“I thought you were above conducting staged photo-ops.”
“This isn’t what you think.”
“Then why did you call me down here?” she asked, her eyebrow raised.
“I want you to know a little more about me,” he said, “and thought you might want to see where I came from.” With a sweep of his hand he indicated the orphanage. He could tell Laurel was caught off guard, not quite sure what to make of the revelation.
“You were raised here?” she said.
“I lost my parents when I was six,” he lied. “It’s funny. I was an only child, and then I came here. Found an endless supply of brothers.”
“Sebastian, I had no idea…” she said, reaching out with a kind touch to his forearm. Suddenly the moment was interrupted by his ringing cell phone. He glanced at the screen, seeing that it was Cyrus. With an apologetic shrug to Laurel, he moved out of earshot and took the call.
“What is it?” he said.
“I’m back,” Cyrus replied, “but there’s something we should discuss.”
“I’ll be right there.” He hung up then turned. “Please accept my apology, Laurel. I’m sorry to do this, but I’ve got to go take care of some business.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yeah. Just… city planning.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll check in with you later.”
* * *
Blood met his brotherhood in a forgotten warehouse located off Crescent Circle in the Glades. They had picked the location for the centrifuge, its white metal panels arranged in a circular shape around an exposed chrome center, where empty vials awaited the mirakuru. A medical refrigerator stood against the wall, its glass door revealing thirty thousand CCs of bagged blood. Cyrus was loading the last of the supply when Blood arrived.
“Your tone suggested complications,” Blood said, “yet this looks like it all went according to plan.”
“It did… mostly,” Cyrus replied. “The vigilante tried to stop me.”
Blood walked over to the fridge door, opening it to take out a bag of blood.
“It seems our hooded nuisance is on our scent,” he muttered. “Did you leave anything behind that could be traced back here?”
Cyrus shook his head. “I was careful. He knows only of my power.”
As Blood examined the red liquid under the fluorescents above, his phone rang. Glancing at the screen, he picked up.
“It’s Daily,” the officer said. “Someone’s looking for Maxwell Stanton.” Blood paused for a moment, trying to place the name. Max Stanton was one of their many serum test victims—part of the last batch of bodies sacrificed before Cyrus’s success. Dr. Langford had identified the boy as being a loner.
“Then they should find him,” Blood suggested.
“Yes, Brother Blood,” Daily answered, and the connection went silent.
Satisfied the issue had been put to bed, he walked toward Cyrus Gold, the pouch of blood still in his hand.
“Blood provides life,” he said. “Blood provides power—and with power, there’s no limit to what I can do.”
“What next, Brother Blood?”
“We wait for the location of the sedatives,” he said. Then, with fire in his eyes, he looked at Cyrus. “And the next time you cross paths with the Arrow, I want you to kill him.”
Slade’s instructions be damned.
* * *
Isabel bristled when she received the invitation. Oliver was throwing a celebration to commemorate his mother’s return—as if a party could wipe away the stink of the Undertaking. Yet Slade insisted she go.
She arrived to a disaster. Servants outnumbered guests two-to-one, and the string quartet played to an empty floor. The message being sent was clear—the Starling City elite wanted nothing to do with Moira Queen. And when the guest of honor made her entrance, Isabel had to hide a smirk. Yes, Moira’s presence would make her task more difficult, but tonight she would have to revel in the elder Queen’s embarrassment.
As Moira made the rounds, however few, Isabel saw Oliver head over to the bar, shoulders slumped. She enjoyed the added benefit of knowing that his woe was amplified by his life as the vigilante. If Slade had surmised correctly, Oliver was weighed down by ghosts from his past—unearthed by the appearance of Cyrus Gold. This was a perfect opportunity to play the sympathetic, understanding partner, and build his trust.
Plus, Isabel could do so while his mother watched.
Making sure she passed through Moira’s line of sight, Isabel headed over to join him at the bar. She sidled up to him as he ordered a couple of shots of vodka.
