Page 15

Thirteen

I slow the car to a stop. My foot hovers on the pedal and the exhaust hacks away as I take in the tall iron gates in front of my windshield, dumbfounded by its presence. “Well, this is new,” I grumble to myself… and definitely wasn’t here the last time. Throwing the car in park, I sit and try to figure out my options since I can’t plow through it how I’d like without risking an injury to myself or this already shitty car. I reach in the glove box, grabbing my pocket knife and two strips of Listerine from the pack I keep in there. I was so frazzled leaving my house this morning after the mess I was left with, I forgot to brush my teeth. Not like bad breath would be the worst of my problems, considering that once I get past this obstacle, I’ll be faced with another, much angrier one. Harlan.

The car door slams as I leave it behind me, exchanging it for the unpaved driveway. It’s a stark contrast to the intricacy of the gate where ornate slats of wrought iron tower over me. Every detail is grand and obnoxious and nothing that would be expected to be on a pastor’s property.

My hands wrap around one of the iron rods, shaking it, but of course it doesn’t budge. I look at either side of the locked gate, trying to see if there’s magically another way around it or in. It’s useless. Bricks stacked higher than the expansive gate span as far as my eye can see, wrapping around the property in a protective hug, separating me from it.

“Fuck!” I yell, stomping my boot on the ground. Gravel kicks up as a dust cloud forms. Every loose particle clinging onto my black clothing.

Maybe this is the sign I’ve needed to put the hell of living as a Rainey on this hellish property to rest. A warning from the universe, giving me one last opportunity to just get in my car and drive away for good. To forget about what happened last night and forget getting my necklace back. Even though Frida always told me to keep my pentagram on me for protection, and considering how far it seems Harlan has plummeted, he’ll likely taunt me and I can use all the protection I can get.

Who knows, maybe seeing each other—that is, when we’re both aware of it—will give us the closure we need, and we can both move on in peace. Or, at the very least, one of us can move under the other, finish what I tried to start in the hospital bed before his dad ruined that for us, too.

A flush of heat spreads to my cheeks from that image of me straddling Harlan while he slept that day. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. That’s the problem. I don’t feel anything anymore. I'm incapable. I’m just so…

“Can I help you?” a voice calls out, disrupting my internal battle. I turn my attention to the uniformed security guard running towards me from a small shed. I somehow missed it being off to the side and in front of the closed gates.

I look at him, studying his plain features, trying to determine if I’ve seen him before. Given that the gate is new since I’ve been here last, let alone having the property guarded, I think it’s safe to say that he’s just another addition since I’ve left… with the intention of keeping me out.

Inching closer, I try to think on the fly, since I know for a fact that I’m banned from the property. It’s only a matter of time before he pieces that together .

“Sorry, I’m a friend of—”

“Holy shit,” he interrupts me. “You’re…” He pauses, looking me over, up and down. A combination of uncertainty and intrigue consume his brown stare.

Panic strikes. In the years that I’ve spent living away from the Rainey property, I’ve changed in appearance. My hair, no longer solid black, but split down the middle. One side is my natural black and the other, a shade of pale blonde that teeters on white. Some Botox has helped define my features more, as well. I look different, sure, but not unrecognizable. All it’d take is him pulling up a picture of me from a couple years ago and he’d connect the dots real fast.

“Trying to see Mr. Rainey.” I finish his sentence for him, hoping it will be enough to disrupt whatever thought process he’s been stewing.

“Hold up.” Excitement claws at his tone. Taking his eyes off me, the gun and taser holstered to his belt beckon my attention. Fuck, my puny pocketknife is no match for either of those.

I try to maintain an even keeled demeanor, but it’s slipping the more I watch in horror as he mulls over what to grab from his belt.

My lips part, words about to spew from my mouth like vomit, because I have no idea what I’m about to say. I just know I need to say something.

“Shit, it’s not here. Give me a second. I gotta go get it.”

I latch onto the calm that seems to have washed over him as he jogs back to the security shed. Not sure what he’s getting, but hoping—as naive as it may seem—that it’s not a weapon since he already has an exhaustive arsenal of them attached to his person. I stand and wait.

A few moments later, he runs over, out of breath, with a book in his hands.

Fuck, I would’ve preferred a grenade thrown at my feet over this, but here we are .

