Page 18 of Pink Ink

My own phone pings. I click the notification to see the pin-drop emoji that was texted to me.

Good. Someone needs killing. It’s like my muse is being handed right to me.

MADDOX

“Who is it?” I say, voice low, standing to the side of the counter where Shepherd found himself a place to sit. I keep my attention forward so it doesn’t appear like we’re associated with each other. Still, I don’t miss the men and women from the second rank within the Order, standing guard around the coffee shop.

Glancing back, I glare at Shepherd and the light reflecting off his bald head as he takes a sip of his coffee. Fucking Americans and their obsession with the drink. There’s a coffee shop on every corner, yet I haven’t had a decent cup of tea since moving to this damned country nineteen years ago.

I spy the barista making my order. It’ll end up in the trash once I’m a block away. The wanker’s insistence to meet at cafés has always been a means to fuck with me. An oh-so-pleasant reminder that I’m not in control.

Shepherd took me under his wing and trained me up to do the Order’s bidding not long after my family joined the society based here. Through my kills, they can continue controlling the city and meddling in politics, the economy, and everything in between.

Shepherd takes his sweet time sipping his drink before answering. “Matthew Collins.”

I wait a beat. Two. “That narrows it down.”

His annoyance is radiating off him, and I couldn’t give two shits. After being his bitch—apologies,protégé—since I was fourteen, working for him isn’t exactly my cup of tea anymore.

I’m Shepherd’s star pupil. So if he called for me, whoever this Matthew person is, he’s done a good job pissing the Order off.

Any acolyte would kill a man as long as someone as high up as Shepherd says so. But as they say,Pay peanuts, get monkeys. Send a neophyte if you want a mess, a paladin if you want the job done, a medicus if you want it done right, or me if you want to send a message.

Very,veryfew know what I do, but I excel at making a point. I advanced through the ranks quickly for that reason.

Only a handful of individuals are aware of who the Order’sboogeymanis. To everyone else, I’m just Roland’s son who fucks around with paint and clay. Some people within the society suspect that I’ve spent time training under Shepherd, but nothing eventuated from it.

Shepherd has plenty of people to carry out his kills for him. My morbid curiosity for all things macabre made me a natural—a fact Shepherd picked up on before anyone else did.

He introduced me to death. I learned on my own that it could become art, a form of expression, something I could create solely for my sake. Whether I’ve chosen my victims because their eyes remind me of my father’s—cruel men who have never known good—or because Shepherd directed me to them, I see death for what it is: an opportunity. A chance to be free from judgment, and experiment as I wish.

A black USB clatters at my feet. A moment later, Shepherd’s chair scrapes against the wooden floors and the bells above the exit chime.

I pocket the USB and leave without waiting for my order. Excitement thrums through my veins. If I’m being given information on their sins, it means I’m allowed to be creative.

Lack the vision? Theunderstanding?

If only they knew.

“There are twenty-seven bones in the human hand. Do you realize how long it’s taken me to be able to break each and every one of them?”

The tears staining Matthew’s cheeks don’t dissuade me. Did he stop when his wife screamed and asked for mercy? Begged for God to granther salvation from the monster before her? No, he didn’t stop until her jaw broke beneath his fists.

My father thought punching someone was barbaric. Heaven forbid he splits his own skin. His methods always involved another object when it came to me. For Mother, an open hand sufficed.

Shepherd’s file painted a pretty picture of how much Matthew deserves to suffer. His death will make a fine-art installation for the police.

If only it were Roland instead.

“Please.” Big, fat clumps of snot trickle down his nose, dampening my creative experience. “I’m sorry.”

They always say that.Sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word come out of my father’s mouth. I doubt he’d lower himself to say it, even when death is knocking at his door.

Usually, I wouldn’t have the slightest clue what they’re sorry about. Whatever grievances they have with the Order are always left out of the file, unless Shepherd wants me to be creative with those with grave sins to atone for—the type of subjects I’d pick for myself. Men who prey on their own family.

Any kill authorized by Shepherd means I’m free from repercussions. Unless I’ve chosen the subject myself, the only question I typically have is whether or not to make it look like an accident.

The Order would never care for the domestic affairs of random citizens. If Matthew here isn’t in our ranks, whatever he’s done must have been bad enough to warrantmyattention.