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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

MERCY

I lie in my own bed that night, in the clean sheets, and I consider what Ambrose told me.

He assumes I’m sleeping, I’m sure—he helped me wash off the blood, then tucked me into bed, his goodnight kiss deep and treacherous, as if he might start devouring me again. But he didn’t. Only whispered, “Try to sleep,” before he slipped out of the room.

I can’t sleep, though. I listen to the creaks of the house, the moans of the wind across the flatlands. I replay what we did, and I run my hands over my body, shuddering at my own touch. I imagine it belongs to Ambrose.

Just say the word.

For the first time in my life, I feel something like power. It feels strange, like a hand-me-down dress, but I could get used to it.

I think about the day I swore myself to Reverend Gunner, that I’d be his wife and helpmeet. And I think about that night, when I was terrified and asked him to stop because it hurt, and he didn’t. I think about how he slapped my face for crying and told me I needed to behave because my disobedience was displeasing to God.

He said the same thing when I told him I didn’t want to sleep with Pastor Sullivan. And how I did it anyway, trying to numb myself as Pastor Sullivan panted above me. I think about the shame I felt as I stretched out on the bed, my eyes fixed on the ceiling.

For weeks afterward, anytime Reverend Gunner touched me, it was like he was dragging a knife over my skin.

Ambrose actually did draw a knife over my skin, but when he touches me, it feels like coming home. I want to beg him to do things that would turn my stomach if Reverend Gunner did them. I want to beg him to do far worse things, too.

The difference, I think, is the power. In the end, Ambrose gifts it to me.

Footsteps echo outside my door, followed by a soft knock. “Mercy?”

“Ambrose?” I sit up, and he steps into the room, warm soft light spilling in from the hallway. “What’s wrong?”

“I was going to ask the same of you.” I can just barely make out his silhouette in the darkness. “You’re not sleeping.” He moves closer to me, and his eyes shine in the darkness, turning to illuminated glass. “You feel—upset. Confused.”

Something shudders through me. “How’d you know that?”

“Same reason I can hunt humans so easily.” He takes another step closer and his eyes are normal again. “I hear your heartbeat, your breath. I can smell your emotions.”

He kneels down in front of me, and I feel it again, that strange surge of power. For a reason I don’t fully understand, I touch the top of his head, the way he touched mine back on the church campus. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Ambrose gazes up at me. “You can leave anytime you want.”

“I don’t want to leave.” My vehemence surprises me. “I want?— ”

I cut my words off. What I want to say is too dangerous. The worst kind of sin.

But Ambrose knows anyway. His eyes glitter, and he smiles that cruel killer’s grin, and he licks his lips like he’s starving. “Just say the word, Mercy.”

I push my fingers through his hair, staring down at him. “I’m afraid. But you knew that already.”

He rises up enough to kiss me, and this time, there’s no taste of blood. “Yeah,” he murmurs into my ear. “Yeah, I did.”

Then he stands, and our positions are flipped, me gazing up at him. But I still feel that power. He may as well be kneeling. He looks down at me as if he is.

I lean forward and press my cheek against his belly, my arms wrapped around his thighs. He strokes my hair.

“I want you to do it,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. I practically have to spit the words out, but now that I’ve said them I feel lighter. I let out a long brush of air and bury my nose in Ambrose’s shirt, breathing in his scent. “I want you to kill them.”

Ambrose goes still, his hand resting on the top of my head. But I can feel the hard ridge of his cock where I couldn’t before.

And my own sex pulses.

“Names,” he says.

I take a deep, shivering breath. This will make it real, won’t it? As real as his hand combing over my hair. As real as the power he cracked open inside me.

But I still can’t quite bring myself to say their names. So I kiss him. I kiss his belly, and then I kiss a little lower, worshipping him through the fabric of his pants, trying to conjure up the strength to wield my power.

“I want you to kill them,” I whisper, my rage surging up in me, as hot and terrifying as my lust. I think I’m trying to convince myself .

“Tell me their fucking names, Mercy.” Ambrose tightens his grip on my hair. “Tell me who you want me to kill.”

I nuzzle against his erection. I don’t know why, but it soothes me, that reassuring hardness. “There are only two,” I whisper, lifting one shaking hand to undo Ambrose’s zipper. He grunts softly, presses his hand more firmly against my head.

“I want to hear you say their names.”

My heart feels like a hummingbird. “Reverend Gunner.”

“Who else?” This time, he tugs hard on my hair so I have to look up at him, at the twisted desire on his face as I pull out his cock. He bats it gently against my cheek.

“Pastor Sullivan.”

And like that, I’ve condemned them to death, and I’m free. My heart feels like it’s going to erupt out of my chest. Ambrose’s cock is a rod of fire against my face.

