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After her death, I naturally transitioned into the leadership role, being the second-born and next in line. A title I neither revered nor wanted, responsibility forcing me to take command to ensure my younger sisters’ safety.
I shook my head, releasing the useless emotions and past regrets. Grabbing a thin knife from my boot, I nicked a tiny incision at the base of my wrist, red droplets staining the surface of Stern’s engraved name.
The sarcophagus released an audible groan, descending into the labyrinth of the deceased. I hit the throttle, darkness swallowing the illumination of my headlights as I navigated sharp corners from protruding crypts.
There was a whole underground to Junction City, including numerous exits and entries, depending on which service you were searching for. The main bulk were owned by Ludus Maximus, their base directly below the city centre.
The catacombs were secluded within the surrounding mountain range, too far to be considered useful or of any relative importance. It inadvertently became the perfect escape, the ideal safe-house for our return.
I parked in our makeshift garage, hardly able to find a free spot amid the various motorbikes that Emerson had stolen. She’d kill me if I scratched another one of her babies.
Slipping through a dark archway, I ascended steep stairs to push through the cold, iron door, artificial light blinding my entrance into the Temple. Our temporary haven.
We were situated underneath the most influential house of worship in Junction City, Variant Sanctorum, accompanied by the allegiance and support from the Head Saint (not that he had much choice, unless he truly wanted to test his faith and the strength of his god’s will).
Although we were surrounded by ruin and decaying flesh, our abode was refurbished. Basic, simple—much to Spencer’s disgust—but liveable.
The Temple consisted of one large, open area. An exposed kitchen lined the entire left wing, a cheap couch dominated the right and rubber mats lined the floor in the centre: our training grounds. This was our own mausoleum for the living.
After we realised the difficulty of transporting anything into these depths, we quickly forfeited on frivolous pieces, surviving on the bare essentials. We didn’t plan on staying long.
I rubbed a hand over my face as the dreaded church organs for morning worship vibrated through the stone walls, the dull tone ringing in my ears. As I entered, the smell of fresh caffeine aroused my exhausted senses.
“Where have you been all night?” Spencer asked. I was so far gone, I hadn’t noticed she was already in the kitchen. She wore a thin nightgown like mine. Who was I kidding? The flimsy piece of silkwasmine.
“Chasing new leads, sourcing informants,” I said, words mumbled and hardly coherent.
“How was your first meeting with the psychopath?”
Straight to it then.
My eyes were slits as I poured a cup of coffee, blatantly ignoring her. She knew full well I was not equipped to dealing with her bright, sunrise enthusiasm.
“Is he as crazy as the rumours say? Or are they all exaggerated?”
I slumped onto a stool at the island bench, gulping down a generous mouthful to awaken me to the land of the living. “You bored? It’s too early for your shit, Spence.”
“What shit?” A soft, melodic voice interrupted from behind. Emerson occupied the stool next to me, swiping Spencer’s coffee and downing half the mug. She was in a rugged, frayed men’s tee that came down to her mid-thighs, her shining blonde lion’s mane sticking out in all directions.
As Spencer was clean cut and immaculate, Emerson was wild and rough around the edges. She was the baby of the family, easily deceiving with her petite stature and angelic face. Sure, she could play the demure innocent when needed—until you pushed through to her core and found a constant, raging fire ignited within, stoked and fed with endless passion.
We all had this, unsure whether it was forged through nature or nurture. Our previous traumas had ultimately altered the way we processed this innate passion.
Mine was skin deep, my ability never letting the blaze be buried further than that. Except I had to be cautious the flames didn’t rage out of control, as other’s emotions were constantly being added alongside my own.
Spencer, the third-born, displayed her fire in plain sight, her nature unpredictable, chaotic and extremely emotional.
Emerson’s, however, was suppressed under layers of organs, bones and sinew—plus anything else she could find to throw on top. Difficult to penetrate and raise to the surface. But when it did, when that invisible barrier snapped, you’d better run for cover while you watched the beautiful catastrophe unfold.
Spencer leant over the island bench, giving us a clear view of her perfect breasts. A silver chain shimmered from her neck, lined with countless clear stones.
“Are those diamonds?” I asked.
She twirled the necklace using a delicate finger, her porcelain teeth shining into a feral smile. My sister was a bombshell, flawlessly proportioned, the epitome of female perfection with a particular predilection for all things expensive.
Emerson huffed into her mug. “Which poor sod did you steal that off?”
“Who said I had to steal it? He gave this to me.”
