“You are one sick, twisted fuck,” Alister says.
I lick the blood from the brass tab, my eyes boring into his. Blood is the most potent medium. Blood sacrifice is the most concentrated form of black magick.
I just need a sacrifice.
“I’m leaving this cell.” I take a determined step toward him. “First, I’m going to fuck you up, Alister, then I’m taking that key—” I nod to windowpane of the cell door—“and I’m walking out of here.”
A cruel smile pulls at his split mouth as he yanks his loosened tie from around his neck. “Now that my back’s not turned, I’d really like to see you fucking try, you arrogant prick.”
My nostrils flare, teeth gritted as the tangible image of him forcing Halen down against the desk surfaces hot and vile.
I want the fire. I beckon the flames, allowing the blaze to char the remaining fragments of my damned soul to resin and take me right down to the bowels of hell itself.
I may still harbor a loathsome relationship with the mad philosopher, but I respect his fearless pursuit into the divine madness, where he stared his terror down in the depths.
I will meet him there tonight.
With the act of pure, bestial savagery I’m about to unleash on Alister, those gates of hell will open wide.
Chest heaving, I let Alister take the first swing. He nails a direct punch to my flank. Pain lights up my organs. His fist lands a vicious strike to my jaw next.
I spit the taste of copper from my mouth, turning a bloody sneer on him.
A red mist layers my vision, and I welcome the destructive force of chaos.
One must embody destruction to create—and I’m about to create a goddamn masterpiece.
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14
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GERARAI PRIESTESS
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HALEN
Lights strobe against my shuttered eyelids. At times, I’m able to fight my eyes open to see the glare of streetlights through a blurred windshield, but I’m unsure of how much actual time has passed. I struggle to move, as if my body is submerged beneath a thick substance, trapped in a night terror I can’t wake from.
It’s like trying to breathe through cellophane when I finally come up for air. I’m aware I’ve been drugged. Rohypnol or some other hypnotic drug, although it’s not strong enough to drown out the pain as I’m pulled right back under, drifting beneath a sea of memories triggered by the flashing lights.
The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. Pressure builds at my temples. My forearm is on fire. The blaring blue and red lights ache in my eye sockets, competing with the angry wail of a siren. Sluggish, I look over, and Jackson is there. But like being hit with the force of a tidal wave, I immediately know he’s gone. There’s no slow progression past denial. No hope to cling to. His unseeing eyes stare vacantly into mine, and I know he’ll never see me again.
My first impulse is to cry out for my mom, to hear her soothing voice, feel her comforting embrace. Then the memory of losing her just months before detonates, imploding my entire world in a black hole.
I suffer the loss alone.
And pray the guilt kills me.
The flicker of light against my eyes grows stronger. I see the candle flame dancing in my room, Kallum’s shadow lurking in the corner, and despite the fear his presence stirs, warmth touches my cold skin, and then I’m engulfed by the heat. The strobing blue and red fades, replaced by a sun so brilliant, I raise my arm to shield myself from the burn.
A heavy, rhythmic drumbeat vibrates against my skull. The tempo increases, pulsing inside the hollow cavity of my chest. My heart syncs with the furious drumming, luring me out of the void, and when my eyes finally open to take in the waking world, I want oblivion back.
A circle of fire blazes amid the darkness. The flames rise up all around, casting obscure shadows over dark walls. Through the smoke piercing my vision, I make out the jagged mouth of a cave, the opening wide and partly expanded along the ceiling to reveal a starry sky.
That’s not right, my inner voice intones. There are no caves in Hollow’s Row or the surrounding towns.
The drug haze shrouding my mind weakens enough to allow me to push onto my knees. I touch my face, my stomach, thighs, assessing my body. Anxiety barbs my chest as I find my clothes have been removed. Every probing touch is met with a numb, tingling sensation as restored blood circulation attacks. My mouth is dry, and I swallow past the vile taste coating my tongue.
As my vision clears further, the obscure shadows sharpen. Shapes become distinct and silhouettes surface through the undulating flames, and my breath stalls at the sight of bone-white antlers branching above the crackling fire.
Then I hear the guttural moans. The sickening, disembodied sounds echo against the walls of the cave.
The higher men.
The victims.
They move in closer to the circle of fire. Shadow and light emphasizes the grotesquely mutilated features of their faces. Eyes sewn shut, thick black stitches slash their discolored lids, the sockets concaved. Bodies unclothed, their bare skin gleams with sweat and blood. Fawn skin drapes the shoulders of many of the women. Men are clad only in armbands—and they’re aroused, erect. Their movements are disjointed, enacting a disturbing dance to the rising drumbeat, which stems from a shadowed man striking some archaic drum.
They’re not just terrifying figures, or victims, or pictures from files. Despite their marred features, I recognize Roni Elsher and Vince Lipton. Two of the victims I studied to interview their families.
These are people.
People who had lives. Families and careers.
Still dazed, I try to keep this thought central as a wave of sickness crashes over me at the sight of their horrifying presence. I touch the cool earth to calm myself. Before the fire, symbols have been carved into the hard-packed dirt to ring the magic circle.
And I realize, as panic rakes my insides, I’m at the center.
This is some version of hell.
And Devyn is its goddess.
Fearless, she walks through the flames unscathed to enter the circle. Adorned only in a necklace of bone, gauzy skirt, and armbands with the same sheer fabric, she holds her head high. The spiny antlers atop her head reach toward the cave ceiling. She’s a Dionysian priestess, and every wicked fantasy from the underworld come to life.
This is her replica of the Dionysian Mysteries to support her delusion.
I can reach her.
I have to reach her.
Despite the heat from the perimeter fire, my skin prickles with a chill as Devyn approaches. Inhaling a steadying breath, I dig my fingers into the soil to feel the cool earth, something real and tangible to latch on to reality. “I’m here,” I whisper to myself. I close my eyes and fist the dirt. “I’m here. I’m here…”
I find the scar on my arm, trace the inked words tattooed over the ruined flesh. Recite them over and over. One must cultivate one’s own garden.
The garden is this moment in time.
And I, within it, is all I have control over.
The panic encasing my senses subsides, but only slightly. The drug coursing my system makes me feel as disembodied as the moans.
Devyn’s consuming presence draws near, and I’m forced to open my eyes. My gaze travels up her naked body. In her right hand she holds a thyrsus, the god’s staff coiled in ivy. In her left, she carries a silver chalice engraved with stars, moons, and other symbols I’m unable to discern.
