Unholy: The Unholys MC by Ellen Harper Page A

had been in the Reverend’s handwriting. Both Charlotte and her mother had confirmed that much and it didn’t matter how much everyone would like to argue, there was no denying that the note wasn’t a forgery.
     
    If it was a suicide, as it seemed, then the Unholys were left floundering about. Code stated that the death of a member should be avenged, because members were family, but how did you avenge the death of a member when they killed themselves? None of us were quite sure, so to find some evidence, any evidence at all, that might suggest that there had been more at work here, gave us all a little hope.
     
    At least, it would when I told everyone about it. As of yet, I hadn’t.
     
    I was lying on the bed upstairs, staring blankly at the ceiling. Charlotte had showered, dressed, and left, but I hadn’t even moved since breakfast. We’d argued and it’d been bad, but what could I tell her? The truth?
     
    That almost made me laugh, though it was hardly what anyone would call funny. Charlotte was in a bad place right now, lost at sea after finding her father’s body, and I probably shouldn’t have told her the things I told her. But I didn’t have a lot of options. She wanted to leave; I couldn’t let her. Not yet.
     
    Now that Charlotte was gone for the day, to work on something safe and boring, I couldn’t help but think of how it had gone down the night before. I’d screwed up, bad, but there was nothing to be done about it. I couldn’t walk away.
     
    Stitches and the Berserkers left, but Specter and I lingered behind. The man hung by his bound hands off a hook that was tied to the ceiling. He was already in pretty bad shape and something in my stomach churned nauseously as I realized that I’d have to put him in worse shape. Once the sounds of the Berserkers’ bikes reached our ears, the revving followed by the squealing of tires, I knew it was time to start. If I lingered for much longer, there would be no excuse. Specter would start to wonder if I was man enough for the job, and that was a question I didn’t have the time for right now. Too much else was going on.
     
    Besides, however much I didn’t want to do this, however much I’d finally gotten tired of the violence, there was a part of me that wanted this. If this man really was responsible for the Reverend’s suicide, then damnit, I wanted to know. I wanted answers. It just wouldn’t be pretty how I was going to try and get them.
     
    My throat was suddenly dry and it was all I could do not to swallow heavily in nervousness to try and ease some of that.
     
    I cracked my knuckles to buy myself some time, trying to think of how I was going to do this, but I already knew. There was only one option to me now. I’d ask the questions, but it wasn’t really about them. It was about my fists connecting with his face and the knowledge that his beating was all that really mattered. In the eyes of the Unholys—should they ever know what happened—he was guilty as sin. There wouldn’t be any trial for him, though something in my gut told me that there should be.
     
    “Wake him up,” I told Specter, who was standing silently behind me.
     
    The man had already begun to rouse towards consciousness, but he was only halfway there. I imagined that he’d already been through quite a lot tonight, courtesy of the Berserkers and their mad leader, but it unfortunately wasn’t enough. He’d have to go through our punishment, too.
     
    Specter did as I asked. He was looking a little pale and his brow was dappled with drops of sweat, and for a moment I wondered if this made him as sick as it made me. The idea was almost laughable, however, and I quickly pushed it out of my mind. Specter wasn’t the kind of man to be squeamish, if anything, he was looking forward to this.
     
    There were several open water bottles on the table, remnants from our meeting, and Specter grabbed one quickly. He stepped up to the hanging man and grinned widely, his teeth