UNHALLOWED

2 Phantom, Obsidian Eyes

CHAPTER 2

Phantom, Obsidian Eyes

Rory was unable to see anything clearly in front of her because it was nighttime. She did not even know what time it was now, as the only thing in her mind was ‘freedom’. She felt the rhythm of her heart pounding so hard within her chest that she thought she was going to have a heart attack any second now, as the strong wind was whipping over the strands of her pale wheat colored hair. A crisp breeze was blowing across the cliff, growing in strength as she kept her feet firm on the ground. It was a cold night, she thought again. The breeze was making her flimsy and thin white sleeping garment seem like it was dancing with the wind. Even with the stars over her head and the blackness, she could tell she was standing on the edge of a cliff. There was just not much light around her but only the moon.

She was aware of what was down there, and absolutely feared what was down there, which resulted in her breathing being a bit more labored and unsteady. Beneath her were these really huge and jagged rocks, where sea urchins were lazily exploring the breaking waves. Repetition of the waves crashing on the cliff's sharp and boulder-like rocks caused jets of salt water to shoot into the air and a deafening scream that reverberated throughout the area. All through the evening, the sound of the unrelenting waves crashing against the rocks could be heard very loudly, breaking the stillness of the entire night. The sound of the waves slamming against the rocks seemed never-ending, as if they had no compassion. No matter how hard the rocks resisted, the waves only grew stronger and louder, creating a deafening noise which made it hard to think or even hear.

Jump. A voice echoed in the back of her head.

Her knees were trembling, but within the depths of her head, she knew she wanted to jump. She may hurt herself with the large rock she would fall on even if she leaped. But the more she considered it, the more she wondered what would actually and realistically happen to her if she really did leap from this sheer cliff?

Even yet, it seemed preferable to what would be waiting for her from behind her knowing everything that was visible by including what was waiting for her below.

Jump, the same voice told her in the back of her head. She was even more tempted.

They are just rocks, come on jump. That voice again filled her ear and her thoughts.

Either she believed she could gently crawl down the rocks, or she realized that a direct jump would most likely kill her. She reasoned that she might be able to approach the water more closely and possibly made her way down there, closer to the water.

The sound of the unrelenting waves crashing against the rocks grew louder, but the salt spray suddenly turned into the scent of aerosol and expensive perfume. The deafening scream of the ocean did not fade—it transformed, rising in pitch until the roar of the water became the synchronized thunder of eighty thousand voices chanting her name. “RORY! RORY! RORY! RORY!”

The jagged rocks beneath her vanished, replaced by the vibrating steel of a hydraulic lift. The flimsy white nightgown that had danced in the cliffside breeze was gone, replaced by the weight of a silver-glittered bodysuit that clung to her like second skin.

Jump. The voice in her head was not a whisper anymore; it was the cue in her earpiece.

The darkness of the cliffside was shattered by a thousand piercing strobe lights. Rory did not crawl, and she did not fall. As the lift hissed upward, she launched herself into the blinding white spotlight with the same desperate lung-bursting leap she had taken all those years ago.

One moment, she was a girl drowning in the shadows of a memory; the next, she was a goddess emerging from the floor of the arena.

The transition was violent and perfect. The cold, merciless Atlantic was now a sea of glowing light-sticks and reaching hands. Rory landed in her opening pose, 5’11” of statuesque defiance, as the initial bass drop of the music hit like a physical blow to the chest.

The “Global Pop Icon” flashed her practiced, honeyed smile at the front row, her eyes wide and clear. No one saw the ghost of the salt water in her gaze. No one heard the phantom waves.

“Hello, London!!” she spoke loudly into the mic, her voice steady enough to kill. “How are we doing tonight?”

The stadium erupted in a deafening, predatory roar as the world’s most coveted pop princess ignited the stage. As the first note left Rory’s lips, the arena shattered into a frenzy of worship. It was not just applause; it was a physical wall of sound that vibrated through the floorboards, signaling the start of Rory’s meticulously crafted ritual of light and song.

The mahogany doors of the boardroom did not creak; they yielded.

Malphas Lucian Mordrake entered the room like a cold front, his 6’4” frame cutting through the stale air of cigar smoke and desperation. He did not look at the men seated around the table. He did not need to. He knew their net worths, their mistresses, and exactly which offshore accounts they were using to hide the casino’s bleeding profits.

“Mr. Mordrake,” the Chairman stammered, his knees knocking against the mahogany underside of the table as he forced himself to stand. “This... this is a closed session. Your presence was not requested at the moment, and you certainly were not invited to—”

“Your heads are held far too high,” Malphas interrupted. His voice did not rise in volume, but the temperature in the room seemed to plummet ten degrees. It was the sound of a closing casket. “It gives you the dangerous illusion that we are equals.”

The air in the boardroom turned to lead. As if pulled by invisible strings, the defiance drained out of every man present. One by one, the wealthy titans of industry—men who commanded thousands and moved millions—averted their gazes.

The Chairman’s protest died in his throat, his jaw snapping shut as he sank back into his seat, his neck bending under the sheer weight of Malphas’s obsidian stare. Across the table, the other board members followed suit, their spines curving and their chins dropping to their chests in a synchronized display of terrified submission. No one dared to breathe; no one dared to look him in the eye.

They sat in a row of bowed heads, offering him the only thing he respected: absolute, trembling stillness.

Malphas walked the length of the table, the rhythmic click of his heels on the marble floor the only sound in the suffocating silence. He stopped behind the Chairman, placing a hand on the back of the man's chair, and the elder’s shoulders visibly shook.

“Better,” Malphas whispered to the top of the man's head. “Now, let’s discuss my shares because I do not wait for invitations from people who are currently losing my money,"

His voice was a low, smooth vibration, like a blade sliding over silk. He did not sit. He simply stood at the head of the table, his obsidian eyes absorbing the light in the room until the board members felt as though they were suffocating in the dark.

He placed a single matte-black folder on the table. “The controlling interest of the Solstice Casino. You will sign it over to the Heaven branch. Now.”

“We already voted!” a younger director snapped, emboldened by the presence of his own security detail in the corners. “The shares are not for sale to the Triad. We will not be bullied—”

Malphas did not even blink. He did not look at the man. He simply adjusted the cuff of his bespoke charcoal suit, a minute, precise movement. “The problem with voting,” Malphas whispered, “is the assumption that your voices still have value.”

He gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

The violence was instantaneous and silent. Two of Malphas’s men, shadows in tactical black, moved with the synchronized grace of Reapers. The young director did not even have time to scream before his face was slammed into the polished marble table with a sickening crack. Before his own bodyguards could reach for their holsters, they were neutralized—not with a chaotic gunfight, but with the muffled thwip of suppressed pistols and the precise application of combat knives to pressure points.

Blood blossomed across the white lace tablecloth like a macabre inkblot.

Malphas remained perfectly still, a statue of predatory calm amidst the brief, efficient c*****e. He did not flinch when a stray drop of crimson hit the floor near his hand-made Italian leather shoes. He merely looked at the Chairman, who was now hyperventilating.

“One no is a glitch in the system,” Malphas said, leaning down until his shadow completely swallowed the older man. “Two no’s is a tragedy. Would you like to see how many tragedies I can fit into this evening, or would you like to give me what I am asking you?”

He pulled a fountain pen from his breast pocket and laid it on the table. It looked like a weapon in his massive hand. “Sign. And I might let you leave this building with your pulse intact. Refuse? Well, my lion has not been fed today, and I find he has a particular taste for those who waste my time.”