Laurent and the Beast (Kings of Hell MC 1)

Beast gritted his teeth, squeezing Laurent’s pin so hard its sharp edges sank into the flesh of his palm. He leaned forward and grabbed both the doors of the mirror cupboard, tugging so hard the wood creaked. “Show yourself, or I’m gonna find you. I’m gonna destroy you. You can’t play with my life!”

But nothing changed. There was no smoke, no odd noises, no darkness consuming the room. The devil had decided Beast was of no importance, and the fury that consumed Beast’s chest had him punching the mirror over and over. Blood sprayed his face when a shard of glass tore through his skin, and Beast stumbled away, gathering his strength, resting with his back against the wall.

He gave his reflection one more glance in the broken, blood-stained mirror.

If he died tonight, he would be unable to destroy the infernal being. He would not give King the satisfaction, and he would not let Laurent’s sacrifice go to waste. All that time, Laurent had been carrying this rock of a secret on his heart, unable to share the burden. That alone made Beast so furious that despite all the aches consuming his body, he walked out of the bathroom with a low growl that made Hound back away.

Beast looked at the pin and slowly attached it to the front of his cut. If this was the only thing he had left of Laurent, he would carry it into battle. The emptiness inside his chest was slowly being replaced by determination, and if hatred could be materialized, it would come in the form of Beast’s heart.

He was too exhausted to cry or shout. He loaded two of his handguns, took his favorite knife, and left the house with Hound trailing behind him, visibly frightened and yet unwilling to abandon his master.

The clubhouse was quiet as a grave, and Beast now suspected King had somehow lured everyone away to complete his work.

Each of Beast’s footsteps echoed in the silence despite the furious wind and rain outside, as if the empty corridors were a world of their own, in no way associated with the storm raging beyond the thick walls.

Beast didn’t bother to switch on the light and marched through the empty hallways in complete silence that was broken only by the sounds of the weather, and six pairs of legs—his thumping loudly, and Hound’s—quickly tapping against the resin floor. The tall windows were a blur of streaming water, and shadowy trees waved their arms with each powerful gust of wind.

A lightning bolt tore through the sky far away, and for a split second the corridor ahead of Beast was bright as if it were day. Hound gave a broken whine and pushed his heavy body close to his master’s legs, but Beast himself grew roots in the floor. There was someone standing at the end of the corridor where the borders of the historic mansion began. Beast only registered the figure for a split second, but he saw that there was a spray of bright red across the front of a pale suit. When another flash of light brought the corridor back to life, the man was nowhere to be seen.

Beast ran, his gun ready for use, his head spinning so badly it was affecting the precision behind Beast’s movements. But when he reached the doorway where the stranger had stood, and the thunder shook the walls around him, there was no trace of an intruder, no traces of blood on the pale floor, and no sound of footsteps rushing away to be heard.

His heart drummed as he tried to get to grips with the surreality of it all when Hound rushed past him, barking loudly, no longer afraid. Beast followed.

They both ran down the wide stairs as if a whole cavalcade of ghosts were after them. With the gun firmly in his hand, Beast crashed into the front door with his shoulder and shoved it open, hit by the smell of rain that had nothing pleasant about it. Instead of fresh, it seemed somehow stale, as if it wasn’t water from the clouds but the juices from the ground beneath them raining upward. Centuries of evil—no, of something primal that didn’t know good from evil—being soaked up into the clouds above them to now fall back down.

The thunder rolled over their heads, and as lightning spread its ghostly fingers over the dark sky, he saw King’s motorbike parked in front of the stairs, as if it were a carriage waiting for William Fane himself. Beast stepped out of the house and into the rain that instantly drenched him to the bone, each heavy drop of water like a punch aimed to drain him of strength slowly and methodically.

The bike sure as hell hadn’t been here when he’d arrived with Laurent, and without a reason for King to have left it where the machine was at the mercy of the horrid weather, it was a statement. A provocation.