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“No, I’m erasing the trail he left behind. That’s what Finn’s paying me for.” My voice drops to a whisper, the faces of many nameless girls flashing behind my vision, making my heart stutter in my chest. One girl, in particular, stands out, and my spine aches at the memory of Mel’s broken, beaten form, how she begged me to put her out of her misery after what they’d done.
How I couldn’t grant her even that.
“Then what’s the problem, if you’re doing what they asked?”
I’m not surprised he doesn’t quite get it, considering his involvement with the Irish mob is secondhand and only through me. And further still, no one knows the exact circumstances surrounding Murphy’s death. They don’t know the secrets he took to his grave, the ones that eat me alive at night like worms feasting on dead flesh.
Don’t know how they changed me.
Stained me.
Made me irredeemable.
“I’m not doingexactlywhat they’re paying me to.” I lean more of my body weight into the vehicle, pulling the flash drive out and staring at its tiny plastic shell, dwarfed by my large palm. “And this says someone knows that.”
It says my time is running out.
* * *
I make it to Murphy’s grave in record time, speeding through downtown to reach the outskirts of King’s Trace, the only stretch of land viable to bury the corrupt souls bound to us. His is a monument, an upright, oblong-shaped marble statue with his name and death dates inscribed on a plaque toward the bottom.
Inconspicuous. Scoffing as I inspect the site, I notice a note taped to one end of the stone; it’s folded into a small square and plastered on with silver duct tape, and when I rip it off, a wave of impending doom settles over me, like the rain clouds up above crashing down to earth.
As if they’ve finally gotten their fill and can no longer hold themselves up.
Our family crest, with the mantra “diar thar gach rud” is drawn on the sheet of paper, the words crossed out with dark red ink. Stapled beneath the drawing is a picture of a stack of playing cards, set on fire, burning on top of a wooden table.
My chest tightens, my heart shriveling inside the cavity. It’s a message, although backward and based on a silly superstition, and impossible to ignore. Pocketing the sheet of paper and shoving down the ball of dread that’s risen in my chest, I move around to the back of the headstone.
A giant cross streaks the back of the monument, the same dark red from the sheet of paper. Stepping closer, I squint my eyes, inspecting more closely, and note the brown hues, the unkempt way the lines of the cross bleed onto other parts of the stone.
This isn’t spray-paint or ink.
It’s blood.
And it isn’t your run-of-the-mill vandalism; in fact, most King’s Trace residents know better than to step within six feet of an Ivers tombstone, aware that darkness is contagious. Alluring. An aphrodisiac even the strongest can’t resist.
Panic grips my heart, squeezing it in its fist, and my vision blurs around the edges as I try to remain upright. I reach out, clutching the sharp edge of stone, and stagger forward as a harsh, ear-piercing ringing echoes in my eardrums.
White noise tunnels through me, making itself at home, and I fall to my knees, my palm splitting against the statue. Blood beads in the wound, decorating it the way stars pop up in the night sky, and the ringing continues, increasing in volume, until all I can do is crumple.
It’s a reminder of the souls in Purgatory waiting for my prayers.
One soul, in particular.
Instead of going home and spending my evening playing Scrabble with my mother, I leave the cemetery and haul ass back to the cottage. I park behind the house, my hands shaking as I toss the sheet of paper on top of the pile of incinerated items, left haphazardly in the fire pit.
Because I’ve been distracted by Juliet, enticed by her brattiness and defiant beauty the way ancient Greek sailors found destruction at the hands of sirens.
She’s a disturbance, one I need to fuck out of my system so I can refocus on my greater purpose. Unlocking the back door and pushing it into the wall, making the knickknacks on the bookshelf across the room clatter, I reach up and tug on her locket, still secure around my neck, imagining the ways I might use it to mark her.
Brand her with my violent love.
Destroy her, steal her soul for myself, as if the light in hers might drive out the darkness in mine.
I move to the kitchen sink, fumbling for the hot water knob, and watch as it fills the stainless steel tub. Steam rises in the air in front of me, and I plunge my hands inside, wincing against the sharp burn, scrubbing my fingernails against the veiny flesh of each palm. Wishing I could forget the memory of her soft, porcelain skin, and how good it felt to touch her.
Trying to erase my sins from where they’ve embedded themselves into me. A ritual that never seems to work correctly.
