Filed to story: The LORDS Series Free PDF by Shantel Tessier
He is a Leader, believes in Order, knows when to Rule, and is a Deity.
A Lord must be initiated in order to become a member but can be removed at any time for any reason. If he makes it past the three trials of initiation, he will forever know power and wealth. But not all Lords are built the same. Some are stronger, smarter, hungrier than others.
They are challenged just to see how far their loyalty will go.
They are pushed to their limits in order to prove their devotion.
They are willing to show their commitment.
Nothing except their life will suffice.
Limits will be tested, and morals forgotten.
A Lord can be a judge, jury, and executioner. He holds power that is unmatched by anyone other than his brother.
Chosen one:
A Lord must remain celibate during his first three years at Barrington University. Once he is initiated into the Lords, he is gifted a chosen for his senior year.
A Lady:
After they graduate from Barrington, they are to marry a Lady-a wife to serve him. If he shall die before her, she is then gifted to another Lord to ensure the secrets are kept within the secret society.
A Spade brother:
A Lord is placed strategically out into the world. But no Lord is safe from their own if they break their oath. If you don’t believe in hell, the Spade brothers will change your mind. They are a special kind of Lord. They will sit on their thrones and watch you burn to death for eternity with the fire they started. They give no fucks and have no limits. They collect the names they are given, and erase you from the world as if you never existed, and make you wish that was the truth.
ONE
SAINT
INITIATION
LOYALTY
Freshman year at Barrington University
I was born into a secret society. They say we’re the lucky ones. That the world will bow to us and we’ll never go without anything. As long as we pass our initiations, we’ll know riches beyond our wildest dreams.
I’m a Spade brother. To anyone on the street who hears that, they would think I have siblings, and in a sense, I do. Our last names aren’t Spade, and we don’t share the same parents. But we might as well be blood brothers. We grew up together. And one day, we’ll graduate from Barrington and run Carnage together.
Just like our fathers.
And their fathers.
And their fathers.
We’re a long line of Spade brothers. It was some bullshit title that the Lords gave our families centuries ago. Someone has to run their hell, and we were the unlucky ones.
Is it what we want? Doesn’t fucking matter what we want. We serve the Lords, and as a servant, you do as you’re told.
I’ve known that we’re different since as far back as I can remember, and my father won’t let me forget it. He told me I’d have my chance to make him proud. That time has come.
It’s my freshman year at Barrington University. My first year of initiation. Even though we were born into this world, we’re forced to earn our spot. Kill or be killed would be the Lord’s motto if they had one.
I kneel with a black hood over my head, keeping me from seeing where I’m at or who else is in the room with me. My wrists are shackled in front of me as they rest on my jean-clad thighs. I’m shirtless. My right eye is starting to swell shut, and I’m pretty sure my nose is broken. I can’t breathe through it, but I can taste the blood covering my lips that runs down my face. The lack of light takes everything I have not to pass out. At this point, I’m not sure how many days I’ve been awake fighting. I’ve been fed bread and water. That’s it. They want us to be weak and vulnerable.
All Lords go through initiations, but as a Spade brother, ours are different. More intense. There are countless Lords throughout the world. But a Spade brother? We’re limited. See, I only qualify because my father is one. And one day, if I have a son, he’ll be one.
We must all prove that we can do what is needed for the society.
It’s our purpose.
The Lords test you so they can toss the weak out early on. You’re born into this world, but they can deem you inadequate at any time. So you show up and kill whoever your target is.
If I had to explain a Spade brother to some Joe on the street who doesn’t know that the Lords exist, I’d say we’re the hit men of the society. But instead of killing, we capture and torture. If we’re sent to retrieve you, you will not escape us.
We are the hunters in a world full of prey. It’s not like we hurt the good guys. If you ask me, everyone in our society is bad. But we’re all willing to do what must be done in order to survive. It’s a man-eat-man world.
“Saint Beckham Carter.” I hear my name over my pounding headache. “You have been called to serve, son. Do you wish to proceed?”
“I do, sir,” I answer without hesitation, but I don’t even recognize my voice because my tongue is swollen. I bit the fuck out of it when I got a fist to the mouth.
Fight. Win. Fight. Win.
That’s what we train for. Over and over until one of us kills the other. Honestly, I think most of them give up too soon. They realize this life isn’t worth your soul. But I’ve never been known to need one. What does it get you?
Into heaven?
I don’t believe in that shit. When you’re raised in hell, heaven is a fairy tale that doesn’t exist.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, son,” the man states. “String him up.”
Hands grab at me from behind, yanking me to my feet. I don’t even try to fight. Have to save my strength for what’s to come. My cuffed wrists are brought above my head, pulling on my shoulders. I grind my teeth so I don’t make a sound at the pain that shoots up my back in this position.
The hood is pulled from my head, and I take a deep breath, blinking several times, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the bright light.
I’m not sure where I’m at exactly, but I know it’s Carnage. It’s an open arena. Two stories. A quick look lets me know Lords pack the place on the upper level in stadium-type seating. A look over my shoulder tells me it’s all the way around. I’ve been thrown into a shark tank, and I’m the bait.
All the Lords wear black masks and matching cloaks. I’m center stage, lower level, on a platform. Like a witch being burned at the stake, I’m strung up to a metal structure with a pole on either side of me and a third across the top. I’m six foot five, and my steel-toed boots barely touch the floor. My body is pulled so tight that the new position makes breathing even harder.
I look up and feel my hands already going numb from the position. My skin splits from being so tight in the metal.
“We will begin.” The man’s voice from before calls out, walking in front of the platform. Then he turns to face me and lowers his voice. “If you survive this, son, you will live to see another year.” With that, he walks out of my view.
If I could, I’d panic at his choice of words, but I just don’t have the energy to do so. I have to save it for what’s to come.
The squeaking wheels make me cringe. It’s as bad as nails on a chalkboard. A man enters the arena from the opposite side. He pushes a cart, but I can’t see what he has on it because my vision is blurry.
But it doesn’t matter because he’s heading right toward me. I get a better view once he reaches the platform. He picks up a syringe and a vial that sits on top of the cart.
I start to fight the restraints. I hate drugs of any kind. I don’t like feeling out of control of my body or my thoughts. Drugs slow you down and make it harder to focus on what’s in front of you. Especially since I haven’t eaten a real meal in days. It’ll probably make me sick.
Once the plunger sucks back all the liquid, emptying the vial, he walks up the three stairs in front of me and stands to my left.
I try to adjust my arms once more, my shoulders fucking screaming at the stretch. They fucking burn like I’ve been lit on fire. And the sweat that runs down my skin stings where I’ve been cut from the previous fights.