“I tried to warn you,” she said. She grabbed the two shots from the bartender and offered him one with a sympathetic smile. Oliver regarded her with weary eyes, and she could tell he was surprised that she had showed. But also grateful.
“I tried to ignore you,” Oliver admitted.
They locked eyes and clinked their glasses, quickly downing the vodka. She closed the distance between them slightly, the alcohol reminiscent of their time together in Russia. The residual sexual chemistry was still palpable. She could feel Moira’s eyes on her from across the room.
How this must drive her insane, she thought.
“I am sorry, Oliver.” Her fake sincerity came easily now. She could sense his vulnerability in that moment—that he was allowing her to penetrate his defenses, if only a bit. Regarding her, accepting her apology, the silence between them intimate.
“Yeah,” he said, the word heavy, an admission of his failure. “Well, I’d best make the rounds.” Then he headed off toward the few attending party guests, playing the role of dutiful host.
As Isabel turned back to the bar for another drink, she saw Moira beginning to head across the room in her direction. To the guests, Moira appeared to be procuring another glass of champagne, but Isabel knew better. Rather than wait for her opening salvo, Isabel decided to take the offense.
“Oliver threw you a lovely party,” she said, her derision bubbling between the words.
“He’s a good son, if not the best judge of character,” Moira answered, turning to look at her. For a long, heavy moment they stood toe-to-toe, neither breaking the other’s gaze. The standoff ended when Oliver returned, stepping between them.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
I wonder if she’ll tell him the truth, Isabel thought, and she prepared herself for the possibility. As Moira turned to regard her son, Isabel kept her eyes trained on the matriarch.
“Everything’s fine, Oliver,” Moira said. “I was just thanking Miss Rochev for coming this evening.”
Isabel relaxed, the tension of the moment drifting away.
“Everything’s going perfectly,” she answered as she moved away, leaving Moira in her wake.
* * *
Back in the Glades, in the warehouse off Crescent Circle, Sebastian Blood and the Technician awaited Cyrus Gold’s return. Earlier that night, Slade had called to provide the location of the sedatives they needed to begin production of the mirakuru. Blood had dispatched Cyrus, confident that the mission would go according to plan.
Officer Daily walked in, still in his SCPD uniform, back from stashing Maxwell Stanton’s body.
“It’s done,” he said. “Made it look like an overdose.”
“Let’s hope that kills their curiosity,” Blood said.
As Daily nodded, Cyrus Gold walked into the warehouse, the cache of sedatives in a crate held high overhead. Carrying it as if it was light as feather, he placed the heavy mass on the ground in front of the Technician, who attempted to pry the top off with a crowbar. Seeing this, Gold plunged his fingers through the wood and ripped the lid away with a flick of his wrist, giving his brother a small smile.
“Excellent work, Brother Cyrus,” Blood enthused, clasping his loyal acolyte on the shoulder. The Technician began removing the containers of ketamine, preparing to begin production of the serum.
“How long until we’re ready?” Blood asked.
“I need a few hours to get it under way,” the Technician replied. “After that, the serum will require forty-eight hours to cook.”
Blood nodded, pleased. Soon, he would have enough serum to begin building his army. He turned back to Cyrus.
“Any run-ins with our hooded friend tonight?”
“Yes,” Cyrus said. “He tried to stop me again.”
“And did you do as I asked?”
Cyrus nodded. “The vigilante won’t be a problem anymore.”
A broad smile spread across Blood’s face. Finally, the Arrow was dead. This was very good news.
10
Slade paced behind his desk as Blood watched from the other side, Isabel seated to his right.
“How is the death of the Arrow a problem?” Blood asked. He glanced at Rochev, who maintained a stony silence. “You should be ecstatic about this.”
This stopped Slade. He turned, glaring at Blood.
“Ecstatic,” he gritted. “And what, pray tell, should I be ecstatic about?”
“I’ve alleviated a major thorn in our side.”
“So you saw his body?” Slade answered. “Felt his blood warm on your hands?”
