Page 49

One minute, I’m ready to give June a little taste of what I plan to do to her once we reunite, and the next, all I see is black smoke and the familiar smell of sulfur. The smell of demons.

I’m shirtless, shoeless, Bibleless, and rosaryless, but fuck if I’m not going to adjust to whatever the Hell is happening. The smoke starts to dissipate around me, and I’m immediately hit by the chill under my feet. Cold, wet stone, and the smell of damp moss. I know where I am before I see it.

The burned convent.

As the black smoke falls around me, I find myself standing in the center of a massive, painted sigil on the stone floor. It isn’t the typical, rudimentary upside down pentagram. It’s . . . more. It’s advanced. Sharp, jagged lines fused with swirling symbols, four-pointed stars, interlocked triangles—so much my eyes can’t take it all in at once. Lit red candles sit on the circumference of the circle, wax dripping down and spilling through the lines, ignoring gravity all together. But what’s more daunting than the clear dismissal of physics are the fifteen or so hooded figures all standing around the circle.

Each figure is shrouded in a long black cloak—typical, yes, but on their faces are masks similar to that of the imps I’ve faced in the time since I’ve been in Belmouth. Horrifying, unnatural, cherub-like faces with big blue eyes and sculpted-on blond curls stare back at me and I can’t help but chuckle as I face them all.

“So, the imps were yours, huh, Valac?”

I slowly spin, trying to pin which one the leader could be—which one the demon is hiding behind. If my hunch is right, it’s Daren. And as I told June earlier, I will get such sweet satisfaction in ending his life and sending the demon within him back to oblivion. I try to clock any differences in attire, any sign that shows one of these babies might truly be el jefe .

But, there’s nothing.

They are all dressed the same, staring at me with those bright, dead eyes.

“This is the game you wanna play?” I open my arms, taking a deep breath. “All right,” I grunt, steeling myself. “Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict—”

“Shut him up,” a voice says behind one of the masks.

But I don’t stop, even as steps scurry toward me. “Be our safeguard against the wickedness”—the first pair of hands grab for me, and I blindly swing, punching a cultist in its baby face —“and snares of the devil, may God restrain him, we humbly pray.”

Another pair of arms, and I’m spinning out the way, yanking on fabric as I go. One of the bodies trips and the other clumsily falls over their taut cloak. As expected, these are just townsfolk coerced into something dark. Something promising. If they’re allowing themselves to be led by filth like Daren, maybe I worried for nothing. “And do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to Hell and with him those other wicked spirits.” Thefools finally stop coming at me one at a time and rush me together. Four bodies collide with mine as I crash to the floor, hard. I feel scraps on my shoulder blades and they drag me against the stone, but I don’t let up. If I can only finish the prayer—“Who wander through the world for the ruin of souls! Amen.”

The bodies stop. All is silent.

And then, a cackle.

The hands around me suddenly melt, flesh oozing onto my skin like the wax from the red candles. “What the fuck?” I yell as the cloaks quickly deflate, more of that wax melting onto my skin, hardening all too quickly.

Suddenly, it’s not wax at all but more like cement.

A husky yet booming voice reverberates through the convent. “Father Marcelo, exorcist of the church—I must thank you. The prayer ofMichael is always one of my favorites.”

Fuck, this is bad. I can’t move my arms or legs. They’re plastered to the stone below me. New shadowy figures emerge from the darkness in the corners. More cloaks, but now the cultists don’t hide their faces behind plastic masks—instead they’re painted stark white with red haphazardly dragged over their eyes.

“My favorite part,” says the voice again, his voice morphing into something recognizable—losing the rasp and shifting into something almost human. “Is when you little priests say, ‘Thrust Satan down to Hell and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.’” He cackles again. “Don’t you know, my dear boy? That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

One of the cloaked figures walks up to me and just as they breach the circle, all the candles extinguish, bathing us in pure darkness.

I can’t see the person’s face, but someone grabs hold of my hair, yanking my head up.

“Now, I’ve been planning exactly what I want to do to you, and I just had the most wonderful idea,” he coos. The hard wax pinning me down feels like it’s ripping at my skin the more the figure pulls me, like my limbs are preparing themselves to be torn away.

“Any guesses?” he teases.

But I don’t give the fucker any satisfaction.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,” I spew, and for a moment, I hear the sizzling of flesh, smell the burning of skin.

The figure yanks my scalp again. “That’s right. Your father. I think it’s time we paid an homage to him, whaddya say? Your mother did such an excellent job filling the role, it’ll be hard to fill her shoes—but I think you’ve got it.”

My blood runs cold at the mention of my mother, memories of her lifeless body on my kitchen floor, limbs strung out to mimic the cross, her blood everywhere.

Let him go! Take me, she said.

“Let him go!” the demon mimics. “Take me!” The figure pats my chest before finally releasing my hair and standing straight. “Oh, honey. I’ll never let you go.”

It all happens way too fast. The faceless cloaked figure lets me go and the hardened wax around me quickly heats, melting onto me like a faux layer of armor, red and bright as it coats me in a burning hot casket of a second skin.

The new, real cultist figures circling me step in closer, blurring my vision in a flurry of darkness as hands grab at me everywhere. I feel hot, sharp slashes against my arms, my chest, and then the hands wrap around me, lifting me from the floor and raising me up high.

“What are you doing?” I grunt out.

A hand jabs into my ribs hard. “Shut up!” This voice . . . it’s different from the one before. It’s gruff and harsh, and just a little bit slurred.

Daren.