The Syndicater (Dark Verse #6)

And so it begins

Unknown, Tenebrae City, 1985

ON A COLD, DARK night in winter, with the wind howling and the skies crying in sleet, two men from the Tenebrae Outfit met the two men from Shadow Port in the middle of nowhere.

He stood there too, a fifth man, a negotiator, unsmiling, unpleasant, unhappy—a representative of an organization most didn't know about. It hadn't been on his list of priorities to attend this meeting, especially when his bones were freezing, but becoming a god had its price. He was rising in the ranks and almost at the top, climbing on the backs of greedy, hungry bastards like the ones he was meeting with. Such smart businessmen who became bumbling idiots at the first glimpse of true power. They had tasted but a drop and already acted drunk. Fools.

He scoffed internally, feeling an odd kind of detachment settling in. He couldn’t figure out what more he was supposed to achieve in life as he waited for the cars to reach him. He had it all—money, power, influence. He had a family where he was devoted and a place where he was deviant. He was both men—the faithful husband and the uncontrolled fiend, the doting father and the inhuman demon. But it all got old too fast. Lately, there had been a lull, a lethargy of sorts settling inside him, as though no matter what he did, what he partook, it would leave him incomplete. He fed and fed and fed and yet stayed hungry, and as of late, he wondered what would be the thing to break it.

Ennui was the end for everyone.

That would have scared anyone else, but not him. He thought differently. The lethargy with life was an opportunity for something new, a chance to shake things up and show their world something never seen before. Leaning against his car, as a cold wind jostled him, he watched the two cars come to a stop. The men who thought of themselves as the organization's allies got out. Idiots. They should know there were no allies in this trade.

Lately, there were no enemies either. It was all too easy.

Maybe that was the reason for his boredom. He needed a worthy adversary. But there were none.

Maybe, he could create one.

As the thought took root in his mind, rolling around, growing into an ugly, twisted idea.

He greeted them with a smile.

The ennui cracked.