Page 1 of Drag You Down (Bloody Desires #2)

LEVI

T he city of New Bristol is dirty and crowded. The people push past me, not stopping to say hello or even so much as glance at me. They wear their overly styled suits, their revealing dresses; they paint their faces and pierce their skin, all in defiance of God.

This very city is the Whore of Babylon, dragging humanity down.

I’m being punished, and that’s why I’m the one forced to confront sin like this, over and over.

I’m being tested .

I notice a handsome man in a shirt so tight, it clings to his arm muscles. He’s talking to another man, holding his hand, and as I watch they lean in to kiss each other.

I lick my lips, and I wonder what it feels like to be kissed.

I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that I will never have that. It is not God’s will. I need to be strong enough to resist these temptations that the world offers up on a platter.

Indulging in hedonism and pleasure is one of the ways the Devil hooks his claws in us.

I force myself to continue, past more beautiful men, past the people smiling and laughing and completely unaware that all of our souls are in danger at every single moment of our lives.

I’m almost home, though. I’m almost safe from myself.

The odds and ends we need for dinner will make it back in time, and my sister and the other women will cook us a satisfying meal. I’ll know that we , at least, are good people.

Just a few more blocks.

But the sidewalk gets more crowded, and I hear that obnoxious honking of the cars. Up ahead, there’s yelling, and my stomach sinks in disappointment as I see police cars setting up a blockade that will keep me from reaching the other side of the intersection.

I look around, hoping for an easy detour, but there are two cars in the middle of the intersection. An ambulance is approaching, and everything swarms with spectators and news crews.

I want to see what happened.

I want to discover whether there’s blood and gore on display, to stare like everyone else at what could be a tragedy or a…

A masterpiece . The word comes unbidden, like a breath in my ear, and I shudder.

It’s wrong. It’s so wrong.

I’m not supposed to want to see the ugly parts of this world.

I stop to take a breath so I can get my bearings.

There’s always a way home. Father Zachariah made that clear. We are never alone; we are never far from the safety of his embrace.

I spot a gap between two buildings nearby. If I’m right, it should lead me away from the commotion and closer to home. The dark and the stink make me wary, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t be late.

I can’t linger, where I might be tempted to gawk with the rest of the onlookers in the hopes of seeing something titillating.

I squeeze through, doubting myself as I lose most of the sunlight. The space between the buildings is so narrow that I bump my shoulders, and I start to doubt myself.

Maybe there’s nothing on the other end, only more darkness.

Maybe I’ll step into a gaping maw and get dragged down.

I whimper and squeeze my eyes shut—then force them open and look up, at the small sliver of sunlight visible between buildings.

Hurry, hurry .

Don’t let the demons grab you.

I let out a sigh of relief when the path opens up into a small courtyard.

It looks unused, completely forgotten. Every window of the buildings on either side have been shattered, shards of glass emerging from the overgrowth surrounding it.

Even the bricks beneath my feet have weeds growing around them, protruding from the ground and defying the bleak, urban gray.

Despite its decrepit state, it’s a small sanctuary in the middle of the disgusting city. There’s a metallic scent in the air, familiar in a way I don’t want to think about, and I hurry across before my curiosity can get the best of me.

I spot a gap on the other side, one that I think will take me to the streets again.

I just have to walk a few feet in relative darkness, and the light of Father Zachariah’s embrace will be in reach.

Then I hear it.

A gurgle.

“Hel… Hel…” a raspy voice whispers.

I gasp and turn, fumbling not to drop my grocery bags.

This is my fault for letting my mind wander, for letting the thoughts of destruction infiltrate it.

This is my fault for stepping into the dark.

God is always watching. God is always judging.

“Hell?” I echo back, my voice trembling. “Who said that?”

It takes me a second to spot the lump of clothing lying along one of the building walls. It stretches a hand out to me.

My eyes widen when I see the growing stain all over the front of the cloth.

I drop my bags and raise my hand to my mouth to cover up a yell.

It’s a man, not a pile of trash. He’s bleeding, crying out, reaching for me.

Calling me to Hell.

I swallow and shake my head. “I’m… I’m not yours,” I say unsteadily. “Go to where you belong.”

A pathetic whimper wants to escape my lips.

I can’t look away though.

The red is slowly flowing out of the man’s neck. His eyes are wide, and I know he won’t be moving for long.

This is what it looks like for a soul to leave a man’s body.

It’s painful and filthy and disgusting.

It’s intoxicating.

