Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 90939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
And at the bottom was something wrapped in dirty cloth, tied with twine. Something that made my stomach clench.
The blade that had been given to me for when my time came, for when it was my turn to sacrifice for the Blood God. I didn’t dare touch it, didn’t want to be tainted with its memories. But I remembered exactly what it looked like.
The knife’s hilt had my old name carved into it: Vienna. If I hadn’t run, if I hadn’t escaped, that blade would have one day been plunged into my body no matter how much I pleaded and begged for mercy.
I sat on the floor, staring into that box, letting the truth settle deep into my bones. The Prophet’s reach was long. I’d always known that, even if I tried telling myself otherwise. I’d known he’d find me eventually.
They’d found me, and it had begun again.
But this time they might end me.
Chapter Six
Grayson
I didn’t follow her home. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit—at least to myself—that she intrigued me enough to want to go after her.
To know more about her.
Back at my motel room, I didn’t bother turning on any lights. The darkness helped keep my head clear, helped me think. It helped me wade through the whispers and echoes of the dead better than sifting through crime scene photos ever could.
I wasn’t tired. I hardly slept anymore. My nights were about unraveling the puzzle pieces monsters didn’t even know they were leaving behind. It was my job to catch their mistakes.
I poured myself a shot of whiskey and leaned against the windowsill, watching the way the wind lightly rustled the leaves on the trees. I couldn’t see it, but the lake was only a few miles away. I could still feel its pull.
That place hummed with the violence of something old and dangerous.
I’d been surprised to see Violet there, as if she’d been searching for her own answers. I wonder what she was hiding, what she tried to keep buried. I’d looked into her face and knew she saw the blood in the soil, even though it had all been wiped clean.
I finished the booze and set the glass down, dragging my fingers through my hair. I hadn’t intended to feel any sort of interest in the waitress. I didn’t know her, but when I looked into her eyes, I saw she had scars that ran deep.
There was something about the way she looked at me—like the monster had already taken everything from her, and although she feared it still hadn’t finished feeding, she wasn’t surrendering yet.
And hell, I respected that about her.
This town was crumbling under something dark and sinister, and its people were too stupid to understand the implications, or too comfortable in their bubble to see the danger.
But I felt its crushing presence. I felt it clawing its way out of its grave. The past was being resurrected. The darkest memories wanted to be remembered.
The cult symbol. The staging of the bodies. The ritualistic bleeding.
Evil was here.
And my instincts told me Violet felt it, too. She knew more than she let on.
Whatever she was hiding, there were cracks in her wall. She wanted the truth, even if it scared the shit out of her. I’d find it, not just to save this town and any more victims, but Violet, too.
Tomorrow, I’d visit her again. Professionally, of course.
Keep telling yourself that.
I gritted my teeth, hating any slip of my control.
I was here to do a job. This had nothing to do with the fact she was the first person to interest me personally . . . in any capacity.
If I were a weaker man, that might have concerned me.
Chapter Seven
Violet
Last night felt like a dream, but I knew it was reality. I still felt the cold terror covering me.
I went through my morning ritual with a blank mind. Drank my tea. Ate my toast and fruit. Got ready for my shift at the coffee shop.
But when I opened my front door, a bundle was waiting for me on the porch.
The small package was wrapped in brown butcher paper and tied together with black twine. Something about the way it sat there—centered, perfectly placed—made my skin crawl.
My body was on autopilot as I bent down and picked it up with both hands, the weight not heavy, but substantial enough to make me fear what might be inside.
Go to the police. Show them this. Tell them everything.
No . . . no, I couldn’t.
I carried it inside without thinking. My body moved automatically, my mind still lagging, trying to make sense of it. I set it on the kitchen counter, staring at it for long seconds before finally unwrapping it.
The brown twine wasn’t tied like any ordinary knot. It was intricate, almost ceremonial, the ends tucked with deliberate care. A memory crawled up my spine—Marcus teaching us knots as symbols, each loop binding us tighter to the cause. I loosened it, pulling the twine with just my fingertips, as if that could protect me.