“I don’t need to,” Blood answered. “You know better than anyone the power Cyrus wields. If he said he killed the Arrow, that’s good enough for me.”
“Then you underestimate your enemy’s resources,” Slade growled, “and it is that arrogance that will be your undoing, Mr. Blood.” He nodded to Isabel, who handed Blood a folder. “Because it leaves you blind.”
Blood flipped through the folder, studying its contents. Pamphlets for the blood drive he sponsored, as well as an access log of files pulled from the city archives—including information on the Langford Institute.
“What is this?” he said, looking up.
“We asked you to get closer to Laurel Lance,” Isabel commented dryly. “Yet it appears she’s been getting closer to you.”
“But why?”
“As a favor to Thea Queen—who happens to be dating Roy Harper,” Isabel explained, “which, from your expression, I gather you didn’t know.”
“Lucky for you, Mr. Blood, you’ve proven competent in keeping your hands clean,” Slade growled. “I suggest you take measures to ensure they stay that way.”
Nodding, Blood left. Slade turned to Isabel.
“I’m afraid our mayoral candidate has gotten quite sloppy,” he said.
“I’m monitoring things,” Isabel answered. “If the heat’s on him, I’ll know about it.”
“Good,” said Slade. “We can’t afford for our pet politician to become a liability.”
* * *
Having been chastised by Slade and Isabel, Blood arrived back to the warehouse to find out more bad news. Cyrus Gold had found someone snooping around his motel room. He tried to apprehend him, but the African-American man had training, and was able to escape. Whoever he was, it seemed clear that someone had connected Cyrus to the thefts.
As if on cue, Blood’s phone rang. It was Officer Daily.
“The police are on to Gold,” Daily said, his voice low. “They’re looking for him. I made sure I’m kept in the loop.”
Blood glanced at the centrifuge, the vials spinning, the digital display counting down to completion.
“We’re too close to let the police interfere,” he said, a reminder to both himself and Daily. “Keep us posted on anything that occurs.” Then he hung up and turned to Cyrus, and a thought struck him. If his cover had, indeed, been blown, what point was there in hiding?
“Brother Cyrus,” he said. “The police are eager to meet you. Perhaps it would be best for you to introduce yourself.”
Cyrus smiled, understanding implicitly.
“Where should this occur?” he asked.
“There’s an old sawmill on the outskirts of the Glades,” Blood suggested. “Let them track you there, then show them your power. Send them a message they won’t forget.”
“Yes, Brother Blood.”
“Also, Officer Daily cannot emerge unscathed, lest we raise suspicion. He’ll understand. Once you’re done, I want you to meet Brother Langford at his psychiatric office.”
“What for?”
“To burn it to the ground,” Blood replied. “Leave no evidence behind.”
Cyrus nodded. “If we need you, where will you be?”
“Out shopping with Laurel Lance.” Blood grabbed his coat and headed off to the Starling City pier, to find out what exactly Laurel Lance knew about him.
* * *
Sebastian and Laurel walked the Starling City pier, department store bags in each hand, the night sky twinkling above them. The air was crisp, and they could see their breaths. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a picturesque romantic evening fit for a kiss, but Sebastian had other objectives tonight. Under his normally charming façade, he was on guard, scanning Laurel’s face for any hint of her suspicions.
“Thank you for being my shopping guide,” he said. “We weren’t exactly showered with gifts this time of year when I grew up at the orphanage.” Laurel didn’t respond, and her look was distant. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just… can I ask you a question?” she said, giving him a look. “It’s about the blood drive you sponsored.”
“Of course,” Sebastian said. He answered with breezy nonchalance. “It’s a wonderful cause, especially given the underfunded hospitals we’re dealing with. What about it?” He could tell Laurel was mustering up the resolve to press forward when her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, and answered.
“Hello?” she said. Then her face paled. “What?!”
Sebastian knew instantly what the call was about.
“Okay,” she said, still on the phone. “I’ll be right over.” She hung up, shock in her expression. Sebastian tried to feign ignorance.