Excitement clicks his tongue. “I knew you looked familiar. You’re A.H. Charon.”

Extra fuck.

A reader.

Of course, this would be my luck.

His accuracy sends a surge of annoyance down my spine, especially now that he’s flipped to the back of the book. He’s pointing his finger at the picture I told Beth to make sure was not included in my author bio.

“You got me.” I force a smile and a shrug. It’s meant to be playful, but if it’s coming off to him like it feels to me—stiff and irritated—then I’ve failed.

He flips to the front of the book, now pointing at the title page, Masks We Keep. “Can I get your signature? I fucking love your Ferryman series.”

“Thank you.” I say plainly, appreciating the support even though this couldn’t be at a worse time. “But I’m afraid I don’t have a pen with me.”

Disgust riddles his face unexpectedly. “What kind of author travels without a pen?”

The kind who would rather travel with a pocketknife than a pen, apparently.

I touch my pockets again, giving off the illusion that I’m double checking. I shrug, “Sorry.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.” He places the book into his jacket pocket. “So, what can I do for you?” The shift in his demeanor is undeniable. No longer an eager reader and right back to what I expected when I saw him emerge from his post, a stoic guard.

“Like I said, I’m here to see Pastor Rainey,” I lie. I’m definitely not in the mood to see my stepdad. Never again, but since Harlan hasn’t spread his wings past this hellhole, I have no choice but to see the two of them to get my necklace back.

Once again, he eyes me up and down. Probably wondering if I’m here for an exorcism with the way I’m dressed. Not that anyone would think twice about the thigh high Petrine cross socks I’m wearing over my all-black bodysuit and full body harness, given that it’s Halloween. Except this isn’t my costume. This is how I dress daily, whether or not I have to see good ol’ Pastor Rainey.

His gaze lingers on my harness and his eyes squint at the portion where I slid my knife in. Thankfully, the all-black ensemble and pocketknife make it difficult for him to see what’s what.

“Ummm,” is all he can manage, sounding nervous. He looks back to the security shed he emerged from. A poster with red writing and picture beneath it well within view.

Shit. I didn’t want it to come to this, but if I need to work my charm to get my way, so fucking be it.

I soften my tone, waltzing over to him with an exaggerated sway of my hips. But he takes a step back and then another, forcing me to morph from a seductive stride to a leaping stomp.

“Lady, you’re coming too close.” His hand nears his duty belt again.

“And you’re in my way,” I mutter, but he doesn’t hear me. The static on his radio piercing the air. A muffled voice sounds from the other side, but the connection is poor, making it impossible to decipher who is talking or what is being said.

His boots scuff against the gravel as he continues backing away from me. “I’m going to need you to get back in your car.” He retrieves the baton from his side. “No one is supposed to be here tonight.”

Figures, now Daddy decides to no longer hold Holy Harvest. Where was that consideration when I lived here?

Slamming his hand down, the steel of the baton extends, but all I can focus on is the tattoo on his wrist. A cross with a crushed snake beneath it. Just like I remember from that night at Heathen’s Cross on the patches. No wait, on the blotter sheet. My forehead scrunches in confusion. I can’t remember now. Everything about that night feels so fuzzy. I just know I’ve seen it before. Continuing to stare, I swear I can see the ink slither on his hand. My mind is clearly playing tricks on me.

Ignoring the weapon in his hand—knowing it’s out as a scare tactic, and that he’s too pussy to use it—I slide the cuff of his jacket up to get a better look at his ink. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the illusion. Sure enough, the tattooed snake stops moving but the voices start up again.

“Let him sail. Blood for blood. Eye for an…”

I groan in desperation for it to stop. The guard’s eyes watching me in understandable fear. He flinches from my touch, but I grip him tighter, wanting to look away but unable to.

“Get off me or I will…”

I squeeze tighter. “Oh, please. If you were going to use that, you would have already,” I interrupt him. “What made you get this?”

“I don’t know. I just liked it.” He pries himself from my grip with success.

“Sorry,” I try to compose myself, but it’s difficult. The last time I saw that symbol was at Heathen’s Cross. Suddenly, all the memories that I’m still trying to piece together from that night flood me. Each one is as confusing as it was that night.

Especially the blood. There was so much blood. Buckets of it and it didn’t end when we left. It followed us to the hospital, and every so often it still finds me when I close my eyes.

