Page 67 of From Hell

In the kitchen, I gulp down a cold glass of water, stopping for a minute to clear my head. I’m not sober, but I’m less wasted than I was a few minutes ago, enough to think. The only place I haven’t checked is outside.

The cold air hits me like a slap in the face when I step out the back door. But instead of waking me up, it emphasizes just how drunk I am. I can’t walk straight, needing to hold onto the rough tree trunks surrounding the lodge just to stay upright as I shuffle through the foliage.

Masonic chanting in the distance sounds like a fever dream. Adding to the surreal sight of lit torches and men in cloaks standing in a circle watching some performance, I don’t know what I’m looking at until I recognize them: guys from the rugby team—Geoffery, Beau, and even Henry.

I stop breathing when I see what it is they’re staring at, their faces twisted in lust—Molly, tied up to a post, naked, while two men do horrible things to her. My eyes blink, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing.

She’s covered in bloody cuts, thousands of them. And her head lolls to the side, eyes shut as they rape her. I can’t tell if she’s out cold or dead.

I freeze in place, fear spiking through my heart.

Don’t make a noise.

My hand covers my mouth, but it’s too late. A whimper escapes me, the scream that’s been long overdue, building in my chest as the horror I’m witnessing sinks in, balling in the back of my throat.

One guy in the middle, hurting Molly, his head whips to me, face shadowed, a snarl on his lips.

It’s Addison. “Someone’s here.”

The other guy over Molly’s body looks up. Christian. He shrugs. “The Ripper will handle it.”

As I stagger back, branches snapping louder than a thunderstorm beneath my feet, I smack into someone solid behind me.

“Lost, little bird?” A grating voice growls in my ear.

I don’t think.

I don’t scream.

I run.

Trees whip past. Brambles tear at my legs. Panic screams in my veins as the world crashes and claws around me. I get as far as the woods surrounding a main road when he grabs me, his gloved hands covering my mouth and then squeezing my neck to drag me back. A sharp, stabbing pain hisses against my throat, and as the breath wooshes out my lungs, I’m thrown to the ground and lost in the undergrowth.

My hands fly to my throat as warmth spills out, coldness creeping into my limbs, making them heavy. Everything is numb.

Everything is so far away.

I try to speak, but only a choking, gurgling sound comes out. I’m not dying like this. Somehow, I crawl to the road, but the effort is like crawling through mud. My mind whirls to playing stuck in the mud with Molly at school, and then my life flashes before me.

Too exhausted to move another inch, I stop at the verge, sucking in a few shallow breaths, rolling onto my back.

The last thing I remember is a dark silhouette of a man towering over me, a hideous demon mask covering his face, his eyes like black stars, drawing me into darkness.

And his laugh, deep, harsh, rough against my skin. “Whores think they can run, but Hell will always follow.”

Why?I want to ask, and my mouth forms the word even though I don’t make a sound.

He crouches down over me.

And strangely, I’m not afraid.

“Why? Because it’s my turn, little bird, to make our victim sing. Mine!” he growls.

Then the lights of an approaching car beam over us, and I remember nothing after that.

25

JAXON