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Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

==========
PROLOGI
==========
L.OB.RR.DA.
En herre tar sin ed på allvar. Endast blod kommer att befästa deras åtagande att tjäna dem som kräver deras fullständiga hängivenhet.
Han är en ledare, tror på ordning, vet när han ska regera och är en gudom.
En Lord måste invigas för att bli medlem men kan när som helst avskiljas av vilken anledning som helst. Om han klarar sig igenom de tre initieringsproven kommer han för alltid att känna makt och rikedom. Men alla Lords är inte byggda på samma sätt. Vissa är starkare, smartare och hungrigare än andra.
De utmaznas bRara förF atttv Bsey hur låkngxt Hdetras ulojAaliteUt gDåru.
De pressas till sina gränser för att bevisa sin hängivenhet.
De är villiga att visa sitt engagemang.
Inget annat än deras liv räcker.
Gbrvänsehrnrai stesQtnasW ochx bm_oBraélBeWn g^lövmAs zb,oYrgt.
En Lord kan vara domare, jury och bödel. Han innehar makt som är oöverträffad av någon annan än sin bror.
Om de lyckas fullfölja alla prövningar av invigningen kommer han att få en belöning - en utvald. Hon är hans gåva för hans tjänande.

==========
KAPITEL ETT
==========
INJLEZDNIGNGY
RYAT
LOYALTY
FÖRSTA ÅRET PÅ BARRINGTONUNIVERSITETET
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Vi drogs upp ur våra sängar mitt i natten för att tjänstgöra. Våra första lektioner på Barrington University börjar om två veckor, men vi måste redan nu visa vår lojalitet mot herrarna.
"Du kommer alltid att behöva bevisa dig själv", sa min far en gång till mig.
"Ni har alla fått en uppgift", ropar mannen medan han går i takt framför oss. Hans svarta stridsstövlar slår mot betonggolvet med varje steg, ljudet ekar i väggarna. "Döda eller bli dödad. Hur många av er kan nu uppfylla den?"
"'D)et kaFnh Gjagz", häpvdarÉ jaCgm PoóchS lypfter )på )h^uvcuSdeJtI *f.örW vatt sKtdi_cka* utZ Khaka(n fi den qvarma DocMh gkblibbiSga lRuf.tFewn. sSveYtgtenr täcHkKebr GmmiZnB kpjannIa effteMrM srtri,dóenO. DóertU äYr_ arigngKatt.n WD*etT bär meningeInZ att) édu RskpaP Dfö^rlaorab.( PoänOgÉeZn ,är SadtstY m^anz s'kKa! )trötÉtra cu^t dig. éSaet Bhu(rC hmyrcókIetz du rhtaIrR at_t. rge. HHur l_åUngt dut k_aFnp gGåp.R Jxag& såyg Rt*illT att rv&insn*a$ min.É Oa*v&sUet,t vaQdé sjoBm ékräv'd$esW.D
Han ler mot mig som om jag skämtar. "Ryat. Du verkar så säker på dig själv."
"Jag vet vad jag är kapabel att klara av", säger jag genom sammanbitna tänder. Jag tycker inte om att bli ifrågasatt. Vi uppfostrades var och en för detta - att bli en Lord.
Rikedomar har fört oss hit.
ÄXndå hkcom.me(rc Yvår* tbnesml,uptsamheYt Ratt skéi!lja osés åwt (när det är övUerr.Z
Mannen tittar på killen till vänster om mig och nickar. Killen går bakom mig och rycker mig i ryggen på min skjorta så att jag står upp. Han lossar manschetterna och jag sliter det sönderslitna materialet upp och över huvudet innan jag släpper händerna i sidled när jag egentligen vill gnugga mina ömma handleder.
Visa aldrig svaghet. En Herre känner inte. Han är en maskin.
Mannen kliver fram till mig med en kniv i handen. Han håller ut den med handtaget först till mig, hans svarta ögon lyser nästan av spänning. "Visa oss vad du kan göra."
