by KV Rose
I don’t say anything, just nod in the dark.
“We’re going this way,” Ezra says, opposite me. I don’t know where this way is, but okay.
I keep going, running my hand over the rough surface. There aren’t any mountains in the piedmont region of North Carolina, so I’m not so sure this is a fucking cave at all. If it is, it can’t be very big. What’s it carved into? The side of a fucking hill?
I’ve got the folded index card Lucifer gave me in my back pocket and I think about not using what’s inside. I don’t technically have to. There are no hard and fast rules here. Unlike Sacrificium, the ritual is the time spent without food, alone, secluded.
The lessons learned don’t come from chanting archaic phrases and kneeling at an altar. They come from what meditation is supposed to teach people: how to look inside and not run the fuck away. This is just a more extreme form of meditation.
And like all good extremes, drugs are a jumping off point.
I walk for what feels like forever, but in the endless darkness, five fucking minutes could feel like forever. All this time away from Ella…it feels like forever, too.
I start to think that maybe I’ve been wrong; about Lucifer locking Sid away because he’s a controlling dick. About her unhappiness at her new life being entirely his fault. It isn’t really his fault at all.
It’s the 6’s, sure, but he’s paranoid because he loves her. He doesn’t want anything to happen to her. That’s an excuse all tormentors give in regard to their victim, but it doesn’t really make it any less valid.
Or maybe that’s just what I want to believe, because I’m feeling insanely overprotective of Ella Christian right now and I want to get out of this fucking cave and run home to her.
Fuck her mom. Fuck Connor. Fuck The Ark. She doesn’t need that shit. Connor is, objectively speaking, probably a nice guy. But Ella doesn’t need a nice guy.
She needs someone like me.
A month has passed since I gave her most of my secrets, and she’s still here, isn’t she? She needs me and I need her.
A month, and no more calls to Father Tomas. A month, and she’s not scared of me even though I’ve given her every possible reason to be.
When I’m nearly shivering from the cold, I start to see a little light ahead. It’s a glow of sorts, yellow and muted, but it’s enough that I can see this isn’t a cave at all.
I stop walking, glancing around.
The floor is brick, not dirt. I should’ve figured that shit out myself, but I was so eager to get my hands unbound that I didn’t pay attention. The walls are rough, but they’re brick, too. The whole place is made of bricks. These are underground hallways.
Interesting.
Nothing the 6 could throw us in would really surprise me at this point, but this seems like a lot of work. Although, then again, they probably had nothing to do with it.
I press on, hand off the wall now, continuing toward the glow at the end of the hall. And when I get there, I realize it’s coming from a room with no door, but a room, nonetheless.
I step into it, darting my eyes around. The light comes from strung up bulbs, stretching from the back corner of the ceiling at the far end of the room to the other, in a line. It’s a little creepy, but nothing like the single room my brothers and I were confined to for three entire nights last year. In fact, this is pretty spacious, compared to that.
I turn around the room, eyes on the ceiling. No cameras that I can see, but I’m positive those could easily be hidden. Still, it’s not as if there’s much to hide. They can’t see inside my head in here.
Will they harass Sid? Will Sid be able to hide Ella quickly enough in Lucifer’s panic room if she has to?
Do the 6 know about the panic room?
There’s nothing I can do about it.
Let it go.
Ella’s taunts come back to me, about wanting to knock Sid up to save her. I didn’t want that with Sid, but I should’ve done it with Ella. But I know she’s on birth control, and I’ve seen her take the pill religiously every single morning. I’ve taken her to the pharmacy for refills.
I could hide it from her.
Flush it all away.
Does that make me a monster?
I almost laugh out loud. I don’t need to flush her birth control and potentially knock her up to be a monster. I just am one.
I pull the index card out of my pocket. The blotter paper has a sigil on it: the fucking Leviathan cross, because of course. Father Tomas probably blessed this shit or something. I feel a little guilty over the fact I haven’t responded to any of his messages checking in on me, but then again, he was probably only doing that because he was feeling guilty.
For a second, I think about the first time he whipped me. Not hard enough to draw blood. I was only a kid after all. I’d like to think if my mother and father had seen lacerations on my back, they would’ve cared.
But they were gone a lot. It’s why we had the nanny in the first place. They were gone, Brooklin was always at some camp or another, and it was just me and Malachi in that house.
I can barely remember him now, and that scares me.
I put one of the tabs on my tongue, close the rest in the index card and shove it into my back pocket. I don’t have time to be scared of the past right now. There’s a very real, very uncertain future ahead of me and maybe this trip will give me some insight.
Maybe I’ll bash my brains against the brick wall in here or tie the string of lights around my throat and hang myself and that’ll solve my problems, too, so whatever.
I head to the dark corner in the room, rest my back against the wall and tilt my head up, closing my eyes.
There’s no water in here, no food, and although I might find both if I search long enough, I don’t really feel like doing that.
Instead, I just wanna drift away from here.
Pretty soon, these bricks might seem like they’re closing in on me, or maybe they’ll seem like the gates to fucking heaven. Thus, the nature of psychedelics; like a box of chocolates, you really never know what you’re gonna get. But my brain is infected with darkness, so I have a pretty good idea.
