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Prologue

The rain beats down on the floor to ceiling stained glass windows. It sounds like a million tiny fingers tapping at the glass, like children begging to be let in.

No, not children.

They don’t need to see what I’m about to do.

Demons.

They’re demons, come to take me away, to where I belong.

The rumble of thunder growls in the distance, cavernous, like the warning snarl of a predator.

I wonder how Mercy’s handling it.

Mercy never liked thunderstorms.

I should be there to comfort her, like I used to.

I should be, but I’m not.

Maybe one day—one day very soon.

The crack of a close by-lightning strike shakes the ground beneath my feet, and I sigh, turning away from the windows and making my way across the dining room. The floor is gritty and creaking. Above my head, the paint on the ceiling is peeling.There are holes in the plaster, and every time I take a step, more dust shakes loose and rains to the floor.

It’s a shame, really.

It would be a beautiful house if it was properly cared for. It was built in the late 1800s, a Queen Anne Victorian with 6 bedrooms and 5 bathrooms. By many of today’s standards, it’s a gorgeous mansion—on the outside, anyway. It’s fallen into disrepair, not that I’m surprised. The man who owns it is easily one of the worst people to haunt the face of the earth—to me, anyway.

Maybe for other people too.

Or, maybe I only see him that way because of what he did to me.

As I pass the dining room table, I reach over and hit play on my phone.

‘Father Figure’ by George Michael begins to play through the speakers, the upbeat music echoing in the house around me.

I smile to myself.

The music is a little fruity and weird, but somehow it fits.

Grabbing my tumbler of bourbon off a side table, I step through the living room and make my way to the basement door. I hate that damn place. It’s horrible, with weird bugs and spiders and shadows that shift and dance around me.

It’s not the shadows that bother me, it’s the bugs.

Spider crickets, they call them, or sprickets. Demonic little hellbeasts that grow as long as my dick and can jump as high as my fucking chin.

No thanks.

I’m not afraid of most things—anything, really—but I’m not a fan of bugs.

Truth be told, I’d rather do this anywhere else in the house, or hell, even outside if I knew no one could see me. But I don’t want to ruin the floors that will be mine some day, and bloodis annoyingly hard to scrub out of hardwood that hasn’t been properly taken care of.

With a sigh, I pop the basement door open, and the smell of must and piss greets me.

Great, he pissed himself. More for me to clean up.

Grumbling and spitting curses, I make my way down the creaky wooden steps to a basement that’s concrete and dirt floors. When my bare feet nestle in the soft earth, I look over at him, illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of a single light bulb swinging overhead.