My mouth parts and I lick my lips, and the copper in the air brushes against the back of my throat.

“Aren’t you going to help him?” a rich, masculine voice inquires from right behind me.

I spin around to face the source of it, and my eyes widen as I see the man who appeared from the dark. His dark brown hair is combed back like all the New Bristol businessmen. He’s dressed neatly, in a black button-down shirt and a nice pair of trousers.

I wonder if I’m seeing the Devil.

He’s too handsome, too otherworldly, to be a mere mortal.

“He needs help, boy,” he says.

For a few heartbeats, I don’t breathe.

All I can do is stare at him.

I finally shake off the spell he’s cast on me. “What… what do I do?” I ask. “I don’t know how to help. I’m not a doctor.”

The man hums. “Then talk to him. Hold his hand.” His brown eyes are intent upon mine as he takes a few steps closer to me. “Don’t you want his final moments to be peaceful?” He tilts his head. “Comforting?” He smiles at me.

I wonder what those lips would taste like, a thought that fills me with shame and makes my cheeks flush with humiliation.

I still want to know.

The fact that I want to know is wrong , but I can’t get rid of the thought now that I’ve had it.

“Doesn’t every man deserve kindness in the face of death?” he prompts.

I swallow and nod.

The Devil wants me to comfort a dying man.

I’m too terrified to disobey. I step around my groceries and go to the man. There’s a puddle of blood around him, and blood splatter on the wall. I crouch down, and with trepidation, take his hand into my own.

It’s already cold and clammy, and the blood sticks to me immediately.

“He… hel…” The man repeats, his eyes on me.

“You’re dying,” I tell him dumbly, as if he doesn’t already know. “Only God can decide whether you go to Heaven or Hell.”

“Ahh,” the man behind me says. “So you wouldn’t pass judgement on someone? What if I told you he made others’ lives a living hell?” I hear footsteps, and I can feel him hovering behind me.

“If… if it’s God’s will…” The words are thick on my tongue. “It isn’t my place. I am one of God’s flock. I follow where He leads. I don’t presume to understand.”

These are the same words from Father Zachariah’s sermons. I remind myself of this truth whenever my thoughts go to dark places, whenever I get angry at the world full of sinners.

God will judge.

I need only live my life obediently.

“No. Sheep generally don’t.” There’s disdain in the man’s voice now.

Heat creeps up on my cheeks again as his words suffuse me with anger. He’s not the first one to dismiss me based on my beliefs.

But sometimes… Sometimes I wonder what it would be like not to hold them so closely.

That’s not a thought I’m willing to entertain, least of all when the Devil stands there watching me hold the hand of a dying man.

The man’s eyes close, and his hand gets heavy. I set it down on his chest.

The smell of blood still lingers, consuming me. I take another breath, inhale that scent, and my eyes flutter shut.

Without meaning to, I raise my hand to my lips and lick the man’s blood from my fingers.

This is what sin tastes like.

There’s a sharp sound from behind me, an abrupt inhalation of breath, and the Devil moves until he’s standing right beside me.

He reaches down, touching my chin and urging my face up until he locks eyes with me again.

“Aren’t you the least bit worried about tasting the blood of a demon?

” His smile is dark, deadly, and it goes straight to my cock.

I should be terrified, but I feel surprisingly bold instead. “A demon?” I repeat. “And you’re the Devil, who led him here to bleed out?”

He chuckles. “After all the things he’s done? I’m more an agent of God than an agent of the Devil, little lamb.”

My cheeks flush at the nickname. It sounds condescending coming from him, like there’s something wrong with being one of Jesus’s flock.

“You aren’t… You can’t be an agent of God,” I state. “God’s agents would not look like…”

But God’s creatures are beautiful, and I can’t deny that the man is handsome.

‘The Devil will tempt you ,’ Father Zachariah always warns.

The man — the Devil — strokes my chin with his thumb. “I’ve never claimed to be God himself,” he says. “I’m proud, not delusional.”

His hands are so warm, so different from the cold death I’d just held. I shiver underneath his touch, but I can’t look away from him.

“I’m not for you, Devil,” I whisper. “My heart holds only God.”

And temptation, and sin , an insidious voice reminds me, coiled within like a serpent.

“Your heart yearns for blood,” he counters. He reaches out to cup both of my cheeks in his hands. “Unless I miss my guess, your heart yearns for many things that aren’t… godly.”

“N-no,” I say quickly.

Lying is a sin, too, but I can’t prevent myself from denying this shameful thing about myself.