Page 25 of The Flesh Remembers

The graveyard outside the clinic had become a theatre of decay and lust, its tombstones and crypts illuminated by the flickering light of red torches. Cultists moved among the graves like spectres, their bodies bared to the night air, their movements slow and deliberate as they prepared for the next stage of the ritual.

Eleanor followed James through the labyrinth of stone, a strange mix of excitement and fear filling her as she watched pairs and groups collapse onto the damp earth. One couple knelt before a freshly opened grave, their hands entwined as they murmured incantations. The man reached into the grave, pulling out a fragment of bone, which he pressed to his lover’s lips. She kissed it reverently, tears streaming down her face, before her lover smiled and gently pushed her back onto the cold, wet earth. She eagerly spread her legs wide for him, her arms outstretched to him in supplication, and he brought the rounded tip of that bone between her legs and smiled as he inserted it inside of her. She cried out, her back arching sharply as her lover increased the pace, and Eleanor could see evidence of the woman’s arousal glistening in the moonlight as again and again that bone penetrated her. After a few moments more, they fell into each other’s arms, their cries of ecstasy mingling with the distant hum of the apparatus.

Nearby, a group of three cultists had gathered around an ornate mausoleum, their bodies pressed together in a tangled mass of limbs. One of them held a blade, its edge glinting in the torchlight, and used it to carve a small rune into the flesh of another’s chest. The blood dripped onto the stone below, quickly smeared into the shape of a sigil by trembling fingers.

James stopped beside a cracked tombstone, his eyes glowing faintly as he turned to face Eleanor.

“Do you understand now?”

he asked, his voice low and commanding.

“This is devotion. This is what it means to love truly.”

Eleanor felt tears spring to her eyes at the thought of what love had meant to her before this hellish nightmare. Love had been tender, gentle, and beautiful. Now it was a dark and frightful thing that preyed on gentleness and beauty. Before she could respond, he stepped closer, his hand brushing her cheek. His touch was cold, almost lifeless, but it sent a shiver of longing and terror down her spine.

“Show me,”

he murmured.

“Show me how much you love me.”

The participants returned to the sanctum, their bodies bruised and bloodied but vibrating with manic energy. The Chain of Thorns was ready, its cruel harnesses in a perfect circle around the glowing apparatus. Eleanor hesitated as an attendant approached her, holding one of the thorned belts.

“Do not fear the pain,”

the woman said softly.

“It will bring you closer to him.”

Eleanor’s hands trembled as she took the harness, the sharp thorns biting into her palms. She slipped it over her head, the barbs digging into her skin and drawing small rivulets of blood that ran down her sides. Around her, the other participants did the same, their faces contorted in a mix of agony and arousal.

The circle formed, each person pressed against the next, their bodies swaying in rhythm as the chanting began. The pain of the thorns blended with the heat of the apparatus, creating a wave of sensation that rippled through the group. Some participants moaned, their cries growing louder as the energy intensified. Others wept openly, their tears mingling with the blood that dripped steadily onto the floor.

Eleanor felt her mind slipping, her thoughts dissolving into a haze of pleasure and pain. James appeared in the centre of the circle, his body glowing faintly as he reached out to her. His touch was electric, sending a jolt of sensation through her, making her gasp.

“You’re almost there,”

he whispered.

“Just one more step.”

Blackwood’s voice cut through the chaos, his tone triumphant.

“It is time,”

he declared.

“The apparatus demands one final sacrifice.”

Nurse Marian Collins stepped forward, her face pale but determined. “Take me,”

she said, her voice steady.

“If it will bring him back, take me.”

“Marian, no!”

Eleanor cried, her heart filling with fear as she watched Marian step closer and closer towards James.

“No, no, I won’t allow this!”

Fairfax cried out from his place by the apparatus.

“Don’t worry, Eleanor, Ambrose, this is what I want. I need to do this. I need to be important in this process somehow, don’t you see? Please allow me this. I must give myself to James completely, just as you do.”

Then, to Fairfax, Marian smiled sadly and said softly, “My dear Ambrose, please allow me this. Allow me to see our work completed. Please let me be an important part of this. It is all I’ve ever wanted, to be important to you.”

Marian reached out and touched Fairfax’s cheek, which was stained with freely flowing tears.

“Marian…”

Fairfax whispered again, but he slumped back against the machine, his eyes lost and vacant. Fairfax seemed to accept defeat; all that remained was a husk of who he had once been.

