Page 1 of Pope’s Purgatory

The iron-like scent ofblood wafts around us as it drips from the tip of my blade. It pools beneath the body of the Steel Slayers member at my feet in shimmering crimson rivulets from the grotesque smile I created across his throat.

His fear lingers in the air, feeding the reaper writhing under my skin.

Darkness whispers its hunger for retribution against the man laid at my feet. His quick death has done little to appease the unholiness prancing along my veins.

When Cyanide tossed him at me, I knew this was the one who left the picture of my Birdie and his sister, Valkyrie.

I bet their cunts are as pretty as they are. It’ll be fun to see how much damage we can do.

We took it as the threat they’d meant it to be.

A few months after my twenty-second birthday, my grandfather, Gavel, and his VP, Mad Dog, informed us they were stepping down from their positions. They wanted to put it to a vote to hand the reins of the club over to a completely new generation. Gavel wanted me to step into his position, and MadDog wanted Cyanide to fill his. Surprisingly, Cyanide didn’t want it and recommended Malice take it instead. Some old-timers didn’t like what was being proposed much and fell into the minority of nay votes. Most of the older members had been with my grandfather and Mad Dog when they established the Coral Cay chapter of Saint’s Outlaws in nineteen-eighty-seven. They’re fucking tired, they said. They want to let the young take over so they can just enjoy the ride. Most votes landed on yay, and a new line of officers took up their positions as the old ones stepped down.

‘Course, we found out not long after why Gavel and Mad Dog wanted to step down earlier than expected. Mad Dog was battling stage four colon cancer, and he didn’t want to spend that time undergoing treatment. He wanted to live out what time he had left riding at his best friend’s side and not worrying over running a club they knew would be left in good hands.

He and Gavel had more than a friendship, but only a few of us knew. They didn’t hide it, but they didn’t flaunt it either. Our life is hard enough, and they didn’t want to bring their love out into a world that would crucify them before learning who they were as men first. The world is fucking cruel, and they would have been judged on their sexuality instead of the true sins they’ve committed throughout their lives.

We lost Mad Dog three months ago, and the club feels his loss keenly. Gavel has shut the fuck down. His fucking anger is the only thing keeping his lungs moving. I’m scared as hell about what will happen to him once he no longer has that to keep him company.

This war with the Steel Slayers couldn’t be happening at a worse time. We’ve been battling these motherfuckers for a fucking year now, and it feels like there’s no goddamn end in sight. My brothers, especially Gavel, need time to properlygrieve the loss of a man we all loved deeply, and as long as we’re battling this fucking rival club, we can’t do that.

Our grief is great fucking fuel for our rage.

No matter how many damn Steel Slayers we torture for information, we still haven’t determined why they’re targeting our fucking club. Sometimes it feels more personal, as if Gavel and I are the primary targets. These fucking pictures we received yesterday sure in the hell feel personal. Their President, Clink, is making a goddamn mockery of our club, and it’s not something I’ll stand for much longer.

Gavel and Mad Dog ruled our club with an iron fist. They were intolerant of disrespect, and offenders were punished for it ruthlessly. They were Nomads back before they decided they were ready to find a permanent spot to stick roots. The Mother chapter in Boston permitted them to pick a place to land, and they opened the chapter with their backing. I once asked Gavel how they chose Coral Cay. He laughed and said, “It’s where the bitches are.” Then he got serious and truthfully told me they just closed their eyes and picked a state on the map. From there, they narrowed down cities that didn’t have any ties to Saint’s Outlaws yet. Coral Cay came out as the winner.

When I took over as President, I didn’t change much about how I ran shit. Sometimes, I wonder if I don’t run this club more ruthlessly than they did. People fear me, and it’s for a damn good reason. The only thing that’s kept me from crossing that line and losing my humanity is the little bird these motherfuckers have threatened. Birdie is the only light left in my soul, and if it ever blinks out, hell will walk on Earth.

I undressed before I started torturing the Steel Slayer, not wanting to get my clothes bloody, so I wipe the blade of my knife on the shirt of the dead Steel Slayer before tossing it to Pretty Boy so he can slide it into the sheathe on my jeans.

Frustration gnaws at me as I lean my bare ass against the wall and scrub a hand over my face. “They’re never gonna give shit up. We’ve been in this goddamn war with them for over a year and still have no fucking clue why Clink targeted us in the first place.”

“He’s a vile son of a bitch. You really need a reason, brother?” Cyanide asks, kicking the body at our feet.

A month ago, we lost, Roly, another brother who had been with us since we were all patched in as prospects. Just like Mad Dog, his loss was a hit to the nuts.

“I’d like a damn reason I’m putting my men in the fire before we lose any more. Roly was enough of a hit for us, especially so close to losing Mad Dog.” I shove away from the wall and squat down to heft the dead body over my shoulder. Blood leaks from the various wounds I’d inflicted during my fit of fury, landing in warm, thick puddles along my back, ass, and arms. “Wash that blood down the drain while I deal with the shark bait.”

Butcher typically handles this job, but tonight was more personal. I wanted the goddamn pleasure of playing in his guts before he becomes food to fill the belly of hungry sharks.

Life didn’t reward menlike me with something as beautiful and pure as Birdie Fitzgerald.

Not for long, anyway.

I should have remembered that because then I wouldn’t have been caught off-guard when the threat against her and Valkyrie came in. This was why I never wanted to start something up with her after becoming President.

But shit was inevitable between us. There’s always a collision between two souls destined to be together. I didn’t realize that until it was too late.

The moment she came waltzing into her dad’s living room as I was visiting her brother, I knew I was fucked. Birdie stole the last bit of soul I had left.

She scared the hell out of me because being with her put a target on her back. Making her mine gave me a weakness, and in this life . . . that’s something that’ll get you dead in a fucking hurry.

It didn’t take long before Cyanide picked up on my obsession with his little sister. I thought for sure it was going to cause astrain between us, but he surprised me when he gave me his blessing. He said he couldn’t think of a better man to have at his sister’s side. It prompted me to tell him my fears of her being targeted because of my position in the club, and that motherfucker gave me a look that said I was the dumbest son of a bitch he’d ever met.

“Suppose you forget we were born to this life, Pope. There’s always been a target on her back. You’re the President of one of the most ruthless clubs in the States. There’s no one else she’d be safer with.”

We were both goddamn fools to think there’d never be anyone who wouldn’t fear us. There’s always someone out there with less fucks to give, and we should have remembered that.

---