Page 10

Eight

“Welcome to Heathen’s Cross!” a pre-recorded greeting announces, though its mechanical voice becomes lost to the symphony of noises off in the distance. An odd mixture of drums beating, people chanting, and screaming.

Tall corn stalks, most of which are bare, surround us as we approach the haunt’s entrance. The path is illuminated by lit jack-o’-lanterns that are scattered throughout; some on the ground and others resting on hay barrels. Though, as we approach the end of the widened path, the remaining corn stalks are decorated. Fashioned into a cross with bones centered on them, complete with decaying skeletons with hands bound by nails and heads drooping, reminiscent of a crucifixion.

I look over to Harlan. He’s been so quiet since we got out of the car. He’s probably just taking it all in. He isn’t used to—or even allowed to indulge in—Halloween celebrations outside of Holy Harvest, so this is a lot for him. The drugs add another element of things he isn’t used to, but to my surprise, he isn’t fighting it.

We reach the end of the pathway, and a wall made of wooden slats with an arched opening in the middle now faces us. Faux cobwebs line the wood, accompanied by more hay barrels and cornstalks. The drumming is now replaced with loud music and boisterous cheers echoing through the arched entryway.

I step in front of Harlan, holding my hand out for him to grab onto. Reluctantly, he does. The mask is still off his face, with the elastic strap clenched tight in his other fist.

“Your mask,” I remind him, tugging at his hand in mine.

A foreboding expression lines his chiseled features as his gaze alternates between the mask in his hand and the mask on my face.

We’re so close to being free, church boy, don’t quit on me now.

A sea of black consumes my vision as a group of people walk past us. All dressed in hooded black cloaks. The draping fabric brushes against the fallen leaves mixed in with the gravel we’re standing on, and the sound creates a storm in my eardrum. I can hear every footstep hit every rock.

“Are you okay?” Harlan asks in concern, but his gravelly voice is just another vibration. Its sound ricochets down my spine.

I laugh.

“Araceli, are you okay?” he repeats.

Squeezing his hand in mine, sweat slicks his calloused palm.

“You’re starting to feel it, aren’t you?” I can feel his pulse throb in my hand. The drugs are starting to kick in for him too.

He turns his head to the entrance the group of hooded individuals went through before turning his attention back to me. “Mhm,” he practically growls, letting go of my hand so he can stretch the mask over his face, and my knees buckle at the sight before me. Finally, my strong, golden boy, big brother, is standing in front of me dressed in all-black from head to toe. The fact he has no cross hung on his neck, and a uniquely terrifying mask covering his face, is an added bonus. He looks like everything his father detests, as well as everything I want to corrupt… and everything I want to corrupt me.

His head shakes and the loose strands of honey blonde hair that escaped the mask’s strap mimic the breeze, swaying back and forth.

Closing the space between us he lifts his hand and I expect him to take mine again in his possession. I reach out to him but he swats my hand away and his large palm settles on my hip, adding to the inferno swarming my body.

An immediate mood shift graces my presence as the plaster of his mask taps against mine. “You’re going to regret bringing me here.” His vague response excites me.

“Why?”

“This is what I’ve always wanted.”

“Halloween?” I ask, confused.

“No,” he quips. He sways slightly, knocking into my side as we make our way through the haunt’s entryway. “To be free.”

“That’s what you want? For me to set you free?” I pout, in jest. Not like he can see it concealed beneath my mask, but he doesn’t like that, apparently.

Harlan stops walking so abruptly, our connected stride breaks on impact and I lose my footing.

“Jesus Chri—” I begin, but my words are stolen from me as is my mask. In the flash of an eye my mask glides up my face and onto the crown of my head. Harlan’s calloused slick palm squeezing my cheeks, hollowing them in with his unexpectedly possessive grip.

My eyes fire a challenging glance his way. I’ve been waiting for this version of him to emerge. I know it’s always been there. His darkness buried deep, unlike mine. Who knew all it would take are some cheap drugs—I should’ve done this sooner.

“Don’t make me feel like I’m at church tonight or home. I don’t want to hear any of that. Not tonight.” His voice is harsh but there’s still a pleading undercurrent to it. One he’s trying so hard to stifle.

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Letting my face go, he slides my mask back down.

A shrill cry echoes from inside the haunt, adding to the thrill, thinking of all the trouble we’re going to get into tonight. All of which will infuriate his dad, which makes it that much better. Harlan walks ahead of me, his boots scuffing on the gravel. We walk through the arched entrance and into a tunnel. Purple, red, and green alternate in flashes illuminating the artificial cobwebs that hang from the tunnel’s ceiling. We make it to the other side, where two haunt workers stand waiting to greet us. Both of their features are concealed by black cloth masks. Their jackets look similar to the ones the two men were wearing yesterday who came to Sacred Promises to speak to my stepdad.

