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“That is Father Edwards,” Alistair told me, leaving my side to stroll inside the cold room and circle the priest like an animal that had cornered its prey. “Let’s just say he is not a very godly man. He prefers young, virile altar boys. Isn’t that right, Father Edwards?”
Father Edwards halted his struggling, staring squarely at Alistair when he spat, “I was cleared of all charges—”
“By your own investigators, yes, but all it took was a little snooping to find your stash of photos.” Alistair sounded so cold and clinical—it was kind of sexy. “In your pillow was the best place you could think of? Really?”
“You are mad,” Father Edwards said.
Gareth let go of my hand, turning to a metal cart of some sort, and when I drew my gaze away from the priest to see what he’d picked up, I saw a shiny new knife, its silver blade practically the size of my forearm.
Oh. Now I understood.
I was measured in taking the knife from him, darting my gaze back to the priest. He’d finally looked at me, realized Alistair wasn’t the top threat here. I was, because he was my present.
“He’s yours to do whatever you want to,” Alistair spoke, stepping out of the cold room as he moved toward me. “Kill him quickly, make it last, do whatever you wish. Make him your living canvas, Brianna. I want to see you shine.”
Rick gestured to Alistair and added, “What he said.”
Gareth shrugged and crossed his arms, leaning on the wall near the metal door. “I just want to see you kill.” He smirked at that, his glower gone.
They knew I would never kill an innocent. What happened to Erin had bugged me to no end—death didn’t affect me, but when it came for people who didn’t deserve it… well, some people would say life wasn’t fair. Being here now, with these three who were more than happy to bring forth my darkness and feed it the lives of those who didn’t deserve to go on living, it was more than I could’ve ever asked for.
“You’re all insane,” Father Edwards hissed. “May God have mercy on your souls.”
Gareth, Rick, and Alistair were mine, beasts and all. No more denying who I was—or, rather, what I was.
I took a step forward, flicking my gaze between the knife and the priest. My voice came out near unrecognizable when I told him, “You’re assuming we have souls, and that we want mercy. I think, given the fact you’re tied up and I have this knife, I should be saying that to you.”
Walking inside the cold room, I didn’t shiver. I stopped only when I stood directly before the priest. My heart beat wildly for a whole different reason now, and I felt myself start to grin when I told him, “May God have mercy on your soul, because you’ll find none here.”
And then I got to work while my men watched. It was messy, bloody, biblical in every way, and if I may say so myself, it was a work of art.