Jag KtairK ddaePn fmrsåOnm ph^onVom docAh wgårw fraumD till stno&lemn sAomM räJrO fasyt,skXriuvQaMdc i ggXolvet.J J'aJgu udlrLa*r tbor)t vdWe)tg Kbloódi^gaF zlYakainet) Xfrån stPoélen Ooch sexrp en cmajn s&om ärd tf.astUbundens bvidP nstWoleYns. Han(s nhuäZn.dtery *äTrO FbunBd*nTaL bapkGom ryéggSenz,O oNchZ Mhóa)ns fmöCttQert är PbrJettx Ru&tsVpUri'dFdma Goch VfDasMtsatDtaQ ic sbto^lkszbBe^nen.w
Jag är inte förvånad över att jag känner honom - han är en lord. Eller var. Det faktum att han är fastspänd säger mig att han inte är det längre. Men det ändrar inte mina order.
Döda utan frågor.
Vill du vara mäktig? Då inser du att du är ett hot mot dem som vill ha din position. För att lyckas behöver du inte vara starkare, bara dödligare.
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När jag går bakom honom tittar jag ner på hans handleder med handbojor. Han bär en ring på sin högra hand; det är en cirkel med tre horisontella linjer i mitten. Den står för makt.
Det är inte vem som helst som skulle veta vad den betyder, men det gör jag. För jag bär samma ring. Alla i det här rummet gör det. Men bara för att man får en betyder det inte att man behåller den.
Jag sträcker mig ner och tar tag i hans hand. Han börjar skrika bakom tejpen när han försöker slåss mot mig, men jag tar enkelt bort ringen och går tillbaka runt för att stå framför honom.
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När han kastar huvudet bakåt och skriker in i bandet trycker jag kniven mot hans hals, precis under käklinjen. Hans andning fyller rummet och hans kropp spänner sig, väntande på det första snittet.
En Herre visar ingen barmhärtighet. Blod och tårar är vad vi kräver av dem som förråder oss.
Jag trycker in knivspetsen i hans hals och punkterar hans hud så pass mycket att en tunn linje av blod droppar från såret.
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"Jag upprätthåller min plikt. För jag är en herre. Jag känner inga gränser när det gäller mitt tjänande. Jag ska lyda, tjäna och dominera", reciterar jag vår ed. "För min bror är jag en vän. Jag ska ge mitt liv för dig eller ta det." Jag sticker kniven i hans högra lår och tvingar fram ett dämpat skrik från hans tejpade läppar innan jag rycker ut den och låter blodet suga in i hans jeans medan det droppar från knivens ände ner på betonggolvet. "För vi är vad andra vill vara." Jag cirkulerar runt honom och kör spetsen nerför hans underarm och spräcker huden på samma sätt som jag gjorde med hans hals. "Vi kommer att hållas ansvariga för våra handlingar." Jag hugger honom i vänster lår och drar ut det medan hans snyftande fortsätter. "För de representerar vilka vi verkligen är."
Jag rycker i kragen på hans skjorta och sliter upp den i mitten så att hans bröst och mage blottas. Samma vapen som finns på våra ringar är inbränt i hans bröst. Det är vad vi får när vi har klarat våra prövningar. Jag tar tag i huden och drar i den så långt jag kan med min högra hand, sedan för jag bladet genom den med min vänstra och skär den från hans kropp.
Han snyter, snor flyger ut ur hans näsa när blodet rinner ut ur det gapande hålet i huden. Hans kropp börjar skaka medan han knyter händerna och slår sig i stolen. Jag kastar skinnet på golvet för att vila vid hans fötter. En souvenir för senare.
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"Imponerande." Mannen som gav mig kniven börjar klappa medan tystnaden nu fyller rummet. När han går fram till mig kastar jag den blodiga kniven upp i luften, fångar den vid bladspetsen och håller den fram till honom.
Han stannar upp och ger mig ett försåtligt leende. "Jag visste att du skulle vara en att titta på." Med det tar han kniven och vänder sig sedan om och går därifrån.