Eleanor’s heart shattered as Marian knelt before the apparatus, her soft, white hands reached for James in supplication. He cupped her face gently, his expression soft but predatory.

“Thank you,”

he murmured.

The apparatus flared to life, its light blinding as Marian screamed, her body convulsing in pure ecstatic agony as her lifeforce was drained. James held her in his arms, absorbing the life that was ripped from Marian’s now limp body. Eleanor could only watch, frozen in horror and desire, as the ritual completed and James stepped forward, fully resurrected, but no longer entirely human.

His eyes met hers as he let Marian drop to the ground, her sacrifice already forgotten, and she knew: she had created a monster.

The moon bled across the sky.

Every eye in the clinic turned upward, mouths open, hearts pounding.

Winds stilled to an unnatural hush, the cries of night birds choked into silence.

The torches lining the hidden courtyard spat and guttered, their flames quivering as though in terror.

High above, the moon split the heavens with its vermilion glare, shadows writhing across its surface as though the celestial body had begun to bleed.

Eleanor stood at the centre of it all, her bare feet pressed against the cold stone.

Cultists knelt in concentric circles around her, their chants rising in unholy harmony, the undulating rhythm like a tide pulling her toward some unknown abyss.

Every flicker of torchlight, every whispered verse, seemed to twist time itself.

One moment, she glimpsed the cult leader raising his hands in supplication; in the next, the same figure loomed inches from her face, his breath hot and wet as he whispered, "Mother of Flesh."

Her heart pounded, but not from fear.

She felt James beside her, yet his presence was distorted.

Over the past days, the apparatus had pulled him deeper into its dark embrace.

His form flickered between shadow and substance, his features hollowed, but his eyes burning with unearthly power.

And on the dais, the apparatus loomed, a monstrous construct now of bone and metal, writhing with veins of glowing light. The air around it vibrated with an ominous hum. The cult called it their altar, but Eleanor knew it for what it was: a predator.

The apparatus beckoned her, its many mouths whispering, moaning, "Eleanor...

come...

join..." The cultists’ chants grew frenzied as she stepped forward, her body trembling with both dread and compulsion.

She could feel the apparatus’s pull, which was not physical but deep within her soul.

Her skin tingled, and then it began, her body unravelling.

It was not violent, though it felt like her flesh was being peeled away as though coaxed, revealing a lattice of glowing nerves and sinew beneath.

Eleanor did not scream; she moaned, the sensation an unbearable fusion of agony and ecstasy as the energy of the single cry escaped her lips as the apparatus surged into her exposed form, every nerve alight with a narcotic euphoria.

The cultists gasped in awe, crawling toward her on their hands and knees.

"," they chanted, their voices trembling with reverence.

They pressed their lips to the blood-slick stones beneath her, licking the crimson trails that dripped from her feet.

Eleanor’s legs gave out, but she did not collapse.

Tendrils of energy from the apparatus cradled her, lifting her body as though offering her to the moon.

Her form began to merge with the machine, the glowing web of her muscles entwining with its veins of light.

James approached, his steps slow and deliberate.

His form had solidified, the shadows that once clung to him now woven into his flesh.

His eyes burned as he reached for Eleanor, his touch sending waves of searing heat through her unravelling body.

"Eleanor," he murmured, his voice both tender and commanding. "We are one."

He pulled her to him, their bodies colliding in a grotesque embrace. His lips found her neck, his teeth sinking into her flesh. Eleanor gasped, her fingers clawing at his back as his mouth drank deeply. Blood pooled between them, but she felt no pain, only a consuming euphoria as her essence flowed into him. She could feel herself dissolving, her vitality feeding his resurrection. And yet, she craved it, the sensation more intoxicating than anything she had ever known.

Around them, the cultists fell upon each other in a frenzy of violent lust. Teeth tore flesh, nails raked skin, and the courtyard became a tableau of carnage. They sought to mimic the communion they witnessed, to taste the ecstasy of annihilation.

The apparatus’s mouths, which had whispered and moaned, now screamed. They opened wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth that glistened with saliva. The cultists nearest to the machine had no chance to flee. The mouths latched onto them, tongues wrapping around limbs, pulling them in piece by piece. Flesh tore in long, wet strips, their screams of pain morphing into delirious laughter as they were consumed.

The apparatus pulsed, its framework growing wetter, more organic. Veins throbbed, and its surface glistened like living tissue. Eleanor’s arms stretched unnaturally toward the hungry mouths, her body no longer entirely hers. James caught her wrist, pulling her back.