I shake my head at the thought of anything to do with that place. Like Harlan said—so unexpected and bold—tonight isn’t about feeling like we’re at church or home. It’s about us letting loose. Being free.

Harlan steps to me, keeping his masked gaze on mine, he dips his finger in my cleavage, spilling over my corset. I stand stunned. Wanting more of this version of him. He fishes around, his hand becoming lost between the swell of my breasts.

“What are you—”

“Ssh.” He silences me with the invitation now in his possession. I forgot I put it there.

Harlan hands it to one of the workers, who nods for us to walk in.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Si, Barquero.”

“Barquero?”

“It means ‘Ferryman’. Like your mask, silly. That’s what the tag said, or yours did.”

“Yours didn’t?”

I shake my head. “No. But seeing that yours is the Barquero, I can be your pasajera.” I step forward to lower his mask back down for him. “Since what’s a Ferryman, without a passenger? I can be a blank slate that I’ll allow you to corrupt. Just for tonight.”

Hunger echoes beneath his mask in the form of a groan. “I thought you were the one corrupting me.”

Be careful what you wish for, church boy. Suddenly the thought of corrupting him, of breaking him, is all I want. It’d be the ultimate fuck you to his dad and, if I’m being honest with myself, would satisfy the itch he created in me since seeing him sin between someone else’s legs… that wasn’t me. Like it should’ve been.

“You’re right, and speaking of which…” my voice trails, taking the blotter sheet out again—also nestled between my tits. The designs on the small squares mesh together slightly from my body heat.

Harlan snatches the acid from my hand, and the glint of mischief in his stare mirrors my own. We remain with our gazes locked until I see him ripping two squares from the sheet in eagerness.

“No!” I snap at him just as he’s about to lift his mask to take them. “You’ve never done this before. Take this much.” I take one and halve it.

He scoffs, low and angry. “Stop babying me, Araceli. It’s insulting. You wanted me to let loose tonight, remember? So if I’m going to go all out tonight, let me,” he grits through a tense jaw, grabbing the sheet from me, “go all fucking out,” he boasts, and the level of delusional confidence leaking from him is as hot as it is cringe worthy.

I take the sheet back. The body heat from how I had it stored mixed with Harlan and I handling it in a stubborn tug of war is causing the design to transfer onto my palm.

“Going all out and dying are two different things. Now you can lift your mask.”

Another scoff sounds. This one, however, is met with him obeying my directive. Like a good boy, he lifts his mask, and I lift mine. With the hideous plaster resting over our heads, we look at each other, and once again, the apprehension he had in the Halloween Shop returns, holding his handsome features hostage. It’s as if all the confidence the mask seemed to give him vanishes when it’s off his face. His jaw tightens so hard that a visible knot shows.

I rip a small square from the sheet. My gaze falls to his lips. “Open,” I instruct, my free hand squeezing his cheeks as I attempt to pry his mouth open. He wants this. I can see it—fuck, I can feel it, but where was that guy storming in here before? I need him to come back.

“I need your tongue. Stick it out.”

He doesn’t budge, but he doesn’t fight off my touch either.

“Fine,” I huff in defeat, loosening the hold I have on his cheeks and instead bringing my hand to his neck, squeezing it as hard as I can. “I liked you better when you were acting like an asshole,” I murmur. Squeezing his throat tighter, I take the two blotter squares and place them both in my mouth.

“Then put my mask back on.” His deep baritone says, practically begging me to do it.

“I will, after I do this.” Without warning, I extend my tongue and dive into his mouth. He doesn’t fight my aggressive kiss—or the drugs. Our mouths remain entangled, our tongues sliding over each other until the paper dissolves. I pull back, not giving up the dominance my hand has on his throat.

“What did we just take?” Harlan asks.

I don’t answer right away. I let go of his neck, admiring the red marks my hand left on it, leaving an invisible collar on him. Marking him as mine, at least for tonight. I pull his mask down, over his chiseled face, and I do the same to mine.

Eliminating any and all space between us, I get onto my tiptoes. Our masks clacking against each other as I nestle myself near his ear. “An escape,” I finally respond.

“Do you promise?” He asks. Scared, yet hopeful, all within the same breath.

“To give you more?” I stare at Harlan, dumbfounded. “Umm, sure.”