“Whatever.” He turns down the volume on his radio. A man’s voice is on the other side. A familiar voice that has captured my attention, making everything he’s muttering irrelevant to my attention. With a snap of a finger, he summons my attention back to him, but barely. “Listen, it was cool and fucking unexpected to see you of all people here at this shithole, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to tell you to get back in your car and head home. The boss doesn’t like anyone snooping around here. Especially on Halloween night.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course he doesn’t. God! Fucking forbid something threatens his fortress of lies. ”

Fucking holy prick.

The guard says nothing to me as a mystified face warps his features.

I need to get to the other side of this gate. I need to see him. To end this drawn-out game between us.

Desperation infects my ability to think straight. “You don’t understand. This is my home,” I blurt, regretting every fucking syllable.

“Your home?” The confusion in his voice is quickly overshadowed by him piecing together the puzzle I so foolishly helped him with.

He takes another step back, looking more scared than anything. “Holy shit. I know I smoked before my shift, but how could I be so stupid? It’s you .” The baton falls to the ground as he nervously fumbles around his belt, trying to grab his gun, but I lunge towards him, beating him to it. “You’re Pastor Rainey’s daughter,” he stutters, making my blood boil at the realization and having to be reminded that at one time I was, in fact, his stepdaughter. But I lost that title the second I lost connection to this place and to him.

The pistol grip of his Glock practically magnetizes to my hand. I lift my hand, driving his gun down on his face, hitting him with the side of the barrel. He winces in pain, but not enough for my liking, so I wind up once again and slam down on his face harder. A shrill cry of pain leaks from his mouth this time. Much better.

Keeping the edge of the barrel at his bloody temple, I bring myself to his ear. “Stepdaughter,” I correct him.

“Don’t shoot me,” he pleads.

“Of course not,” I giggle, digging the tip further into his temple. I reach over, grabbing his knife from the leather holder on his belt. “That’d be too loud, and we don’t want to draw any unwanted attention.”

Confusion mars his face, but it’s quickly replaced by stunned agony as the tip of his own blade glides across his throat with the ease of a bow on a finely tuned violin.

Spit gurgles and bubbles in his mouth as blood leaks from the open wound.

“Shh.” Annoyed with his noises, I guide his mouth shut with the bloodied tip of the knife, unintentionally nicking his lips. Oops.

Stepping back, not wanting to get any of his mess on me, he falls face down in a violent thud on the ground.

“Sorry, it was nothing personal. It’s just important that I get to the other side.” I nudge my head to the gate.

I’m about to get up to go to the control panel to press the button, but my book pokes out and the guilt trickles in. I kneel beside him, taking my book out from where it’s tucked in his jacket. Opening it to the title page, I dip my finger into his slit neck, just enough to get some of his blood on it so I can sign my name. “I know you would’ve preferred a pen,” I say to his lifeless body, “but I would’ve preferred you let me in the first time I asked. Well, now you have one of a kind. I don’t think anyone can say they’ve had one of my books signed in their own blood before.” I slam the book shut, tucking it back into his jacket. “Lucky you.”

But I'm not lucky. Before I open the gate, I have to figure out what the fuck to do with him. I look over at the security shed he was in. That would be easy if it wasn’t the first thing people who drive by will see, so of course that won’t work. I preemptively roll my eyes, knowing that the only feasible option is my trunk. So much for not getting dirty.

Holstering my grip on both his wrists, I drag his body over to the trunk. I open it and it’s not a pretty sight. In fact, it’s damn near laughable as I bend and maneuver his body into the trunk, but I succeed.

Slamming the trunk closed, the next order of business is opening the gate. I walk over to the control panel in the security booth. My finger hovers the button, not able to press down on it just yet; already knowing what’s on the other side won’t be pretty.

You’ve come this far. Press the fucking button, Araceli.

My lids pinch closed, bracing myself for when my finger crashes down on the button. I work up the courage to do so and on cue, the gates crank open. Though the more their iron separates, the more anxious I feel, but I’ve gotten this far. Hell, I just killed someone, and a fan no less, to make it to the other side of this hellhole I used to call home. I can’t turn back now. Not if I want to write my perfect ending and get my necklace back… even if it will likely result in blood.