"Not yet," he said, his voice low and possessive. "You’re mine."

The courtyard descended further into madness. The boundaries between bodies dissolved. Skin melted into skin, bones twisted into grotesque configurations. Faces emerged and disappeared within the writhing masses of flesh. Limbs flailed, voices cried out in discordant harmony. Eleanor caught her reflection in the blood pooling at her feet, but it was not her face she saw. It was stretched, warped, her features dissolving into something unrecognizable.

In the distance, she saw another version of herself, already melded into the apparatus, her mouth one of the many that now whispered in forbidden tongues.

Above, the blood moon split with an audible crack. From its ruptured core spilled a mass of writhing limbs, mouths, and eyes. It descended, dripping black ichor that sizzled as it struck the stones. The cultists threw themselves into its path, begging to be consumed. Those it touched were either obliterated or twisted into grotesque, beautiful, and monstrous new forms. Some sprouted additional limbs, others became masses of teeth and tentacles. Eleanor felt the creature’s gaze fall upon her. It was not a look but a force, a branding of her very soul.

The ritual reached its climax. Eleanor and James intertwined, their bodies devouring each other. His teeth tore at her throat as she gripped his hair, forcing him closer. Her nails raked deep into his flesh, only for the wounds to glow and heal. Their union was not love but obliteration, a grotesque performance for the cultists who writhed in ecstatic worship.

The apparatus fed on their lust, its mouths chanting in unison. The courtyard began to sink, the stone dissolving into a pit of living flesh. The altars convulsed, their moans forming an infernal hymn.

In their madness, the cultists brought forth their children. Infants lie at the base of the apparatus, their cries swallowed by its hungry mouths. Eleanor watched, horrified and enthralled, as their tiny bodies dissolved into light, feeding the machine further. The cultists cheered, their eyes glowing like the moon's crimson light.

James whispered in her ear, "Let them go. Let it grow."

Eleanor wished she could weep, but she had no tears left, so she could only watch in horror as the world ended and something else took its place.

At the final moment, the apparatus pulled Eleanor into its core. Her flesh and bones unravelled into pure energy, her voice echoing across the courtyard:

"I am reborn. I am everything."

Her consciousness expanded, encompassing the cult, the moon, the apparatus, and the grotesque entity descending from the heavens. She was no longer Eleanor. She was desire incarnate, a god of flesh and will. James knelt before her, his dominance reduced to servitude.

Her first decree? The obliteration of humanity. In its place, a world where flesh and spirit were one, an eternal, writhing act of worship. As the blood moon burned brighter, Eleanor’s voice resounded:

"Let the new world begin."

Excerpt from the diary of Dr. Eleanor Ashcroft

They call me the Mother of Flesh.

The title slithers through my mind, coiling around my thoughts like sinew stretching over bone. It was chanted as I was remade, reshaped into something beyond flesh, beyond blood. I can feel it working through me, threading itself into every molecule, every nerve, an intruder and an embrace all at once.

I was afraid.

That was before.

Now, I understand. I see the truth in the darkness and the rhythm of the pulsating mass surrounding me. James has shown me the way to a new world, a better one, with us standing at its peak, untouched by the fragility of ordinary existence. My fingers brush against his, and I step through the door, surrendering myself to the inevitable.

But no. No. This is the trick, the deception, the slow erosion of self that I must resist.

I will not succumb.

I must claw my way back from this abyss before it swallows me whole.

James is still in there, beneath the shifting skin and whispered promises. The real James. The man I clung to when everything else fell apart. If I can find him and strip away the corruption that has taken root, maybe there’s still time.

Maybe we can still be happy.

Maybe this isn’t the end of us.

Yet, even as I write these words, the hunger thrums inside me, growing, twisting, whispering, "You are already lost."

A Tapestry of Unmaking

The great hall pulsed with life, its air dense with heat and scent, a mix of spiced incense, sweat, and the faint smell of blood. The flicker of crimson candles sent shadows writhing along the walls, transforming stone and mortar into something that appeared alive. Every surface seemed to breathe, the apparatus above vibrating in time with the gasping breaths of the gathered cultists.

Eleanor stood at the centre again, her body reformed and now anointed with symbols painted in a mixture of wine and blood. The runes glowed faintly, their warmth teasing her skin with every beat of her heart. Her body felt alive in ways she had never known, every nerve alight, every breath stoking a fire that burned low and steady in her core.

