When I’m done, I turn back to the carnage and carefully begin to piece him back together, moving each severed part with a strange devotion. His arms, his legs, his torso—they slot into place, creating the outline of a cross. The irony isn’t lost on me, and a dark smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
Finally, I grab his dismembered head, his wide, lifeless eyes staring into nothing. I lift it by the gray hair, painted with red and drop it at the top. For a moment, I just stand there, admiring my work.
As soon as I’m ready to leave, I rise, slinging my bag over my shoulder and glance at the dismembered body one last time. I tip the bottle, letting the liquor spill freely. It pools across the floor, soaking into the wood, glistening as it seeps into the crevices. A dark trail snakes over his remains, clinging to the blood that’s already congealing around him.
The bottle slips from my hand, shattering against the ground, the sound sharp and final. My bloodied axe catches my eye, and I lean down to grab it while pulling out a gas lighter before flicking it open with a metallic snap. The tiny flame dances in the dark, fragile yet destructive. With one last look at the man and the church that helped shaped the demon I’ve become, I toss the lighter onto his remains.
The fire catches instantly, spreading like greedy tongues of flames that lick at his broken body, consuming it piece by piece. The stench of burning flesh fills the air as I back away slowly, my gaze fixed on the inferno as it devours everything—his body, the pews, the altar. The church that birthed me as much as it damned me.
…
Outside, the drizzling rain falls in light, misty sheets, but it’s no match for the fury of the fire. Flames roar, bursting through stained-glass windows, turning holy images into a picture of pure hell.
I stare expressionlessly before taking a long drag of my cigarette, watching the church collapse into itself, then I turn, entering deep into the dark woods. My boots crunch against the wet leaves as I disappear into the shadows, leaving behind the ruin I created, the embers of my vengeance still glowing in the night.
Chapter Eight
Raven
I wake with a groan, my skull throbbing, and rub my sore eyes. When I finally manage to open them, a burning ache spreads, the harsh morning light searing through the thin crack in the curtains, a blinding beam that feels like it’s slicing right through me. I roll onto my side, groggy, reaching out instinctively as Midnight brushes up against my arm. But as my gaze falls on the pillow beside me, my blood runs cold.
There, lying on the silk—like some twisted fucking macabre prize—is Mike’s eyeball. Staring right at me.
A scream rips from my throat, raw and panicked, as I fling myself out of bed, stumbling backward until I hit the wall. My eyes stay glued to the grotesque thing on my pillow, frozen in horror. My entire body trembles, the edges of my vision blurring as flashes of last night’s nightmare creep back—Ty, his hands dripping with Mike’s blood, the sickening sound of when he shoved his fingers into his socket.
For. Looking. At. Me.
I can almost feel his presence in the room, and I sense the smell of him. A wave of nausea rolls over me, but I force myself to move, yanking a tissue from the box on my bedside table. With a shaking hand, I reach forward and cover the eyeball, then recoil as I cringe.
Asshole.
If I wasn’t so terrified I might have laughed at the insanity of it. But this is no joke. He left the fucking eyeball there to taunt me. To show he isn’t going to leave me alone. To make me realize he has been in here, watching me while I sleep like a creep.
Straightening up, I spin around, my heart racing as my gaze darts across the room. That’s when I see it—the bedroom door, wide open. I spot something on the floor, and I slowly creep toward it, my eyes narrowing. When I’m close enough, I lean down, noticing tiny dots of red scattering on the wood.
I mutter to myself in disbelief, “Is that fucking blood? He was in here… and I didn’t even hear him?”
Last night I was exhausted—dead to the world, a heavy sleeper, but still, how didn’t I hear him? This house creaks and groans every time you move. I cover my mouth with my hand, the realization that I’m not safe, not here, settling in like a stone in my stomach.
A sudden, loud knock rattles the door downstairs, and I jump, snapping upright. Quickly, I tie my robe around my waist and lift Midnight onto my chest, cradling her tightly as I make my way downstairs, each step slow and cautious. As I reach the living room, the knock comes again—firmer this time.
“Who is it?” I call out, trying to keep my tone steady, but the thought gnaws at me: What if it’s Ty? But then again, I’m starting to realize he isn’t the type of guy to knock.
I wait, breath held, holding Midnight a little tighter as the silence stretches out longer than it should.
“It’s the cops, ma’am.” A male voice calls out, unfamiliar and stern.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pulse spiking. There’s a goddamn eyeball and blood upstairs. I quickly smooth down my hair, creepingtoward the door. When I crack it open and peer around the edge, two older cops stand there, observing me.
“Good morning, ma’am. We’d like to ask you a few questions about an incident at the bar you were at last night.”
My brows knit instinctively, realizing that I’m probably an accomplice at this point since I didn’t call them last night like I’d planned to before Ty took my phone.
“Incident?” I echo, playing innocent.
One of them nods while the other just studies me, his gaze piercing, like he already knows I’m hiding something. My throat narrows, but I step back and let them in, watching as they scan the shabby room. I set Midnight down, and she tiptoes away as they continue to assess their surroundings.
“You own this property, Miss?” one asks, and I shake my head, crossing my arms.