novelxo The Sacrifice: Chapter 1
INITIATION
Loyalty
Freshman year at Barrington University
“As a Lord, one must prove to us that we can count on you. No matter the situation. No matter the cost.” Lincoln paces in front of me and the other Lords. He’s our leader I guess you could say.
We’re all required to live at the house of Lords for the next four years of our lives, and he runs it. I’ve heard rumors that some call the HoL a fraternity on crack. But no one really knows what happens inside that mansion, other than the bad ass parties we throw. Only the Lords who attend Barrington and are going through their initiations know what we really do.
It’s freshman year. Our first time to show just how far we’re willing to go in order to be the best.
“You will not be punished for your actions, only rewarded,” Lincoln goes on. “A Lord is willing to take a life without any questions asked.” He comes to a stop and opens his arms out wide. “You will be given an assignment each year to show just how far you are willing to go for us.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Not all of you will make it, gentlemen, but those of you who succeed will know a life that others can only dream of.”
My father’s voice echoes in my head. “Joining the Lords is not an option—it’s an honor. And you want to honor the Crawfords, right, Son?”
“Yes, Father.”
He has prepared me the best he could for this day. For this life. And I will do whatever I can to be the son he raised me to be—ruthless.
“Tyson, you’re up.” Lincoln’s words have my head snapping up to look at him.
I stand from the spot where I was kneeling and see a guy enter the makeshift ring. He’s got to be in his late thirties and have at least six inches of height on me and who knows how long of a reach. He’s wearing a hoodie and jeans with black combat boots.
Reaching up, I yank on the top of my shirt and pull it over my head before throwing it to the side, knowing the fewer restrictions I have, the better. I’ve also got jeans on but am wearing tennis shoes. They won’t help me in a fight. But technically I’m not supposed to win. They want us to fail. It’s their way of weeding out the weak ones as quickly as possible.
The guy shoves his hand into his back pocket and removes a pocketknife, flipping it open. I see dried blood on the blade and my eyes meet his as he smiles, showing off his crooked teeth. “You’re dead,” he states.
The words make my heart race. Not with fear, but anticipation. This is what we’re bred for. This is why they make us show our worth. Not just anyone can be in this society. It only accepts the best of the best. And I am the motherfucking best at everything I do.
You have to be born into this world—your blood makes you a Lord—but they can remove you at any time. Some would be so lucky to get this chance to prove they can live up to their name.
I glance at Lincoln, and he shakes his head, knowing my silent question. The only way I’ll get a knife is if I take his.
Challenge accepted.
The guy rushes me, and I jump out of the way just in time, throwing my arms up in the air, barely missing the knife he holds out in front of him. I kick my leg out, making contact with the side of his knee. He goes down but rolls at the same time I try to stomp on him, missing my shoe to his face.
Recovering quickly, he jumps to his feet, knife out in front of him once again. He swings his hand in front of my face, trying to cut me, but I duck while moving out of the way. The quicker I am, the better my odds. Keep him guessing my next move.
“Do your job, Clarence,” Lincoln calls out to the guy, sounding bored. These men have been Lords for a long time. They should be able to take us down without thought.
I’ve got a split second to make a decision. It’s not the best, but it’s all I can think of.
I rush him, getting low enough to wrap my arms around his waist, and pick him up off his feet. I feel a sharp pain in my back as he screams out but the adrenaline coursing through me overrides it.
The weight of his body pulls us both down to the ground, slamming him onto his back. It knocks the wind out of him, and I take the opportunity it gives me and fist both my hands, hitting him in the face.
“Motherfucker,” I hiss, feeling the skin on my knuckles split from the contact. But it doesn’t stop me.
Fellow Lords are yelling for me to succeed. They will be up next. If I lose, it sets a tone. Right now, I represent all of us. I’m not fighting them; I’m fighting for them. For us as a team.
Blood splatters my face, and my fists start slipping from it, covering his face and my sweaty hands. He fights back, or tries to, at least. His eyes start to swell shut, so he’s fighting blind. I’ve got an advantage.
I slam my fist into his jaw, feeling a crack. My next swing hits high on his head, making my arm go numb for a brief second, so I hit him with the other, knocking his head to the opposite side. Getting to my unsteady feet, I kick him, rolling him over onto his stomach. He’s coughing up blood and his body starts to convulse. I yank him back over, fall to my knees again, and wrap my bloody hands around his throat, squeezing with the little strength I have left. Now is not the time to show off. It’s time to finish what I started.
He doesn’t even fight me.
An arm wraps around my neck from behind, restricting my air, and I’m yanked off the guy. I start kicking and my hands grip the arm holding me in place.
“Calm down, Tyson,” Lincoln says in my ear. “He’s dead. You’re done.”
My body instantly relaxes in his hold, and he releases my neck. I fall to my knees, my bloody and busted hands slapping the concrete floor. I’m having trouble catching my breath. Looking down, I notice blood drips from my mouth. Did he get more hits in than I thought?
I cough and more blood splatters across the concrete floor. The room starts to sway.
“Gavin.” Lincoln calls out to our doctor who is among the audience.
The last thing I see is the guy’s knife on the floor, covered in my blood, before I pass out.