The dais writhed at the room's far end, a mass of conjoined bodies glistening in the candlelight. The volunteers willingly offered themselves, their limbs and torsos intertwined in endless movement. Skin slid against skin, mouths pressed to trembling flesh, and the air was thick with the sound of their pleasure, a symphony of moans and whispered prayers.

Eleanor’s gaze was drawn to the altar, her breath bated as she watched. The participants moved with hypnotic grace, their bodies forming shifting patterns that seemed to pulse with the energy of the apparatus above. She felt a pull, a magnetic force tugging at her chest, her belly, and her thighs. It was impossible to look away.

Lord Blackwood’s voice echoed through the hall, rich and commanding.

“Tonight, we weave ourselves into the tapestry of unmaking,”

he declared, his dark eyes gleaming.

“Let your desires guide you. Let your bodies and souls merge with the coil’s infinite power.”

At his words, a fresh wave of volunteers approached the dais. They moved slowly, reverently, shedding the last of their garments as they climbed onto the living altar. Hands reached for them, drawing them into the heaving mass. Their moans joined the chorus, harmonizing with the apparatus’s low hum.

Eleanor felt her pulse quicken as she watched. The scene was mesmerizing and unsettling, a delicate dance on the edge of ecstasy and madness. The participants moved with an almost choreographed precision, their bodies arching and bending in perfect synchronicity. Fingers traced patterns on sweat-slick skin, mouths left trails of kisses along trembling spines, and the faint shimmer of galvanic energy lit the air around them.

Her body ignited with heat as the ritual's pull gripped her. The runes on her arms burned brighter, searing against her skin, and she gasped, her breath snagging in her chest. The apparatus thrummed, its coils spitting sparks into the air, a relentless force driving the ritual toward an unstoppable climax. Blackwood turned to Eleanor, his voice low and reverent.

“You are the heart of this ritual, Eleanor. The coil responds to you. Step forward, and let it take what it needs.”

She hesitated, her heart pounding. The pull of the apparatus was stronger now, its energy wrapping around her like invisible hands. Her skin burned with the glow of the runes, and every nerve in her body screamed for release. She felt exposed and vulnerable, yet… she wanted to give herself to it. The pull of it, the lure summoning her, was absolute, and she could not fight it.

James appeared at her side, his presence grounding her. His half-luminous form shimmered in the candlelight, the faint glow of his skin casting soft light on her face. He reached for her hand, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her body. Her knees buckled, but he caught her, his fingers curling around her waist to steady her.

“Eleanor,”

he murmured, his voice rich and resonant.

“You’re ready. Trust me.”

She looked up at him, a gasp escaping her lips at the sight of his glowing, otherworldly eyes, filled with longing and an intensity that made her tremble. She nodded, unable to speak, and he smiled, a slow curve of his lips sending a fresh wave of desire rushing through her.

James led her to the dais, his hand warm and steady on her lower back. The altar pulsed beneath them, a living, breathing mass of flesh. The participants reached for them as they stepped closer, their hands brushing against Eleanor’s thighs, hips, and arms. She shivered at their touch, her skin alight with sensation.

The apparatus loomed above her. It seemed to reach out with invisible tendrils snaking up her spine and slithering under her skin. She felt it in her bones, in her blood, in the very core of her being. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, and she couldn’t resist its pull.

James turned to her, his gaze burning into hers.

“Let it take you,”

he murmured, his voice a low, velvet caress.

“Let yourself feel everything.”

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers, his kiss deep and consuming. She moaned into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pressed herself against him. His hands roamed her body, tracing the glowing runes on her skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

The altar responded, its rhythm quickening as the participants arched and writhed in time with the coil’s hum. Their moans grew louder, a symphony of pleasure that filled the hall. Eleanor felt hands on her, soft and reverent, mouths pressing kisses to her skin as if worshipping her. She panted softly, her body adrift as waves of sensation washed over her.

The climax came in a blinding surge of light. The apparatus screamed, its coils sparking violently as the living altar convulsed. The participants cried out, their bodies quaking as the ritual consumed them. Flesh melded with flesh, forming an intricate tapestry that glowed with an otherworldly light.

The walls of the hall shimmered, revealing glimpses of another realm, shadows twisting and contorting, phantoms reaching out with spectral hands. Eleanor stared in horrified fascination as she saw their faces, their eyes pleading. She felt the altar’s pull, the magnetic force of the apparatus drawing her deeper into the ritual.

James wrapped his arms around her, his touch grounding her even as the world unravelled around them. She clung to him, her body tingling with the force of the energy coursing through her. The altar rose beneath them, tendrils of light wrapping around their bodies, binding them together in a cosmic embrace.

