes shut, body tight with unspent adrenaline, struggling to breathe, fighting not to chase after his sire and die in an attempt to tear him to pieces.

Righteousness, courage, benevolence, respect, honor, loyalty, honesty, self-control. Righteousness: be acutely honest with yourself and with all your dealings with others. Courage: a true warrior must live life fully, taking risks but making intelligent and strong decisions. Benevolence….

Mason repeated the code to himself all the way through. He didn't care that the servants were waiting just beyond the door to clean up the mess or that Todd was gloating down the hall. When he finished with self-control, the hardest-won virtue, he dared open his eyes and force his body to relax.

So tonight was the night. What was he going to do? He couldn't leave yet; he didn't have the case.

Fuck! he thought. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Findɴovel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

From somewhere in the house the clock chimed seven times. He was going to be late for school. The thought almost made him laugh. As if school was important. But it was away from here. He needed to change first. The damage done to his sinuses and body would heal before first period but bloodstains were more stubborn.  

By the time Mason slid into his car, Ava, his sister, was already there waiting for him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Mason didn’t answer. He was too angry to verbalize. He started the car, threw it into gear and took off. When she reached over and put her hand on his shoulder, it took all his self-control not to break it. That’s what scared him the most.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said.

“No,” he said, knowing he was going to have to come up with a plan before the end of the day. “It’s not.”

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