Bait & Business

XV

Pulling this off had cost me more favors than I cared to admit, but it was worth it. The operation hinged on distracting the Elsewhere Cult, and the item in my hand—a replica of Mariah Morey—was a key part of that plan. The cursed statue, now tucked securely in my briefcase, was bait. I knew their priests would gather here tonight, and this relic would draw even more of them out of hiding.

This gala was meant to be just a normal meeting between theirmmembers, but because of the 'bait', the gala had transformed into a full hard-on party…

Security gave me the usual frisk before letting me through. They weren't as thorough as I'd expected, their attention more focused on the crowd than on the guests themselves. Perfect. The suit and tie I wore made from special technology—another favor cashed in—fit like a glove. More importantly, it was aura-responsive and durable, offering just enough protection for the chaos I was about to unleash.

The gala was alive with chatter and music, a cacophony of indulgence. As I navigated the room, I kept my focus sharp, scanning for any sign of the Cult's presence. Every detail mattered, every moment counted.

Rory's voice crackled in my earpiece. "In position. Poison ready."

Grue followed. "Standing by."

Henry added, "Two others not on the list. Probably cultists."

Carlyle's voice was last. "Still waiting for the signal."

I didn't respond. Instead, I kept my stride even as a pudgy man approached me. Eric Lannister. A familiar face. He was one of the Cult's financial backers, a man whose self-importance was as inflated as his waistline.

"I'm glad you could make it, Mr. Wells," he said smoothly, though his tone lacked sincerity.

"Mr. Wells" was my alias for the evening, a carefully crafted identity to keep my true purpose concealed.

"The package is here," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "Is there a way I can meet the clients?"

Eric's smile tightened. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. I can pay you now—how much?"

"I want to meet them," I repeated, my expression calm, my words firm.

His eyes narrowed, his smile faltering. "That's not how this works, Mr. Wells. I assure you, you'll be compensated handsomely without any face-to-face interaction."

"Unfortunate," I said, letting a smirk creep onto my face. "But you don't mind if I stick around to enjoy the gala, do you?"

His smile turned into a grimace, though he quickly masked it. "Of course not. You're a valued guest."

I handed him the briefcase, letting my fingers linger on it just a moment longer than necessary.

Mariah Morey.

The name echoed in my mind. The Cult's whispers about her had spread through the Hunter world. Once a member of their ranks, she'd ventured into the Forbidden Region and returned as stone—a warning, a relic, and a symbol of their twisted faith.

"Two hundred million worths," I said evenly.

Eric's confidence cracked. His eyes widened, and he blinked in disbelief. "Two... two hundred million?"

I nodded. "This isn't just a transaction for a piece of art. You and I both know the significance of what's inside that briefcase. A relic of your Cult. A symbol of your history, and perhaps... your future."

His unease was palpable as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a growl. "I hope you're not trying to extort us. That would be... unwise."

"Not extortion," I said, leaning back with a faint smile. "Just good business."

Eric's gaze flicked between me and the briefcase. He was cornered, and we both knew it. After a tense moment, he relented. "I'll send the money now."

He pulled out his phone, entering the details I'd given him. My Hunter bank account—a system so secure and off-grid that even the Cult couldn't trace it—buzzed moments later, confirming the transfer.

"Pleasure doing business," I said, pocketing my phone.

Eric forced a smile. "I hope we can do more business in the future, Mr. Wells."

"Perhaps," I replied, already thinking ahead.

As Eric waddled off, likely to report the transaction to his superiors, I sent a quick message to Rory.

"Money secured. Proceed."

Her reply was immediate. "Understood. Lacing the rest of the food. Give me ten minutes."

The gala buzzed with an air of indulgence, laughter mingling with the soft strains of a live orchestra. On the surface, it was just another evening of luxury and networking. Beneath the facade, however, the atmosphere was electric with tension.

I scanned the room, my eyes flitting between faces. Prominent figures, their auras humming faintly beneath layers of practiced civility, moved among the guests. I picked out at least three hunters I hadn't anticipated. Likely hired by the Elsewhere Cult for additional security. Not a problem—just another layer to the puzzle I was piecing together.

Pressing a finger to my earpiece, I spoke low, keeping my tone neutral. "Grue, keep an eye on the security team. There are a few extras. Rory's finishing the prep now. We move soon."

Grue's reply was succinct: "Got it."

I adjusted my cufflinks, keeping my expression neutral as I added, "Carlyle, are you in position yet?"

"Just arrived," he replied, calm as ever. "Tell me when you need the walls."

Henry's voice followed almost immediately. "Five more... and… thirteen more. That's a lot of hunters. I don't think they recognized me. I'll be hiding from a distance for the meantime."

Thirteen. That was no small bump. Enough hunters to turn this gala into a bloodbath if things went sideways. I forced myself to keep my movements relaxed, masking the tension clawing at the edges of my focus.

"Good. Stay hidden," I muttered. Henry's detection abilities weren't on par with a full Tracker-type, but they were more than enough to spot trouble. And right now, he'd earned his keep.