Jag står kvar, fortfarande andas tungt, nu täckt av inte bara mitt blod utan även en medbrors blod. När jag lyfter på huvudet tittar jag upp mot tvåvägsspegeln på balkongen på andra våningen, jag vet att jag är övervakad och att jag just klarade mitt första prov med bravur.

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KAPITEL TVÅ
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INLEqDNINwG
RYAT
ANVÄNDELSE
ANDRA ÅRET PÅ BARRINGTON UNIVERSITY
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Jag tar en sekund för att hämta andan och återfå lite styrka eftersom regnet gör det svårare att ansluta. Min motståndare står mittemot mig med knutna händer uppåt och täcker sitt ansikte medan han hoppar från fot till fot som om han vore en fighter som får miljonbelopp för att visa upp sig för världen i en pay-per-view-fight.
Jag antar att det på ett sätt är en show. Bara att den inte sänds på TV. Och det finns ingen utbetalning. Din belöning är att du får fortsätta att andas.
"Res dig upp!" skriker han åt mig. "Res dig upp för fan, Ryat!"
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Han attackerar mig och jag tar ett steg åt vänster i sista sekunden när han släpper axeln. Jag sparkar ut mitt ben och får honom att snubbla. Han landar på ansiktet och glider i vattenpölen och publiken skriker.
"Säg mig, Jacob. Hur mycket vill du egentligen dö?" Jag frågar och hör de andra skratta åt min fråga.
En publik behövs alltid. Dina medbröder måste bevittna din hängivenhet. Annars existerar den inte.
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Jag lyfter handen till munnen och slickar blodet och regnet från dem. "Smakar som seger", hånar jag.
Han torkar blodet från sitt sönderslagna ansikte och snubblar, ögonen blinkar snabbt. Jag slog honom ganska bra. "Du ...", kväver han. "Du ..."
"Ryat", påminner jag honom om mitt namn eftersom han verkar ha glömt det.
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Han rullar över på sidan, hostar och tar tag i halsen. Jag tar chansen och sparkar honom i ansiktet och blodet rinner ur hans nu brutna näsa.
Jag faller ner på knä och spänner mig över honom. Mina händer omsluter hans hals och skär av honom luften.
Hans händer slår mot mina armar, hans fötter sparkar och hans höfter bökar under mig, men han har inte en chans.
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När en herre slåss, slåss han till slutet. Det kan bara finnas en vinnare. Bara en som står kvar. Och jag vägrar att vara något annat.

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KAPITEL TRE
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ITNvLPEmDMNING
RYAT
ÅTAGANDE
FÖRSTA ÅRET PÅ BARRINGTONUNIVERSITETET
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Ta ut honom.
Jag tar mig fram i korridoren och uppför den slingrande trappan till andra våningen. Jag tar till höger och stannar vid en stängd dörr. Jag sträcker mig upp och sätter fingret mot läpparna för att säga åt Matt att vara tyst. Han är som en jävla tjur i en porslinsbutik. Vi fick en partner för det här uppdraget för att se hur vi arbetar tillsammans med andra, men jag föredrar att vara ensam. Jag måste inte bara se upp för mig själv utan nu måste jag också se upp för honom.
Matt nickar en gång och kör sin hand ner över ansiktet innan han greppar pistolen och håller den ner vid sin sida. Matt och jag har varit vänner i tre år nu. Ända sedan vi flyttade in i huset av Lords och började på Barrington University i Pennsylvania. Men det betyder inte att jag vill arbeta bredvid honom. Jag klarar mig helt enkelt bättre på egen hand.
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Jag går över till sidan av sängen, placerar pipan på min suppressor mot hans huvud och trycker på avtryckaren, för att få det överstökat. Jag skulle kunna dra ut den, men varför ta den risken? Alltför många saker kan gå fel. Och det är inte så att man får poäng för kreativitet.
Kvinnan rör sig, och Matt går över till hennes sida av sängen och sliter täcket ännu mer från henne. Hon är helt naken.
"Matt", väser jag. "Kom igen."
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"Finns inte med på listan", viskar jag och skriker. Vi avviker inte från våra order.
