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‘Believers of the Blood - Meeting Saturday 7 PM’
At least people are likely to show up later today. It’s a small comfort.
This place stands alone, surrounded by corn and woods, a beacon of hope.
Only one empty car sits in the lot. I limp around to the front steps, reaching the doors only to find them locked.
A heavy breath empties my lungs, and new tears trickle down my cheeks.
Beyond the church, the cemetery stretches out in perfect lines. Morning dew has turned to a wispy fog curling low to the ground, letting only the tallest headstones peek through. Intricate mausoleums line the back row and I wonder who is so lucky to rest in them for eternity.
Where will Asher be laid to rest? No one else even knows he’s gone.
Movement flickers through the blue haze—a man and a woman on the far side of the cemetery near the woods. They’re nearly all skin, their bodies moving in a way I can’t decipher. All I know is I need to talk to someone.
Soreness has set into my legs so deeply that I almost can’t feel them. I’m floating, until gravity hits just right and my knees buckle, bringing me to the cold, damp ground. My nightgown already clings to my sweaty body, now made worse with this outrageous humidity.
My limbs shake, head hanging low with my mess of hair hiding my face. I want to scream, but the sound won’t come. My life has been devoured in the course of one night, and I’m not worth an ounce of the trouble.
The adrenaline has worn off. Exhaustion has set in. My eyelids are too heavy as I fall over in the grass. A sob escapes before I can force it back down my throat.
A mausoleum door rattles and my head lifts. It’s not a ghost trying to escape, but a man trying to get in, dressed in all black, like he came for a funeral. Only his blonde hair shows any light in him as it falls against his shoulders.
I try to speak, but my throat is dust, mocked by the flow of tears on my face. Every bit of strength I have left is used to push myself to stand.
The man turns to look at me like I’m the last person he wants to see. I’ve clearly ruined something. His stillness is terrifying, all that composure set inside a face too beautiful for the horror of it.
“Help me,” I whisper, reaching for him with the only shred of hope I have left.
My words have no effect.
Pain twists his features as if I’ve struck him. Then he raises his arm and points a gun directly at my face.
CHAPTER 3
EDWIN
Rhythmic bass pounds through my chest, an artificial pulse for a heart that’s been rotting for months. The air is thick with sex, drawing a large crowd that doubles the population of our lovely little town. These are the kinds of people desperate to forget themselves for a night. Luxury liquor, minimal clothing. But nothing beats crossing the threshold and leaving reality at the door.
As far as the outside world is concerned, the town of Shadow Bluff, Iowa doesn’t exist. Not on Google. Not on a map. Any trace of it online is wiped clean. The Order has spent generations making sure it can only be found by invitation, accident, or curse.
And yet here we are, packed to maximum capacity. Word of mouth travels fast when a place promises indulgence without witnesses.
I sit on a tufted leather couch, a crystal tumbler dangling from my fingers. Bourbon turns in lazy amber circles, catching fragments of green and blue light.
A low table wraps around the lit platform, cluttered with bottles and glassware. Each couch claims its own stretch of it, invisible lines drawn between strangers pretending not to look at each other.
The club is a visual orgasm. But my eyes are dead in their sockets.
These people and their constant chatter, drunk on their own importance, unaware that I’m the reason any of this exists. That they owe their pleasure, their very gathering, to me.
I drain my glass, needing that burn in my throat to drag me out of this dismal existence. My hand trembles on the way down. A crack in the facade.
The bottle of Stagg Jr. sits in front of me. I pour myself another glass and look across at the couch facing me. A couple devours each other, hardly coming up for air. When they do, the woman grabs the man’s chin and slurs sweet nothings to him before shoving her tongue into his mouth.
My lip curls, but I continue to stare.
God, I love to torture myself.