Rory chimed in, her voice as casual as if she were commenting on the weather. "My poison can be remotely activated when I want. Just give me the word."

"Understood, Rory. Hold for now," I said, letting the rest of the team hear the confirmation. This wasn't just about me pulling strings anymore; they needed to feel like they had control in the chaos we were about to unleash.

"Everyone stay sharp," I added. "We move in ten."

I began counting down in my head.

Ten.

The crowd swirled around me, laughing, eating, and drinking. Oblivious.

Nine.

I moved seamlessly through the room, shaking hands, exchanging meaningless pleasantries. A mask to keep suspicions at bay.

Eight.

More people arrived. With each new face, my suspicions grew. Hunters blending into the gathering, priests of the Cult moving among them.

Seven.

I slipped into a dim corner, away from the center of attention. Waiting. Watching.

Six.

The guests continued their revelry, blissfully unaware of what was coming.

Five.

Eric Lannister, playing the part of a gracious host, laughed and mingled, his movements practiced and confident.

Four.

Then I saw him. One of the main targets—the Prophet's right-hand man. His eyes locked onto mine, and a flicker of recognition passed over his face.

Three.

Rory's voice crackled in my ear. "Everyone in the gala has fed on my aura."

Two.

I took a deep breath, my voice steady as I gave the order. "Do it."

One.

Grue entered the room, his leather jacket blending seamlessly with the formal attire of the evening. His helmet was on, its reflective surface hiding his face.

Carlyle's force walls snapped into place, silent and invisible, sealing every exit.

Zero.

The effect was immediate. One by one, the guests began to collapse, their bodies hitting the floor in a slow, synchronized cascade. Rory's poison worked flawlessly. Priests, hunters, and followers alike crumpled into unconsciousness.

The room was eerily quiet save for the faint rustle of collapsing bodies. The real work was about to begin.

Henry's voice came through the comms, sharp and urgent. "Two managed to get away. I killed one. The other's running. Do I pursue?"

"No," I replied firmly. "Stay where you are and kill anyone else who tries to escape."

A slow breath escaped me. One escaping wasn't ideal, but it wasn't catastrophic either. A controlled leak, a seed of paranoia to spread through the Cult's ranks.

"Grue," I said, my voice calm despite the tension. "Watch my back. Carlyle, hold the barriers until we're done."

The room was eerily quiet, the stillness broken only by the faint rustle of clothing and the occasional groan from those who had managed to resist the poison's full effect. Bodies littered the floor like discarded dolls, a tableau of opulence brought to ruin.

This was what I wanted. For the Elsewhere Cult to feel hunted, dragged out of their shadows and into the glaring light. A survivor would spread the story, amplify the paranoia. Stir the pot just enough to force them into rash decisions. But first, I had to handle the rest of this cleanly.

Grue approached me silently, extending the knife. I took it, its cold weight a reminder of the culmination of everything I had planned. Kneeling beside one of the collapsed mundanes, I pried open his lower lip.

There it was: a series of tiny, etched numbers. A mark of the Elsewhere Cult.

Without hesitation, I drew the blade across his throat, the motion clean and efficient.

Grue loomed over me, his flat voice cutting through the quiet. "You didn't say anything about killing ordinary people."

"They aren't ordinary," I replied, wiping the blade on the dead man's shirt. "They might not have aura, but they're monsters in their own way. The only reason they're in the positions they are now is because of the human sacrifices they've offered to the Cult. Some of these people are probably older than us, sustained by dark rituals."

I rose to my feet and handed the knife back to Grue. "Help me finish this. But leave the hunters to me. And remember—check for the serial numbers on the lower lips before you kill. Let those who don't have them go…"

Grue nodded once and moved off without a word.

I turned my attention to the unconscious hunter sprawled near the center of the room. Her aura was faint, almost imperceptible, but my Soul Link told me she wasn't entirely out. She was playing dead.

A clever tactic, but not clever enough.

The Soul Link only connected with those who were aware of my presence, and through it, I could perceive and temporarily steal her illusion attribute. She didn't realize that I had hidden the link behind her own aura—a subtle trick that most hunters would never notice.

I knelt beside her, my eyes drawn to the dagger sheathed at her hip. Its craftsmanship was exquisite, its balance perfect. I picked it up, running my thumb lightly along its edge, feeling the razor-sharp bite.

Her aura pulsed faintly as I took her attribute, returning it just as quickly. I smirked. She had no idea how deeply I could manipulate her now.

Using her own illusion attribute against her, I amplified her pain. Even the faintest touch would now feel like a searing wound.

Without hesitation, I stabbed her just above the heart—not deep enough to kill, but enough to send a wave of agony crashing through her body.

Her scream tore through the room. "Aaagh~!" Her body tensed, muscles locking as she tried to fight back, but I was already on her. One knee pinned her leg, one hand holding her arm down.

"Be careful," I murmured, leaning in close. "An inch deeper, and I'll hit your arteries."

Her eyes burned with defiance, even through the pain.