As the last shards of reality fell away, Eleanor let out a cry, her voice joining the chorus of moans and screams. She felt herself slipping, losing all sense of self, yet she couldn’t resist. She gave herself to the tapestry, James, and the coil, surrendering to the storm of pleasure and power.

Excerpt from the journal of Lord Alastair Blackwood

My god, it is glorious to behold. We are creating a new world, or opening a doorway into a new world. Either way, the world will never be the same once this process is completed.

When we began with the subject and Eleanor, I knew we were going deeper than ever. The rituals were more intense and graphic, generating more pain and pleasure than ever before.

Though Eleanor has proven to be more formidable than I first thought, there was no denying how transcendent she looked at the center of the ritual with all that energy flowing through her. Her orgasm shattered her, and the rest of us could feel the waves of it flowing off of her as she screamed her release.

We will continue to go further, deeper. We will break this world, take it, and change it to suit our needs. The world will bow down to us and beg for the heel of my boot on their necks, and I step out into this new world.

A God Among Mortals

The great hall exhaled desire, oppressive heat clinging to Eleanor’s bare skin like the tantalizing touch of an unseen lover. The mingling scents of the hedonistic ritual saturated the air, forming a heady cocktail that invaded her senses. The writhing shapes of shadows teased her eyes with glimpses of indulgence too shameless to resist.

The marble beneath her feet was slick, each step an exercise in balancing against the residue of excess: spilled wine, streaks of sweat, and crimson trails from rituals past. Around her, bodies moved in unrelenting rhythms, tangled in the throes of fleshly worship. Limbs interlocked, fingers dug into yielding flesh, lips sought and devoured hungrily. A symphony of unrepentant desire filled the chamber. The taste of debauchery was sharp and metallic with a hint of honeyed sweetness that lingered on the tongue. Eleanor’s stomach lurched as she passed, her gaze lingering on the glistening, undulating bodies, a forbidden magnetism pulling at her resolve.

Her chest heaved, the carved runes on her skin pulsing faintly with heat that seemed to respond to the charged atmosphere. The altar ahead shimmered with a sheen of offerings past wine, sweat, and the unmistakable remnants of unbridled passion. It beckoned her forward, the energy around it pressing against her like a lover’s insistence, relentless and consuming. Her fingers brushed its edge, trembling at the thought of surrender, her pulse hammering in her ears as fear and desire waged war within her.

And at the heart of it all was James.

He stood in a pool of golden light, a god among mortals. His body radiated an unholy beauty, veins of molten silver threading beneath his skin, pulsing like liquid fire. His every move was a symphony of power and sensuality, a predator’s grace mingling with divine allure. His eyes burned with an intensity that held Eleanor captive, twin flames igniting her from the inside out, stripping away her defences.

Around him, the cultists crawled, desperate and reverent. Some pressed fervent kisses to his thighs, their praising hands stroking the contours of his legs. Others groaned as their fingers traced the glowing lines of his chest and arms, shuddering at the heat radiating from him. Gasps turned to cries as his touch scorched them with unbearable pleasure, leaving them trembling on the floor, their bodies quaking with the aftermath of ecstasy.

Eleanor felt her strength drain, her skin tingling with the electric heat of his nearness. When he reached her, his hand rose, his fingers brushing her jawline with deliberate slowness. The touch was searing, sending sparks racing down her spine, her breath caught between a gasp and a moan.

“Eleanor,”

he murmured, his voice a resonant purr that coiled around her like a silken chain.

“Do you see me now? Do you see what you’ve made of me?”

Her lips parted, but no words came. The sheer force of his presence rendered her mute, her body betraying her resolve as her thighs trembled, anticipation and horror in equal measures filling her body. Every nerve screamed for more, her mind drowning in his magnetic pull.

“You’re… magnificent,”

she finally whispered, her voice barely audible. But even as the words left her lips, doubt clawed at the edges of her mind. This was not the James she had loved, the tender, vulnerable man who had once been hers. This James was something else entirely, a creature of power, hunger, and dominance.

James’s hand slipped lower, tracing the hollow of her throat before gliding to the curve of her collarbone. His touch lingered, his fingers pressing just enough to make her heart race. The air between them crackled as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“You feel it, don’t you?”

he whispered, his breath hot and deliberate.

“The power. The pleasure we could share. The ecstasy I could bring you.”