Either way, it’ll help me pass the first night, and that’s good enough for me.
I didn’t scream when he fell.
I didn’t scream, and I didn’t look.
He screamed, though. He screamed all the way down, until suddenly, he just…didn’t.
But she was still coming.
When she saw he was gone, she stopped, eyes darting around the balcony as if he was hiding under the table or the chairs. I was against the edge, the railing digging into my back, my arms thrown wide, gripping the cool metal.
Brooklin.
I thought about Brooklin, because she would know what to do. Brooklin would’ve never let this happen. Brooklin was always mouthy. Always loud. She was younger than me, the middle child, but she…she would’ve punched this woman right in the face.
I was breathing hard when she stopped looking for him. When she realized the screams we’d heard, the thud afterward…when she realized he was gone, she screamed, too.
She was all violent hands and locked closets and taunting threats and neglect, but she didn’t want to kill us. No, that would ruin the fun.
And I’d just ruined hers.
Her wide brown eyes connected with mine as she stepped closer.
“Maverick,” she scolded me, her chest heaving, dark blooms of sweat under her arms as she fisted her hands on her hips. I could smell her, even with a couple of feet between us. She smelled like sweat and baby powder, and I wanted to vomit.
“Maverick, what did you do to your brother?”
My mouth fell open.
My stomach churned.
My pants were already wet and cold against my skin, and I couldn’t help it. I let go again, and it trailed hot down my leg.
Her eyes followed the trail, the puddle on the balcony.
Her thin lips twisted into a smile. “Aren’t you too old f
or that, Maverick?”
I couldn’t move. I was frozen in place as she stepped closer.
“You know what that means, don’t you?”
I did. I did know what it meant. It meant I’d go back in that closet, and my brother’s body…
I closed my eyes. I didn’t know what else to do. I screwed them up tight, but all I could see behind my closed eyelids was the television in her bedroom. When I wasn’t locked in the closet, when Malachi was taking his nap, I was in her bed and she was in control of the TV.
I saw strange things. Whips and chains and women screaming and angry men and I saw things I didn’t think I was supposed to see. I saw a woman gagging on a man’s penis, saw her eyes full of tears, saw her gasping for breath.
I saw her get sick.
And my nanny laughed. She laughed, and she watched me watching. And one day, she said she wanted to act out what we saw. On me.
We did. I had been eight then, when that started.
It was just a game, she said.
Just a game.
I didn’t complain. I was frozen then like I was standing outside on that balcony. Because if it was me, it wouldn’t be Brooklin when she came home from tennis camp or ballet or wherever she’d been sent to. It wouldn’t be her, and it wouldn’t be Malachi.
Malachi could eat fruit snacks and take naps and laugh and watch cartoons and build forts with me. Malachi wouldn’t get hurt.
My nanny touched me then, her hand against my cheek, soft and kind. My eyes flew open, and she crouched down so she was on my level.
“You killed your brother.”
I shook my head. I didn’t. I was saving him.
“You killed him, Maverick. I’m going to tell your parents now.”
She straightened, but her hand was still on my cheek.
“N-no.” My voice was hoarse. I could barely get the word out, but I knew I hadn’t. I hadn’t meant to, anyway. I was…she was…
She hit me, with a closed fist. I felt blinding hot pain as I closed my eyes. I tasted blood in my mouth. My ears were hot and ringing, and then she did it again.
I sunk to my knees.
She turned away without a word.
But she was going to tell my parents. And if she thought that hit hurt, she had no idea what my father’s hands were capable of.
I stood up, closing my eyes tight, swallowing back the tears, swallowing down the blood in my mouth.
She killed Malachi.
I didn’t do that.
She did.
She headed inside, into my parents’ room. And I knew there was something special in there. Something I wasn’t supposed to use.
I waited until she had enough time to disappear into the hallway, and then, without looking over the edge of the balcony—if I didn’t look, he was still alive—I crept into my parent’s room.
He was still alive.
He was still going to be alive.
My feet were wet from peeing on myself, and damp footprints appeared on their polished wooden floor with every step I took toward their bed, but I could clean that up later. I’d deal with that after I dealt with…her.
I found it, on my dad’s side of the bed.
A hammer. A mallet, my father had said. It had a yellow handle. Steel head. It was heavy, but adrenaline was suddenly flooding through me at the possibilities. At the ideas.
At what I could do to her with this hammer.
I picked it up, struggling at first, but as anger replaced my fear, it was easier.
And when I found her coming up the stairs, holding the house phone pressed against her ear, it was easier still.
I was at the top step.
I thought about shoving her down, but that didn’t seem quite right. It wasn’t as high of a fall from my parents’ balcony. Malachi had screamed longer than she would.
That wasn’t fair.
I swung as her eyes connected with mine, her mouth dropping open. I was strong enough. My father had put us all in sports. I had lean muscle.
The hammer struck her temple.
The phone fell from her hands, but she was gripping the railing and she didn’t fall back. Not more than a few steps.