"Your illusion attribute, though… what a waste," I continued, twisting the blade slightly. "Tricksters with half your ability would be doing far more creative things."

She writhed beneath me, her breaths ragged and shallow.

"Now," I said, my voice calm but cold. "Tell me—where is the Prophet?"

Her lips trembled, and for a moment, I thought she might break. But her silence told me she wasn't ready to talk. Not yet. I sighed, applying just a little more pressure to the blade. Her aura flared, a futile attempt to shield herself from the pain.

I twisted the blade slightly, watching her writhe in pain. "Let's try that again, tell me—where is the Prophet?"

Her eyes, sharp and defiant, burned with hatred. "I won't say a word to a mongrel like you—" she spat, venom lacing every syllable.

I sighed, already tiring of her bravado. Reaching out, I grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, exposing her lips. The sharp intake of breath and the way her body tensed told me I was hitting a nerve. With my free hand, I traced her lower lip. As expected, the faint imprint of serial numbers greeted my fingertips—a clear mark of her allegiance to the Elsewhere Cult.

"You're not just another hunter, are you?" I muttered, meeting her hate-filled gaze. "You're in deep. Figures."

She didn't flinch, didn't even blink, her expression hard and unyielding.

"You know what?" I said, my tone almost conversational. "I believe you."

Before she could react, I drove the dagger deeper into her chest, feeling the blade slice through flesh and bone. Her body jerked once, then went limp, the defiance in her eyes extinguished.

Couldn't blame a guy for trying to get a confession.

I let her body slump to the floor, wiping the blood off the dagger with a handkerchief I'd pocketed earlier. My gaze swept the room, taking in the unconscious figures scattered across the floor like discarded marionettes. Grue stood near the edge of the carnage, his dark helmet obscuring any expression, though his posture was as unreadable as ever.

"You didn't need her alive?" he asked, his voice flat but tinged with curiosity.

"She made her choice," I replied, slipping the dagger into my belt. "Besides, she wasn't going to talk. These zealots rarely do."

Grue nodded, stepping past me to check another body. "Serial numbers?"

I crossed the room to another collapsed figure, a middle-aged man in an expensive suit. Pulling back his lip, I confirmed the telltale mark. "Same as the others."

"Efficient system," Grue remarked dryly, flipping a corpse onto its side to inspect their lips. "Makes it easier to sort out who dies and who we leave."

"Don't get sentimental on me now," I said, moving to the next body.

The truth was, I didn't relish this. Killing wasn't something I did for fun—it was a means to an end. The Elsewhere Cult had its claws in too many places, and these so-called "innocents" were far from it. Every one of them had blood on their hands, either directly or indirectly. If I hesitated, it would only give them more time to spread their corruption.

A soft crackle came through my earpiece. Rory's voice, calm but with a slight edge, cut through the silence. "Everything's laced. You've got ten minutes before the poison fully metabolizes. Get what you need and get out."

"Understood," I replied, stepping over a body as I headed toward the gala's main stage.

Grue followed silently, his movements almost ghostlike despite his imposing frame. "What about the hunters?"

"I'll handle them," I said, scanning the crowd. "Focus on the mundanes. We need to make sure none of them crawl back to their masters."

Grue nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving me to deal with the hunters.

One of them—a young man, barely out of his teens—caught my eye. He was sprawled near the edge of the stage, his breathing shallow but steady. A quick check confirmed no serial numbers. Just a hired gun, likely unaware of who he'd been working for.

Lucky him.

I stepped over him, making my way to the center of the stage. The ornate podium stood like a monument to the Cult's arrogance, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. Resting atop it was the real prize of the evening—a gilded ledger, its pages bound in black leather and marked with the Cult's sigil.

This was what I'd come for.

Slipping on a pair of gloves, I picked up the ledger, its weight heavier than I expected. Flipping through the pages, I scanned the names, dates, and transactions meticulously recorded within. This wasn't just a list of followers—it was a roadmap to the Cult's entire operation.

"Found it," I said into the comms, tucking the ledger into my jacket.

Maybe I should post a bounty on the cult in the Hunter's Net or something…

"Good," Rory replied. "Now get out before the bodies start twitching."

I turned to leave but paused, my eyes falling on a figure at the far end of the room. One of the hunters, a woman in her thirties, was stirring. Her fingers twitched, and her breathing quickened.

She was waking up.

I moved quickly, crossing the room in a few long strides. Kneeling beside her, I drew the dagger once more, its edge glinting in the dim light. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a brief moment, fear flashed across her face.

"Don't bother," I said, pressing the blade to her throat. "You're not getting out of this alive. But if you tell me where the Prophet is, I'll make it quick."

Her lips trembled, but she said nothing, her gaze locking onto mine with a mixture of defiance and resignation.

"Suit yourself," I muttered, tightening my grip on the dagger.

A soft gurgle escaped her lips as the blade found its mark.

As I stood, wiping the blood from my gloves, I felt the weight of the ledger pressing against my chest. This was only the beginning. The Prophet would come for me now, and when he did, I'd be ready.

~015