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I guess their guilt doesn’t run red through their veins the way mine does.
Peering out over the grass above the grave, I scan the cemetery for signs of other people. There’s no reason anyone should be traipsing around the King’s Trace Memorial Gardens at midnight in the middle of March.
There’s norealreason formeto be here, either, but that knowledge doesn’t stop me from coming. I can’t rationalize against the eeriness that grips my bones at the thought of missing this anniversary.
All I know is, when I visit my dead brother and commemorate him, it feels like I’ve single-handedly diverted the Apocalypse.
The girl giggles again, and this time it sounds closer. I squint into the darkness, my eyes finally landing on a couple entwined, their silhouettes barely visible in the moonlight.
“Are you sure you want to do this here?” The other voice, a male’s, bounces off the headstones, uncertainty lacing his words. “It’s kinda creepy.”
“This is the only place I can have sex on my dad’s grave, Jace. Stop being a pussy and help me dishonor him.”
Several beats pass of complete silence, and I watch their bodies twist and writhe together, blissfully unaware of a voyeur in their midst. The girl drops to her hands and knees, hiking her skirt up over her pale ass, and the guy positions himself behind her.
A low moan is the only indication of their union, and I find myself hardening beneath my jeans. I pull my hood tighter around my head and rub my palm down over my cock, trying to relieve the ache.
“Oh,fuck, Jace. Yes! Fuck me harder. I want them to hear me in their graves.” She mewls like a cat caught in a sphere of pleasure, and fuck if it isn’t the sweetest sound I’ve ever fucking heard.
I undo the fly of my jeans with shaking hands, keeping my gaze trained on the pair, and yank myself out enough to wrap my palm around the shaft. Pumping it in tune to the sounds spewing from the girl’s mouth and ignoring the guy’s grunts of satisfaction, I can almost imagine it’s me over there, unloading my seed into her until she’s delirious.
Fuck, I need to get laid. It’s been way too long.
But for now, my hand will have to do. I piston my hips harder, sparks shooting up my spine and to my balls at the same time a high-pitched scream pierces the night sky, filling my body with pleasure I’ve never fucking known. Coming on a hiss, I pump myself dry, sticky semen dripping onto my brother’s casket.
Well, shit.
Trying to regulate my breathing, I wipe my hand on the dirt to my side and swipe my free, not-gross hand, across my forehead. Sweat pours down either side of my face from the exertion, and I shiver at the realization that they’re still going at it.
Or, at least, the guy’s got his face buried between her legs, finishing her a second time. I roll my eyes and refocus on my ritual. Reaching into my bag above the grave, I grab the salt and sage. After I light the bundle and toss it on the gold casket, I watch as the flames rage for a moment and then dissipate, kind of the way Murphy lived and died.
How fitting.
I dump the salt in a circle around the sage, repeating our family mantra as I complete the circle.
“Dia thar gach rud.”
God over everything.
Not something the Ivers clan actually lives by, but we still insist on the branding.
God hasn’t existed for us in years.
When I’m satisfied, I peek out over the grave again and see the couple has disappeared. Climbing out, I dust myself off and shoulder my bag, leaving the mess for the groundskeepers. They’ll clean it and claim vandals have once again attacked Murph’s grave, but I’ll know the truth.
His murderer returned, making sure his soul stays dead.
I walk over to the grave the couple fucked in front of, studying the name in the moonlight. Something glimmers, catching my eye, and I bend down, fingering a gold, heart-shaped locket.
That guy must’ve fucked it right off her.
Pocketing the jewelry, I scrub a hand over my chin, an unsettling feeling taking root in my bones at the owner of the tombstone.
Dominic Harrison.