His lips found hers, demanding and consuming. He tasted of fire and something forbidden, the pressure of his mouth a perfect blend of dominance and seduction. Her hands found his chest, fingers splaying against the molten heat of his skin, and she pressed closer, her body arching into his as his touch roamed lower.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along her jaw, down to her neck, each press of his mouth igniting sparks along her nerves. When his hand finally found the curve of her waist, he pulled her flush against him, his voice a low growl against her skin.

“Eleanor, I could devour you, body and soul. Would you let me?”

Her answer was a soft moan, her resolve crumbling as her fingers tangled in his hair, her body surrendering to his touch.

Before she could fall entirely into him, the sound of slow, deliberate applause shattered the moment. She tore herself from James, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her lips swollen and tingling. Turning, she saw Lord Blackwood emerge from the shadows, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“Magnificent,”

Blackwood said, his voice a smooth drawl that sent a chill down Eleanor’s spine.

“You’ve exceeded my every expectation, James. A god among mortals. A true masterpiece.”

James’s gaze shifted to Blackwood, his expression unreadable.

“This was your design,”

he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“And now, it’s mine.”

Blackwood’s smile faltered but quickly recovered, his arms spreading wide.

“Of course. All of this is yours, my lord. The coil, the altar, the devoted… they exist to serve you.”

Around them, the cultists stirred, their bodies trembling as they began to rise. Some crawled toward James, their hands outstretched as though reaching for salvation. Others turned to each other, their movements slow, their bodies entwining in renewed waves of sensual abandon. The apparatus overhead sparked, its hum growing louder as the energy in the room swelled to an unbearable crescendo.

“Do you feel it?”

Blackwood whispered, stepping closer to Eleanor, his breath brushing her cheek.

“The power that lingers here? The potential? We stand on the brink of something extraordinary, my dear.

Something that will rewrite the rules of existence.”

Eleanor’s gaze snapped back to James, who stood motionless, his glowing eyes locked on her.

Around him, the cultists pressed closer, their hands sliding over his skin, their lips leaving trails of reverence along his chest and arms.

Some knelt at his feet, their bodies arching in silent ecstasy as though the very air around him was enough to undo them.

Her heart ached at the sight.

This was not the man she had loved.

This was something else entirely, something divine and monstrous, overwhelming and irresistible. And yet she couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop the heat that burned within her, the pull that beckoned her toward him.

James reached for her again, his fingers closing around her wrist with an unrelenting grip.

Heat pulsed from his touch, raw and scorching, setting off a chain reaction deep in her veins.

She gasped, the tremor in her body betraying her resolve.

“You brought me back,”

he murmured, his voice like a current of electricity running beneath her skin.

“You gave me this. And now, you’re mine.”

His lips found hers in a kiss that was both devastation and salvation. He devoured Eleanor, claiming her with fierce possession, yet somewhere in that ruthless hunger was an aching tenderness that threatened to undo her entirely. She sank into him, her breath stolen, her thoughts unravelling, her doubts drowned beneath the tidal wave of desire.

Then the agony.

The pendant at her throat burned with sudden, searing intensity, a fire sinking into her chest like molten metal branding her very soul. It wasn’t just pain, it was revelation, transformation, something clawing its way into the deepest part of her.

And the worst part?

She was no longer sure she wanted to stop it.

Excerpt from the diary of Dr. Eleanor Ashcroft

I read my last entry and feel as if I am staring into the abyss of someone else’s madness. My words are foreign, twisted, written by hands that are no longer mine. I am changing. I know it. I feel it. The corruption slithers through my veins just as it did through James, pulling me toward the precipice where he now stands. What awaits us beyond that fall if I reach for him and take his hand?

Oblivion? Or something worse?

Blackwood. His name alone coats my tongue with revulsion. He thinks he can wield James, bend the monstrous power that resurrected him into something he can control. He speaks of domination, conquest, and shaping the world into his image. But he does not see. He does not understand.

Power does not obey.

It consumes.

James may have come back a monster, but Blackwood is something far fouler, a parasite, a man who would sink his teeth into the pulse of destruction and drink deep, never mind the ruin he leaves behind. I will not allow it.

The pendant at my throat throbs, a wicked heartbeat, pulsing in tandem with the terror clawing at my soul. Once, I recoiled from its fire. Now, I find solace in it. The pain steadies me, reminds me that I still exist. It is changing me.

And yet…

No! I will not let it take me. I cannot, I cannot! I refuse to become something twisted beyond recognition. I must fight, for James, for myself.

I must find a way out before the darkness devours us both.