I took one step down, my feet nearly slipping from the piss. I steadied myself. Took a breath. Flexed my fingers on the yellow rubber of the handle, and I swung again.
I heard something crack.
She didn’t even scream.
But that time, she fell.
All the way down.
She didn’t move, lying face up, her head swelling at her temple. I walked slowly toward her, and I heard someone shouting on the other end of the phone, back up on the steps. I didn’t listen. Didn’t go back for it.
But I swung again.
And again.
Until her warm blood coated my warm legs.
I didn’t stop until someone’s hands went to my arms, yanking the weapon from me.
Mayhem.
A crime that causes a disfiguring, permanent injury. It can include loss of a limb. An eye. Brain damage.
That’s what she got.
She got to forget. She went into a home and was taken off life support a few months later. She got to die.
I didn’t.
I didn’t get to forget. My parents tried. Brooklin tried.
I couldn’t.
I heard him scream.
I heard his little body hit the ground.
I never forgot.
Father Tomas and his whip were the closest I ever came to forgetting, because in the pain, it’s hard to remember. It’s hard to think.
But when the ache goes away, it always comes back.
Until her. Until I met a little devil in the woods, it was always there in my brain.
But then she came around…and the past went quiet.
My wrists are tied to the chair, rope digging into my skin. I blink, my eyelids so heavy, my throat so fucking dry.
The room feels damp, but there’s nothing but brick walls surrounding me. Brick walls and a tapestry ahead of me, white with a red sigil.
I squeeze my eyes closed. Force myself to take a few deep breaths, force myself to exhale longer than I inhale.
I open my eyes again.
It’s the Leviathan cross. The same one Father Tomas wears. My back itches when I think of him. The whip. The pain. The numbness in the sting.
Did he help with this year’s Noctem?
Does he know the worst thing I’ve ever done?
Ella does.
Ella knows, and she didn’t run. She didn’t leave. Ella knows the worst thing I ever did was born from love and ended in death.
She knows how this could end, and she still didn’t leave.
I grit my teeth, unable to look away from the tapestry.
And then I hear a voice.
“Maverick.”
My skin crawls. No. It can’t be.
“Maverick,” Sid says again, her voice a throaty whisper. I turn my head, cast my eyes around the dark room. But no one is here.
This isn’t real.
This isn’t real.
“Maverick, why won’t you look at me?” There’s a desperate whine to her voice and I close my eyes tight.
She’s at home. She’s with Ella.
They’re...safe.
Aren’t they?
Someone’s soft fingers circle around my wrists.
My eyes snap open, my breath coming out in a rush.
Sid.
Her silver eyes are big and sad. She’s kneeling against me, her fingers gripping me just above the rope. “Maverick, do you love me?”
She’s not here. She wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t.
But she’s going to do so much worse.
My eyes dip down despite myself, and I see she’s wearing a black tank top, tight against her small frame. Her nipples are tented against the sheer fabric, and she has short black shorts on.
She lets go of one wrist, brings her hand to her thigh, sliding the silky material of
her shorts up. Higher. And higher.
I can’t look away.
I can smell her.
Lavender.
I can nearly taste her as she pulls back her shorts, revealing the dark lace of her panties.
“Maverick, do you miss me?”
I don’t answer. I close my eyes.
I feel her grind against my fingers. She moans my name, pressing harder. And then I feel her against me, her slick, wet....
“Stop.”
She thrusts herself harder against my hand, her fingers digging into my wrist on one hand, the other presumably holding back the fabric of her underwear.
I refuse to look.
I won’t look.
But I can smell her. And my fingers want to be in her.
No. I don’t move. No.
“Maverick,” she moans. “Let me touch you.”
My dick hardens painfully, my stomach clenching. I refuse to open my eyes. This isn’t real. “Stop, Sid.” My voice is hoarse. “Please stop.”
Her nails dig in deeper. She’s panting, rubbing herself against me faster. On the back of my knuckles, I can feel all of her ridges, her wet, slick skin. “I know he loves me, but not like you do. You would let me be free,” she whimpers. “You know me. You love me.” She presses in close, her lips against my throat. “You know what I like, Maverick—”
“Get off of me!” I jerk away from her, but I can’t move the chair. Can’t stand up. Can’t get free. “Get the fuck off of me! You’re not mine. I don’t want you.”
Silence.
I hold my breath, sure I can still feel her. But then I open my eyes, and there’s nothing.
It wasn’t real. She wasn’t real.
This isn’t real.
It’s Noctem, I remind myself.
I’m tripping. This is the lesson. This is my teacher. I’m okay. Sid is okay.
Ella...
My eyes widen as a girl emerges from behind the Sigil. Pale legs beneath a black skirt, a white collared shirt, unbuttoned to just above her breasts.
Long red hair down around her shoulders, green eyes lined with black, her hands behind her back as she peeks up shyly at me through her lashes.
But there’s that devilish smirk on her face reminding me that she’s not shy.
Ella Christian is anything but shy.
She’s angry.
She’s still so angry at me for so many things.
