CHAPTER 59: HOST.

Furuno

I open my eyes to blinding bright light. I blink against the intensity. My mouth feels dry and sandy from being kept open indefinitely. I try to move my hands, but I discover that they are tied behind my back. I struggle against the rope, stopping when I realize that I’m only hurting myself.

The wood of the chair is pressing into the side of my arms, making them feel numb and painful.

I can hear faint music in the background. I’m somewhere at the party.

I check myself for bruises. I don’t see any.

Apart from my arms, only my head hurts - where I had been brutally struck.

I look around. The room is a small one. I am surrounded by four walls of grim stone. There is only one bulb in the room, and it is dangling precariously above my head.

The room is basically bare apart from a few strands of cut rope littered around and legs from broken chairs.

My situation is shameful. Toshiro can’t find out that I have been kidnapped by a bunch of teens.

I have to get out of here.

I hear the loud sound of a bottle smashing on something.

The door creaks on its hinges as it cracks open. A head peeks in and observes me with wide eyes.

Blue eyes, brown hair - a guy.

Someone else shoves the door open and calls for a drumroll.

A tall guy dressed in a black velvet cloak walks in and bows dramatically.

"I am the elite sovereign. Welcome to the Elite club".

I raise a questioning brow.

Is this a kind of cult? Am I being initiated?

He is holding a broken bottle in his gloved hand.

He sees me staring at the bottle and lifts it up.

"Don’t worry. We’re not going to hurt you, at least not much".

More guys troop into the room, wearing similar black cloaks.

They all sketch mocking bows at me and retreat to the corners of the room.

What the hell is going on?

Have I been turned into a fetish sacrifice?

The atmosphere suddenly becomes tense.

A girl with a hooded cloak walks in and everyone lowers their heads.

Aw...man! Why does a girl have to be the leader?

"Bring him forth". She says.

I lean back on my chair and wait.

She slowly removes her hoodie. She has shimmering gold eyes. They each look like flaming swords.

Pretty eyes, though.

It’s the kind that makes you wonder what kind of power the person possesses.

Gold hair cascades over her shoulder, glistening like silk in the light.

She isn’t classically beautiful, though.

I am grasped roughly on both arms by two cloaked guys.

She indicates for them to drop me in front of her. I am tossed on my knees unceremoniously in front of her.

She collects the broken bottle from the guy who had been holding it and gestures for my hands to be untied.

The skin of my wrists screams as the coarse rope rubs over it before it finally loosens. I rub my sore and reddened wrists, trying to soothe the sting.

"What is your name, young lad?"

Young lad?

Do I look like a young lad to her?

I’m 25, and she’s probably not older than twenty.

I don’t respond.

"I shall name you Argon, since you have no name".

I look up at her. She is staring into space - like she is seeing something invisible to the rest of us.

Argon? Why Argon?

I’m not interested in being a member of their so-called elite club, don’t they get it?

She extends her arm, palm up. She wants me to give her my hand.

Does she want to cut me?

I don’t move.

The elite sovereign, or whatever he called himself, steps forward and puts my hand in her hanging one.

This is all very stupid. When I see the guy the invited me here, I’m gonna roast him alive.

Everyone places their hands as if in supplication as she slices through my palm with the broken glass.

Blood slowly spills out of the jagged cut and trickles down the side of my palm.

"Lord Sinclaire, we present your host. Do you accept him or do you reject him? Give us a sign".

Sinclaire? The hideous man in the hallway painting?

Host? What the fuck do they mean by that?

I jerk my hand out of her grasp.

It’s too late, I realize.

Wind starts swirling around the room in angry whispers. Everyone’s cloak is flying behind them.

Sand filters through my lashes and enters my eyes, blurring my vision.

The girl is unmoved by the roaring wind blowing wisps of her hair into her face. She is still staring at something beyond.

Even the cloaked attendants don’t seem bothered.

Am I witnessing witchcraft in action? This isn’t just sorcery anymore.

Do the authorities know about their actions? They probably don’t.

They start chanting something in another language.

I slowly rise to my feet and dash to the door. I don’t know why I hadn’t done it sooner. My curiosity had clouded my sense of judgement.

As I approach the door, it slams in my face.

I turn back to look inside the room.

No one is looking at me - they are all deep in the witchcraft.

The wind is getting stronger.

Goldie’s eyes are brighter.

"You!" She points at me.

Her voice is thicker and amplified, like someone is speaking along with her.

Now, I’m afraid. I’m in a territory where swords and daggers can’t save me.

The chant is growing louder, the wind is growing more dangerous with every passing second.

I can barely hold my stance. Even the disciples are finding it hard to hold their ground.

The chair I had been sitting on is swept into the growing whirlwind.

Only the girl is standing still.

What have I gotten myself into?

I’ve gotten myself into many tangles - street fights, trouble with maffias, trouble with other black shadows, but they were things I could handle.

The wind begins to fade slowly.

The chant also dies down until all I can hear is the sound of my accelerated breathing.

The girl with the hoody hands the broken bottle to the elite sovereign.

Are they done with their witchcraft?

Her gaze focuses on me, like she actually sees me.

"You have been chosen, Argon. You are now the host for Lord Sinclaire. He would come back to life through your body".

Bloody hell.