Before I leave the security booth, I flip the lock on the door before closing it so no one can get in. Knowing my stepdad, he has surveillance on the property and the last thing I need is a nosy wanderer stumbling across the empty booth, scrounging around, and discovering the footage.

I take a deep inhale, readying myself for what lays ahead as I drive through the open gates. As soon as I break the threshold, I look in the rearview mirror at the gates closing me in. I drive down the long stretch of gravel before heading to the main part of the property. A fork in the road presents itself with the graveyard in the middle. If I go left, I will pass the church—which has a path that leads straight to the house—but if I go right, I’d have to pass through a stretch of the graveyard.

I opt to go right down the wider, more scenic path, through the tombstones that line the unkempt grass. The uneven terrain doing a number on my tires, the guard’s body bumping in the trunk. Every thud and thump grates at my nerves more than the last, forcing me to slam on my brakes to make it stop.

Fuck this. I chose this way so I could avoid the nausea seeing the church gives me, but this is becoming too much. I get out of the car, walking around to the trunk, making sure it’s locked.

“I’ll be back for you later.” I pat the trunk before walking through the remainder of tombstones that lead the way to the house .

Weeds gnaw at my legs with each step as the sharp, overgrown grass blades prick at my skin through my pants. Last I heard, my stepdad wasn’t doing too well, but he’s always maintained the grounds himself, or had people to do it for him, so this is unexpected. But not as unexpected as the view of the front porch that has me stopping dead in my tracks.

Rows of carved pumpkins consume my vision. Jagged lines compromise hollowed out holes for eyes and an equally jagged and sinister line forms a smile on each, highlighted by a flickering candle inside. All misshapen, yet beautiful in their own way. I move closer, in awe since I’ve never seen the house like this… ever . Especially since the exterior of the house looks about as cared for as the property. Which is not at all.

Distracted by the scene before me, I brace myself for what will happen the moment I walk up those steps and knock on that door. The beauty before me will vanish and reality will set in. No amount of pumpkins on a fucking porch can, or will, erase that.

A few deep breaths in and out are what I need to give myself the nudge to head to the door. The porch steps still creak, same as they used to, but the music that vibrates beneath my feet, that flows loudly from inside to where I’m standing outside, isn’t what I expected. Harsh drums and even harsher lyrics leak through the barrier of siding, and it doesn’t sound anything like the usual hymns my stepdad was accustomed to poisoning our ears with growing up.

Intrigued still, I lift my hand to the doorbell, wondering if the chime will be heard over the music. Though, before I can ring the bell, the door swings open. The music now clear, Bone Church by Slipknot slaps me in the face with its blaring sound.

“Is that fake?” a rough, masculine voice asks but I can’t make eye contact with him. Instead, my gaze lowers to the blood saturating the dark fabric of my bodysuit.

Thinking quickly on my feet, I fake a cool smile. My lids close for a second as my words lead the way. “Yes, it’s fake blood.” I scoff. I lie. “It’s Halloween, Ha…” A breath hitches in my throat as I open my eyes, not prepared for the blue irises boring into mine. Not prepared for any of what stares back at me. Time has changed him into someone I don’t recognize. Long gone is the lean, tall, blonde teen I knew Harlan to be, and in his place is a tall, muscular, tattooed man. With his dirty blonde hair that’s now long enough to be slicked back, but not too long that it hides the gauges in his ears or the spiked barbells that line each cartilage.

“Harlan.” I finish my sentence, as striking lines of black and gray drawn to look like a skeleton hand capture my attention as he lifts his inked hand to the doorway. Securing one hand in place, he takes the other to my body. Without asking, he brushes his fingers on my torso, swirling the blood I told him is fake onto his digits, without faltering his gaze away from mine. Goosebumps line my spine as the hairs raise on my arm from his touch. I can’t read his expression. It teeters somewhere between blank and amused. After another pass of his fingers, he finally retracts them from me, and I inhale. Rubbing his index and middle fingers against his thumb, he breaks eye contact, studying the crimson that coats his fingertips.

“Right,” he says, unconvinced. His eyes flick back to mine.

Fuck, this isn’t good. “What… are you going to tell on me, church boy?” I make a jab at him by calling him the nickname he hated so much, but that’s what I do when I’m trying to deflect, whether it be emotions, blame, or the truth .