He smiles. “Consider it done, humanita.”

My only response is to take him into my mouth.

It’s an act of worship, not debasement. I draw him over my tongue, pulling him as deep into my mouth as I possibly can. For a moment, I just hold him there, my eyes watering as he strokes my hair. Then I pull my head back, dragging my tongue along the underside of his cock until I reach his cockhead, which I swirl and suck, lapping up the salt of his precum. Ambrose sighs, his fingers braiding through my hair. But he holds still and lets me worship him.

I bob up and down his length, fucking him with my mouth. At the same time, I grind my pussy down onto the mattress, desperate to find pressure on my clit.

“How do you want me to do it?” Ambrose asks, his voice ragged.

I release him with a pop and look up at him, numb to the horror of what I’ve done. He keeps stroking my hair, his touch shockingly gentle.

“However you want,” I whisper .

He smiles, and I kiss his cockhead like a lollipop, swirling my tongue around his hot flesh. “Tell me what you’d do,” I whisper. “Like you did before.”

I swallow him again, and Ambrose groans, dark and throaty. His fingers tighten slightly against my head.

“I’d have to get them alone first,” he rasps. “Out of the compound. Down by the Concho, maybe.”

I moan at that, rocking my hips against the mattress.

“You like that idea, do you, humanita?”

Ambrose pushes my hair away from my face as I suck him more fervently. Worship him more fervently. Just for a few seconds. Then I release him and stroke his wet shaft as I say, “It’s where I was baptized.”

“Mmm. I think you need a new baptism.” Ambrose pushes my hair away from my face, and I lick down his length and then pull one of his testicles into my mouth, still stroking him. He groans. “I think I need to baptize you.”

I can’t even imagine what depravity his idea of a baptism would be. But still, I look up at him again. “I want that.”

“Finish me with your mouth,” Ambrose orders. “And I’ll baptize you into a new church.”

“Tell me what you’d do to them,” I counter.

Ambrose’s eyes flash, and he grabs his cock from me and bats it against my lips with firm hard slaps until I open up for him.

“You’ll get them to the river for me,” he says, rolling his hips against my face—gently, but still with enough force to remind me that he is the god and I am the worshipper. I swallow him as best I can, wrapping my arms around his legs to brace myself. “I’ll be waiting for them with my long-range rifle.” He groans. “Then I’ll hunt them, one after the other. I’ll wound them. Let them suffer in the heat.”

His thrusts grow sharper, but I match their speed and he stills, letting me take over. Salt blooms on my tongue .

Ambrose grabs onto my hair, his words punctuated by sharp breaths. “Once I’ve got them where I want them, we’ll track their blood trails together, you and I.”

I moan, knowing I’m condemning myself to hell but not caring because hell is better than Heaven ever could be. My clit burns—the pressure of the mattress isn’t enough, but I’m afraid to let go of Ambrose’s legs to touch myself.

“I’ll gut them,” he rasps, thrusting his cock over my tongue. “Field dress them. Then I’ll cook you a god damn wedding fea?—”

The word wedding sears through me, but only for a second, because Ambrose shoves his full length into my mouth and releases his seed with a roar. It shoots down my throat, making it easy to swallow, and I keep sucking on him until he wrenches himself away. He stares down at me as he tucks himself back into his pants, his face flushed and his chest heaving.

“Strip for me,” he says.

I want to ask him what he was going to say, about a wedding—but, in this moment, he seems more demon than man. I would also rather die than disobey him.

I fumble with my sleeping clothes, dragging the shirt over my head, yanking down the boxers. Ambrose just watches me, his eyes shining in the dark.

“Lay back,” he says when I’m naked. “Show me your cunt.”

I do, pushing my legs wide, my breath shallow. Ambrose falls to his knees and attacks me with his mouth, plunging his tongue up inside my body. I shriek and lift my hips to greet him. He pushes me down and kisses my sex as if he were kissing my mouth. And he keeps doing it, unleashing an unrelenting onslaught of pleasure.

I moan, jerking up toward him, thighs trembling, orgasm surging?—

But then, just as I’m about to come, Ambrose pulls away.

“Get on the floor,” he orders .

“Why?” I can barely get the word out. It’s like the pleasure is shredding me to ribbons.

Ambrose tilts his head, and his eyes turn black again. “So I can baptize you, Mercy Hendricks.” He reaches behind him, into his back pocket, and pulls out the same slim switchblade he used on me in the cemetery.

“With what?” I whisper. Even though I know.

The blade flashes out, as bright as starlight.

“With my blood, Mercy. I’m not letting you leave this house until I’ve bathed you in my fucking blood.”