“What happened?” he said.
“My father…” Laurel struggled for words. “He’s in the ICU. I’m so sorry. I have to go.” She tore away from him, tears beginning to well in her eyes. As he watched her go, he thought how lucky she was. Detective Lance might be badly injured, but at least he was still alive. Sebastian doubted that the rest of his squad—outside of Officer Daily, of course—had been as fortunate.
Blood looked at the night sky as he left the pier. Cyrus Gold had singlehandedly defeated both the Arrow and a squad of the SCPD’s finest. If one man could do all that, what could an army of men like him do? Just like the stars overhead, the possibilities were endless.
* * *
Blood marveled at the vials of mirakuru hanging in the centrifuge’s center, glowing green in the dimly lit warehouse. Soon, he would have his army, and be able to remake the city as he saw fit. No vigilante would stop him.
The Technician and Cyrus Gold returned from the destruction of Dr. Langford’s psychiatric office and all the evidence therein. Cyrus was carrying surprise cargo however—one of the kids from the Glades who Officer Daily had seen looking for Maxwell Stanton.
“I didn’t know we were expecting a guest,” Blood said.
“His name’s Roy Harper,” the Technician explained. “We caught him poking around the office, just before burning it down.”
So this was the boy who had been seen patrolling the Glades in the Arrow’s absence, who had attempted to stop the theft of the medical supplies. Blood recognized him now. He looked so diminutive in Cyrus’s grasp. Like a bothersome flea.
“Perhaps he wants to join our brotherhood,” Blood said thoughtfully. “And who am I to deny him? Strap him to a chair. Let’s see how well he takes to the serum.” As the Technician headed off toward the centrifuge, Cyrus deposited Roy in a chair, securing his arms in two leather restraints. Then they watched as he began to regain consciousness, and glanced around the room.
The Technician pulled a syringe of the mirakuru from the machine, holding it up and gazing at it in the light.
“It’s ready,” he said. Then he handed
it to Brother Blood.
Taking it, Blood approached Roy, the visage of his skull mask bearing down. The boy struggled against his chair restraints, then peered angrily at his captors.
“Is this where you killed Max Stanton?” He saw the syringe and panic took hold. “What are you doing? If you stick that in me, I’ll kill you.”
“No, Brother Roy,” Blood said, grabbing him viciously by the throat. “You’ll kill for me.” Then he plunged the syringe into Roy’s shoulder, causing him to howl in pain.
Without warning, the ceiling above them gave way and the Arrow appeared, zip lining down into the warehouse. The Technician tried to pull his gun, but the vigilante beat him to the draw, taking him down with an arrow. He quickly nocked another, pointing it at Brother Blood.
Blood stared at him, marveling at the sight. Finally, he was face to face with his nemesis, the great hero his constituents so idolized. Apparently, he wasn’t so easy to kill. Part of Blood was happy about that, relishing the opportunity to witness his death firsthand.
“Brother Cyrus told me he killed you.”
“Guess he’s not as strong as you’d hoped,” the Arrow replied. “Where’d you get the mirakuru? Who gave you the formula?”
“It was a gift. A gift I would use to save this city from itself.”
As Roy continued to bellow in pain, blood seeping from his eyes as the serum ripped through his body, Cyrus Gold charged at the Arrow, drawing his aim away from Blood. The vigilante fired an arrow, finding purchase in Gold’s shoulder, but it failed to stop him. Gold continued charging.
The Arrow tried to spin into a kick, but Gold was too fast, catching him by the leg and throwing him across the room, sending him crashing into the wall. Pieces of drywall fell away from the impact. Still the vigilante struggled to get up and fight, but Cyrus Gold stalked him, a vicious kick sending him skidding across the floor. His momentum was halted with a sickening thud by a support column.
Roy fell silent, his face streaked with blood.
Blood checked his pulse, then shook his head.
“Another failure,” he said.
The Arrow slumped to the ground at the sight, and Blood was doubly disappointed. He turned toward Cyrus Gold, his acolyte.
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