“No!” He shouts before lowering his voice. “To escape, I mean.”

I tilt my head in confusion as he continues. “I don’t want to go back home.” The admission tempts me as much as it surprises me.

“Please,” he pleads. “Araceli, I mean it. I can’t go back there. ”

“Are you suggesting we run away?” I ask, jokingly, though the enthusiastic nodding of his head is anything but a joke. He’s serious. “How about we just see where the night takes us? Then we can figure it out.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” The words slip out so fast, and Harlan’s demeanor shifts to sudden elation upon me saying just those two words. The idea of being free of his father, of that fucking house, is what I’ve always wanted… alone. Not with him or anyone else. It’ll be a clean break from all things Rainey. Harlan included. Not wanting to burst his bubble, I leave it there.

I tuck the drugs back in my corset and can see Harlan peer at my cleavage as I do it. I give my breast a pat playfully. “If you want any more, you’re going to have to get past these first.”

“Will it make the voices stop?” Another question, this one throwing me off just as much as the first. I’m not sure if he’s referring to a possible side effect, or if he’s talking about the same internal voices that guide me as ‘part of my gift’—as Frida likes to call it. I doubt it’s the latter. Even with his hatred for his father, I doubt he believes in anything outside of what he’s been told to believe.

“It always does for me,” I lie.

“Good.” Relief lines his voice as we become submerged in the chaos that is Heathen’s Cross.

Everywhere I look is an absolute sensory overload. Every inch of this place lives up to its name. More crosses made of bone and corn stalks surround us, forming a large circle around the fire that’s burning in the center of the open area. There are so many people scattered about. Some are in cloaks, like the ones we saw earlier, wearing all black with hoods, while others are completely naked.

I try to see if there are any of the usual haunt-type attractions that pop-up spots like this are known for, but as far as I can see, there’s nothing like that. Just an open area of people losing themselves to the night .

A fire burns in the center of the open area with a group of people gathered, dancing around the open flames. My attention is immediately drawn to a woman standing on a podium so high she looks like she’s standing on the flames. She’s completely naked, wearing nothing but a large necklace made of bone in varying sizes around her neck, and some sort of symbol smeared onto her sternum in the same shade of rich crimson that paints her lips.

Is that… blood?

She lifts a cow skull in the air as her lips part, chanting in a language that sounds similar to Latin. The people around the fire begin to sway their arms in the air and chant along with her.

The woman is no longer alone on the podium. A man and woman have made their way on the platform attached to the bottom. They kneel before her, bowing, and she slips the cow skull overtop her head as she spreads her legs in a wide stance. The couple kiss each other once through a heated exchange. Their tongues clash against the other before they move on their knees to be centered at the apex of her thighs. They continue to kiss, this time making out on her pussy, licking it together.

“Are you seeing this?” Harlan asks. He’s standing behind me now, both arms draped over my shoulders. Our bodies sway together as one, mimicking the motions of the crowd.

I nod. Unable to look away. My own pussy grows wetter by the second the more I watch.

The wind picks up, and through the chanting mixed with moaning, I can hear every particle on the ground as it's transferred from the small shift in the air.

The woman getting her pussy eaten—who I assume is their leader by the level of power she holds over the crowd—begins to chant louder just as another woman, who is also naked, runs in front of us. A man is chasing after her with a bucket in his hand.

A dizzying rush takes over my head. I turn to look at the running woman, my head falling deeper into Harlan’s hold. The iron tang of blood mixed with sweat becomes alive in the October air. The smell is ripe, like the vibrant hue of blood everywhere my eye lands. There’s no doubt in my mind that there’s blood in the bucket the man is holding. He dips his hand in, swirling it in the red liquid before bringing it to the woman who was just running. He smears it onto her chest.

She doesn’t fight it. In fact, she moans louder with each swipe of his hand. He continues to smear the blood onto her until she is covered everywhere in different unfamiliar symbols.

The more I watch, the more turned on I become.

My back arches as my head finds solace in the divot between his broad chest and his shoulder. I can feel his heart thumping at my back.

“This place is…” I begin, practically moaning.

“Amazing,” Harlan finishes for me.

“Yes,” I breathe.

It really is amazing. Frida was wrong about this place. It isn’t dangerous. It’s freeing.

We remain swaying together, taking in the crowd and the scene before us. The chanting grows louder by the second. So loud my hands spring upward, unintentionally breaking the hold Harlan has on my shoulders. My mind is begging my hands to lift to either side of my head, to create a shield for my ears, but my hands aren’t moving up. They’re moving down. Skimming past the elastic waistband of my skirt. Traveling with vigor to my throbbing clit.

