Page 57 of Porcelain Grave

The air in the woods is thick and damp, smelling of rotting pine and wet earth. I’m standing perfectly still, a shadow among shadows, a few yards away from a dilapidated cabin that looks like it’s one strong breeze away from collapsing into the dirt.

Then I hear him.

The sound of frantic, wheezing breath and the clumsy thud of boots hitting mud. He bursts through the treeline, stumbling out of the brush, running for his fucking life from Rhys. He’s a pathetic sight—an old, bloated sack of a man with a beer belly so massive it looks like it’s trying to escape his strained trousers. He’s gasping, his face a mottled purple, lungs screaming for air that won't come fast enough.

He doesn't see me until he's practically on top of me. He skids to a halt, his boots sliding in the muck, and he recoils so violently that he loses his balance and lands hard on his fat arse with a wet thwack.

I look down at him, my expression hidden, but I know I’m smiling. I’m wearing a tight, black velvet dress that hugs every curve, the hem ending mid-thigh to give me room to move, paired with heavy combat boots that are already splattered with mud. Over it all, the mask. A porcelain nightmare with a frozen, vacant stare, the eyes and the mouth glowing with a sinister, ice-blue light that cuts through the gloom of the forest.

Behind him, Rhys emerges from the trees. He isn't even winded. He’s dressed in a sharp, black tactical coat and dark trousers, looking every bit the predatory aristocrat. His mask is a haunting contrast to mine—white porcelain streaked with permanent, crystalline blue tears that look like they’re frozen in time. In his hand, he holds his gun, the matte black metal absorbing what little light is left in the sky.

I shift my weight, the heavy, two-sided axe in my grip feeling like an extension of my own arm. The blade glints, hungry for a taste.

The man looks from me to Rhys, his eyes wide with a primal, shaking terror. He lets out a whimpering sound, his voice a cracked whisper.

"It... it's the same two again..." he stammers, his chest heaving. "The porcelain doll woman... and the man with the blue tears..."

I tilt my head, the blue glow of my mask casting eerie shadows across his terrified face. I glance back at Rhys, a playful, psychotic little thrill running down my spine.

"Oh, look at that, my love," I purr, my voice sounding distorted and otherworldly behind the mask. "Did we turn into urban folklore? We're fucking legends, Rhys."

Rhys doesn't even look at me, his gaze locked on the prey. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble. "Better to be a legend than a corpse, love. Though for this piece of shit, the two are about to become one and the same."

The man begins to shake violently, his hands fluttering in the air. "Why?! Why do you want to kill me? I didn't do anything wrong! I'm a good man!"

Rhys takes a slow, deliberate step forward, the gun held steady. "A good man? That's a fucking laugh. Let's talk about Marguerite Hansburg. Let's talk about how you helped trap her in Thomas Sorrell's basement and tore her world apart while you took whatever you wanted from her."

The man goes instantly still. The color drains from his face, leaving him a ghostly, sickly grey. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically.

"I... I regretted it!" he wails, his voice rising into a pathetic screech. "I'm a changed man! I've spent years repenting! I confessed to a priest, I said my Hail Marys every single night until God forgave me! I'm saved!"

With trembling fingers, he reaches into his shirt and pulls out a small, silver cross necklace, clutching it to his chest as if the piece of metal could shield him from the monsters standing before him. "God has forgiven me! Please! I'm a new man!"

I let out a sharp, cold laugh that echoes through the trees. I step closer, the head of my axe grazing the mud.

"God might have forgiven you, you slimy cunt," I hiss, leaning down so the glowing blue eyes of my mask are inches from his. "But we aren't God. And we don't give a flying fuck about your prayers."

Rhys doesn't waste another word. He steps forward and kicks the man squarely in the face, the sound of a breaking nose echoing through the woods. As the man screams, clutching his face, Rhys pins his arm down with a heavy boot, grinding it into the dirt.

"My turn," I whisper.

I swing the axe with a guttural scream of pure, unadulterated rage. The blade bites deep into his thigh, slicing through the fat and muscle with a sickening squelch. He lets out a blood-curdling shriek, a sound of absolute agony that makes the birds scatter from the trees.

"Please! Stop! Forgive me!" he bellows, blood spraying across the dead leaves.

I don't stop. I can't stop. The darkness in me is screaming for more. I bring the axe down again, this time hacking into his shoulder, the blade lodging in the bone with a dull thud. He's sobbing now, a pathetic, wet sound, begging for a mercy that doesn't exist in our world.

Rhys watches with a look of possessive pride, his finger tightening on the trigger. He doesn't shoot him dead—not yet. He wants him to feel every second of the descent.

I rip the axe out of his shoulder with a wet pop and swing it in a wide, brutal arc. The blade catches him across the stomach, slicing open his beer belly like a piece of overripe fruit. His intestines spill out onto the cold mud, steaming in the night air. He looks down at his own insides, his screams turning into a gurgling, wet choke.

"Look at you," I sneer, stepping on his chest to pin him down, feeling his ribs crack under my boot. "Not so holy now, are you?"

As he gasps for one last breath, his eyes rolling back in his head, Rhys leans down. He presses the muzzle of the gun directly against the man's open mouth.

"Tell the priest we said hello," Rhys whispers.

BANG.