To my surprise, he ignores the jab instead by taking his hand coated in the guard’s blood to his blonde locks. He runs his inked hand through the loose strands and his bent elbow shows off another tattoo. It’s hard to make out completely from this angle, but it looks like an oar with a flower surrounding it.

Time has been kind to him. It’s done wonders, actually. He looks so different from when I saw him last. Not only has he grown more muscular, which compliments the ink now drawn on his skin, but he’s kept with the style I had him wear that night. Covered head to toe in darkness, which suits him more than light ever could. Though, as much as my eyes like how the man staring back at me looks, I can’t help but feel jealous. How nice it must be for him to have also been involved in whatever ritual we stumbled into that night, and took drugs just like I did, yet he got to remain here. While I got kicked out. Banned from the property with nothing but the clothes on my back. If anything, he was able to come back here renewed . A true version of who, and what, he was destined to be, and his father clearly hasn’t put up a fuss about it. Meanwhile, the blame, as it always does, falls on me.

Must be nice being an archetype for hypocrisy. That’s a privilege I never had.

He shoots a smug look my way, forcing my gaze to his ocean blue eyes and not gawking over his ink. “Well, are you planning on coming in, or did you go through all that trouble just to stand and stare at me all night?”

My stomach drops. I can’t tell if he knows what I did to the security guard, or if he's just trying to rattle me for all I’ve done to him that I know he’ll never forgive me for .

“That depends.”

His brows arch, waiting for me to continue.

“Do you promise to give back what you took from me?”

Harlan inches backward. His inked hand motioning for me to come in. The smug expression on his face lingers, now amplified by the moonlight casting a luminous beam on his irises.

“Well,” I drag my tone. “Do you?”

He scoffs at my question.

“Pretty, little, thickheaded sister. I know your whore ass did not come all this way to discuss a fucking necklace.”

Indignance motivates my next move. My boot stomps on the porch and my arms cross in front of me.

He laughs, and I hate that the natural rasp of his voice makes his condescension sound more alluring than it should be.

He stifles a sigh, now grinning ear to ear. “Goddamn, your tits look great when you get all huffy like that.” He’s mocking me. Crossing his arms like mine, except jokes on him, because he is right. My tits look great when they’re forced to jut forward with the pressure my crossed arms put on them.

“It’s not just a necklace, Harlan,” I correct, disgust holding my voice hostage when forced to say his name.

“You’re right, it’s not,” he snaps, cold and brutal, like he has become. “Now you have two options. You can either strut that plump ass back to that piece of shit car you drove here in. Nice, and slow, of course, so I can enjoy the view of you leaving me… again.”

Oh my god, Harlan, get the fuck over it.

“Or you can get over yourself and come inside to get what you drove all this way for.”

A lump lodges itself in my throat at his harshness. I shouldn’t admit this, not even to myself, but I like him like this. Assertive and to the point, everything I once wished he could be.

I don’t answer him. I let my booted feet lead the way.

“That’s what I thought,” he hisses as I walk past him. “You’re right. It’s never just a book ,” he says through a whisper.

I pause my steps, my hair flipping as I turn back to him. His words eerily similar to Frida’s that night I got the book—the one he fucking took the liberty to write in last night. But I’m not here for my book, I have it already. I’m here for my necklace. He knows that. He literally just acknowledged that seconds before.

“What did you say?” My eyes narrow.

His hand curls on the doorknob. “You’re right, it’s not just a necklace,” he says so nonchalantly it makes me wonder if I’m hearing things… again. Wouldn’t be the first time. “Your mom left it for you. It means everything to you. It’s the only way I knew how to get you here.”

It’s just in your head, Araceli. Focus. You’re so close.

“Awww,” I echo his condescending nature. “How cute. Someone missed their little sister, didn’t they?” I pout.

My words rob him of his brief moment of vulnerability. In an instant, his demeanor shifts. The warm sentiment of why he stole the necklace, gone, and in its place a much colder version of Harlan that I’m not sure I can get used to, stands before me. Tempting me to play. Enticing me with his newfound darkness.

He closes—or rather slams —the door shut, locking us in, and I could’ve sworn I heard him mumble, “It’s how I’m going to keep you here.” Though, as I look at the monster that my big, fuckable, brother has become, his mouth is shut and it’s my body doing all the talking. Begging me to not be so stubborn and open up to him like he deserves. Like an apologetic whore. His apologetic whore.