Stars dance before my eyes, my head lolling like a balloon on a string. Whatever they injected me with before with is still coursing through my blood; my body feels heavy, my tongue bitter.
“Downstairs. Now.” He grabs a fistful of my hair as we descend, his gun shoved into my back, and I wonder what Killroy pays him, this fucking Dollar Store gangster. I’m about to inquire, but then we reach the ground floor and I hear it again—the grating sound of Brendan’s voice, like some kind of motivational speaker preparing to walk on hot coals. I don’t hear the party crowd, but I can feel them; the energy is buzzing with anticipation. Excitement.
Bloodlust.
“Keep walking, whore.” Dollar Store shoves me into the ballroom, which since my last twirl around the place has been transformed from dance hall to… whatever the fuck this is.
It’s standing room only, stuffed to the gills with all the fancy party people. At least, I assume it’s them. Hard to tell for sure. They’re all wearing hooded, cobalt-blue robes, jostling to get a look at whatever’s going on up front. The band has left the stage, but there’s Brendan, dressed in a gold robe that looks like a fucking Snuggie, pacing around with a microphone. When he sees us hovering at the back, he stops. Smiles. Sweeps his arm toward me, and every hooded head swivels to stare.
Suddenly, I feel like a piece of raw steak tossed to rabid dogs.
“There she is, my friends!” Brendan croons. “The fairest of them all. Thefeistiest.”
Inside me, a potent stew simmers: rage, disgust, hatred. I clench my teeth and keep it locked up. I need this fuel. This fire.
“Bring her to me,” he commands.
I’m going to eviscerate you,you absolute cum stain.
The crowd parts, and Dollar Store Gangster marches me down the aisle, giving me my first clear view of the stage.
To Brendan’s left, three onyx statues loom, seven feet tall with gleaming claws and whiplike tails, their mouths stretched in silent screams, their flesh bloodied by a cruel blade. Only… they’re not statues. They’re demons.
Mydemons, frozen in eternal torment.
Beneath their feet, the stage has been painted with three overlapping circles outlined in complex, ancient symbols.
Devil’s traps.
Everything inside me revolts, my heart shattering. Merrick told me that a Devil’s trap is the worst kind of torture for a demon. Their physical forms are paralyzed, but they can still hear, see, and feel everything. Their mind still works. So do their nerves.
Don’t panic. Donotfucking panic.
Tears blur my vision, but I force myself to remain clam. Dragging my gaze from the demons, I take in the specter on the other side of the platform—three high-backed, ornately-carved wooden chairs that look more like medieval torture devices than seating arrangements. Two of them are occupied. Women, gagged and bound, with swollen faces and blood-stained dresses.
My sisters.
“No!” I cry out. “Let them go! They have nothing to do with this! They don’t even?—”
A backhand to the mouth silences my protests. My world tips sideways as I’m hauled up by the waist and tossed unceremoniously onto the platform at Brendan’s feet.
“Esteemed brethren of the Wielders of the Righteous Flame,” Brendan booms. “It is my honor and sacred duty to present the last of the Bonnivarde Witches.” He sweeps his arm over me like he’s revealing a car the lucky contestants have just won. “Let the purification ritual begin.”
There’s no cheering and clapping. No whistling. Only their vile taunts.
Witches!
Whores!
Heathens!
Tainted!
It’s this one that hurts the most.Tainted. How can they even say that? The only reason I have magic in my blood is that their ancestors murdered one of mine—a fucking teenage girl—in a desperate ploy to claim that same “tainted” magic for themselves.
And now, it looks like history is about to repeat itself.
Realizations crash through my head, all the pieces finally clicking into place.