The sex… the blood… the madness all around me is too much of an aphrodisiac not to submit myself to. The flames burn in my irises, matching the heat coursing through my center. The colors move in synchrony with the motion of my hand rubbing at my bundle of nerves.

Harlan tugs at the hem of my miniskirt. “How wet are you right now?”

Thrown off by his question, a grin spreads on my lips.

“Well?” He purrs.

I go to answer, but all that slips my lips is a guttural moan. The pace I’m touching myself quickens .

“Fine,” he clips. There’s a sadistic tone to his voice. A confidence that I know surely wouldn’t be there if there wasn’t an altered state brewing in his mind or a mask to hide behind. “I guess I’ll just have to feel for myself.”

No longer teasing the edge of my skirt, his eager hand slithers its way to my center, replacing mine. His fingers trace a line up and down my slit, poking through the open holes of my fishnets. He continues this for a few more passes, and each one has me growing more desperate for him to tear at my fishnets and sink his fingers deep inside me.

I throw my head back and my lids close. “What are you…”

“Shhh,” he whispers, breaking through the barrier of scattered nylon wide enough that he’s able to slide into me with ease.

I clench around his fingers upon impact, and he groans in approval.

One finger graduates to two, as his thumb finds a rhythm at my clit while his fingers pump in and out of me. I grab hold of his wrist, locking his hand in place. Adding to the pressure his thumb has on my sensitive center, I unintentionally drive his fingers deeper inside of me.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You’re so fucking wet.”

“For who?” I pant, wanting him to say that I’m wet for him. Craving, in this moment, to hear that my body belongs to him. “Who am I wet for?” I repeat, desperation entangling my words. “Say it.” I grow needy. Distracted, consumed by the noises synonymous with carnal pleasure and euphoria infecting the night air. “Who am I wet for?” I’m practically begging him at this point.

A third finger enters me, stretching me. The added pressure shifts my balance to my tiptoes. He wiggles his fingers deeper. His fingertips prod and poke me, pinching my walls, making me pulse around his hand, suffocating it.

“Oh, I think you already know who this sloppy pussy is wet for.” He pumps his fingers inside of me once more. This time even deeper. More aggressive. “Me. ”

The second the word ‘me’ leaves his lips, he retracts his hand, and my walls clench at the absence of his touch, only adding to the violent pulse at my clit.

Pushing away from me, an unexpected chuckle sneaks past his mask. It’s as mean sounding as his edging feels.

I adjust my skirt and shift the fabric back in place, trying to ignore the number the crisp air is doing on my throbbing center. Wanting to pretend that he isn’t getting to me, or that our dynamic, within an instant, has changed.

A rush of heat flushes my cheeks, the mask becoming a burden. I lift it up and onto my head.

As I turn around, ready to hurl some church boy insults his way, Harlan charges at me. My senses are aware of his touch, but my eyes process his movements as if he’s moving in slow motion. His fingers skim my lips, pulling at my bottom lip to gain access to my mouth. Loving the stares we’re getting from those moving past us, I open my mouth so he can sink his fingers in, to feed me the remnants of my own arousal. His eyes roll in pleasure the deeper I suck him in. Sucking his fingers with the same vigor I would his dick, but just like he did to me, just when I can tell it’s getting him going, I break the seal of my mouth enough that my cheeks don’t hollow around the girth of his fingers. Though, I still keep just the right amount of pressure on them so my tongue can still tease him while I speak.

“So this is what you’re like when sky Daddy isn’t watching?” I ask, closing the gap of my mouth about to give him another teasing suck, but he moves too fast, slipping his digits past my tonsils, putting my gag reflex to the test.

“Oh, he’s watching… I just don’t care anymore.”

The combination of his words mixed with his fingers grazing the back of my throat both shock and excite me all in the same breath.

I like what he’s saying. Fuck. I’ve been wanting to hear this forever. To hear the pastor’s son, my stepbrother, lay down his morals, which have always been questionable, just waiting for an invitation to be toyed with, and admit he doesn’t care. But what fun would it be if I don’t use this as an opportunity to not only test his limits, but to completely shatter them?

I tease his fingers with the edge of my teeth. Applying just the right amount of pressure that he feels like I’m on the verge of breaking skin, but leaving him wondering if I will actually do it.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

I shake my head no.

A challenge.

An invitation for him to do his worst. To prove to me he doesn’t care about anything but sinning— even if he burns—with me.