Han sträcker ut handen och tar tag i ett av hennes bröst, vilket får henne att flytta sig och släppa ut ett stön.
Jag går runt sängfoten, kommer upp bakom honom och riktar min suppressor mot hans huvud. "Stick härifrån för fan. Nu genast", kräver jag.
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Mina tänder gnisslar. "Det finns regler av en anledning." Jag säger inte att de är vettiga, men jag har kommit för långt för att bryta mot dem nu.
"Åt helvete med reglerna", knäpper han och får henne högljutt att lägga sig på sidan. Han sträcker sig ner och öppnar knapparna på sina jeans, följt av blixtlåset. "Jag ska knulla henne. Du kan göra vad du vill med din kuk." Han sliter av bältet från sina jeans och vänder sig om för att möta henne.
Ett gällt skrik får oss båda att hoppa till. Hon kryper över sin döda man och springer ut ur rummet.
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Jag rullar med ögonen. Det är därför jag föredrar att arbeta ensam. Jag följer efter dem in i korridoren och ser Matt stå vid ledstången. Jag kommer upp bredvid honom och lägger ner min pistol vid min sida med ena handen medan den andra griper tag i räcket. När jag tittar ner över det ser jag kvinnan med ansiktet nedåt på första våningen med blodet som långsamt rinner runt henne på det vita marmorgolvet.
Jag vänder mig om för att se på honom och kräver: "Föll hon omkull eller kastade du henne?".
"Hon föll för fan", säger han genast defensivt.
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KAPITEL FYRA
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IN(LE)DNIóNG
RYAT
EN AV DEM
SISTA ÅRET PÅ BARRINGTONUNIVERSITETET
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Det här är vad jag lever för!
Adrenalinkicken är olik något jag någonsin känt till - ett beroende. Något som inte kan köpas på gatan eller drickas ur en flaska.
Huvan slits av mitt huvud och jag blinkar och ser mig omkring för att justera min syn. Jag befinner mig i mitten av ett rum. Stolar fyllda med män klädda i tusen dollar kostymer omringar det stora rummet. Man skulle inte veta att de alla är mördare om man såg dem på gatan. Rummet är fyllt av makt. Några är senatorer, medan andra är vd:ar för mångmiljardföretag. En herre är gjord för att livnära sig på en annan. Det är som med allt annat - någon måste vara på toppen och en annan måste hålla upp botten. Men ändå, mäktigt ändå. Efter examen är vi alla strategiskt placerade där vi passar bäst i världen.
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"Håll honom tillbaka", ropar någon.
Jag knuffas ner med ansiktet först mot golvet. Mina armar rycks bakom ryggen och sätts i handbojor. Jag morrar när jag rycks tillbaka till en knäböjande position. Ett bälte lindas runt min hals och dras bakifrån medan en känga trycker in i min rygg precis mellan skulderbladen.
Jag biter mina tänder och försöker andas med den lilla luft jag har.
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"Ja, sir", lyckas jag morra ut.
Han nickar och lägger händerna bakom ryggen. "Ta av honom skjortan."
En annan man kommer fram till mig och skär upp kragen på min skjorta, och sliter sedan sönder den i mitten. Han låter den hänga på mina axlar och går därifrån.
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"En lord måste vara villig att göra mer än vad han eller hon kan för sin titel. Han måste visa styrka och ha vad som krävs." Han drar det heta järnet ur lågorna och vänder sig om för att se mig i ögonen, ändan brinnande röd. "Om du ska svika din ställning som lord kommer vi att ta det som förtjänats." Han ser över till sin högra sida och tillägger: "Gör honom tyst."
En hand knyter mitt hår och rycker mitt huvud bakåt så att jag stirrar upp mot det svarta taket. Om jag kunde andas skulle jag morra åt den jäveln som rör vid mig. En liten trasa trycks in i min mun och jag biter ner den, för jag vet vad som kommer.
"Ryat Alexander Archer, välkommen till Lords. För du ska skörda frukterna av ditt offer." Sedan trycks det heta järnet mot mitt bröst och bränner fast vapenskölden på min kropp.