Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Warrick
The soft glow from my desk lamp is the only light in my otherwise dark room. I can feel the weight of the hours slipping by as I dive deeper into this cursed history. Each piece of information pulls me further into a tangled web of ancient curses, bloodlines, and vengeance that’s been brewing for centuries. Bloody Mary—she's always been a distant ghost story, a shadow in the night. Bloody Mary, the Obsidian Circle, and the cursed Chandler bloodline are becoming a labyrinth I can’t escape from.
I grab my mug of cold type AB, barely registering the bitter taste as I gulp it down. My eyes burn with exhaustion, but I can’t afford to stop now. Not with Bloody Mary making her moves. I need answers.
I found this old scroll buried deep in the catacombs of the supernatural library. The text is ancient, written in a language I barely recognize, but I can decipher enough to get the gist. According to this scroll from the underworld, Bloody Mary was not always the vengeful spirit she’s known as now. No. She was chosen. It’s said that Lilith took an interest in Mary after her brutal and unfair death—a death that left her writhing in agony and rage.
I sit up straighter, the words sending a chill through me. This… this is bigger than I thought. Bloody Mary isn’t just some random ghost or demon. She was handpicked and in return, this woman swore herself to Lilith’s service. She has become her most loyal agent, enforcing Lilith’s rule with an iron fist.
I swallow hard. As part of that loyalty, Bloody Mary was granted the freedom to act as she pleases—torturing anyone and everyone she wants. I can’t quite understand the rest, but there is a small excerpt, not even a paragraph long, that mentions Rebecca and William Chandler.
Pulling out my laptop, I open it and type ‘Rebecca and William Chandler’ into the search bar, my fingers moving with a sense of urgency. I don’t expect much—there’s not much out there about them. Most of the records have been lost to time. What I do find are a few images of weathered gravestones, and a mention of Calverton.
I lean in closer, staring at the worn pictures. Calverton. The land before it was colonized, before it was turned into the sprawling mess of streets, towns, and cities. Calverton is ancient—old in ways that no one truly understands, and certainly no one talks about. Before the settlers, before the newcomers. The roots run deep here. My mind picks at the thought as I scan the words that accompany the photo.
“Wild animal attack. Rebecca and William Chandler. Murdered in 1695. Found brutally slain in their home. Children sent to live with Rebecca’s sister, Eloise Parris.”
I scowl. Wild animal attack? That doesn’t sit right with me. They were found inside their home.
Something darker was at play. And I’m starting to wonder if that dark something is connected to Bloody Mary. But why? What did Rebecca and William do to deserve her attention?
I push the thought aside and continue reading. The children, Howard and Hannah, are mentioned next. They grew up in Eloise’s home after the death of their parents, but tragedy followed them. Hannah was murdered when she turned twenty, Howard too. The cycle, it seems, never ends.
I swipe at my face, sighing as I absorb the details. Hannah’s bastard son—Carl Chandler—was the one who started the Obsidian Circle. So, this is where it all ties together. The Circle isn’t just some random gang of miscreants. They have roots in the Chandler family, in the bloodline that’s cursed.
I clench my jaw. The Obsidian Circle. A group of arrogant, self-righteous assholes who believe they can play god. I know them all too well. Myself and the Crimson Brotherhood have crossed paths with them before—each time ending in bloodshed, each time they manage to slip away, like cockroaches in the night. But now, after discovering this link to Bloody Mary, the stakes have gotten higher.
I keep scrolling until my attention is caught by a blog post, skimming the ramblings of Trevor Clearam. He talks about the deaths that followed his family—the pattern. Each Chandler descendant dies brutally at twenty. That’s what it is. That’s the tie. Bloody Mary’s wrath has followed this family for generations.
I’m too absorbed in the research to notice the time passing. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I search for more about the Chandler curse, trying to make sense of it all. The answers, though, are just out of reach, slipping through my fingers like sand. The last mention of the Chandler bloodline is a simple line: Carl Chandler wanted to make sure he left behind a legacy. A legacy that could be the answer to his family’s problem…enter the Obsidian Circle.
My mind races, the pieces starting to fit into place. If the Circle’s roots are connected to the Chandler family, then Bloody Mary has been toying with them for years. But why hasn’t she wiped them out completely? She has the power, the means. So why leave them to fester like this? Maybe it’s because not all members are direct descendants of Chandler. But that doesn’t explain the animosity. What did the Chandlers do to her to deserve this relentless torment?
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes for a moment, rubbing my tired face. Think, I tell myself. What else is there? I would have to know Bloody Mary’s name before she was Bloody Mary. But how do I find that? I can’t very well look up who the Chandlers pissed off. Or did the Chandlers murder someone?
Okay, so I maybe tried the latter, but it got me no results.
I slam my fist onto the desk, the frustration bubbling over. I’m not even sure what I can do with all this information. The answers are right in front of me, but they only lead to more questions. More danger. And now, Bloody Mary’s focus seems to be on my unicorn.
My phone buzzes with a text. I glance at it, distracted for a moment. It’s from Blackwell.
Have you found anything about the symbol on Varys’ chest?
The damn symbol. I was supposed to be researching the symbol and what it means to Bloody Mary…what it means for Varys. But I got caught up in the beginnings of Miss Mary.
I type a quick reply, not bothering to sugarcoat anything.
Still working on it.
I rub my temples, exhausted. I know it’s a binding mark. Control. Vengeance.
Bloody Mary has been playing this game far longer than I realized. But I can’t find anything on the mark, minus my assumptions.
I slam my laptop shut and sit back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. I feel the familiar weight of darkness creeping in, the exhaustion threatening to swallow me whole. I’ve been pushing too hard for too long, and my body knows it. But there’s no stopping now.
The pull of sleep is undeniable. My body succumbs, and I let myself drift off, my thoughts spinning like a broken record.
I wake to a presence in the room. A heavy, suffocating energy fills the air, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I freeze, knowing without looking that she’s here.
“Warrick,” she purrs, her voice a silky whisper that sends a shiver through my body. I open my eyes, and there she is, standing in the shadows: Bloody Mary. Her pale face is framed by snow colored hair that seems to move with a life of its own, her eyes gleaming with that familiar malicious glint. She steps closer, her steps silent, as if she’s gliding through the air.
I can’t move. I can’t speak. Her presence is suffocating.
“You look so tired,” she teases, her voice like poison coated in honey. “Maybe you should rest.”
She steps forward again, and before I can react, her cold fingers touch my neck. Her lips brush my ear as she whispers, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I stiffen, but it’s too late. Her fangs sink into my neck, and the sharp pain causes me to gasp. She drinks deeply, her cold mouth a stark contrast to the heat of my own skin. The sensation is both excruciating and maddeningly pleasurable, a combination that leaves me disoriented and vulnerable.
Before I can even think to fight back, she pulls away, leaving me breathless.
“You’re delicious,” she murmurs, her lips curling into a satisfied smirk. “But I want more.”
I don’t have time to react before I feel her hand at my waist, pushing my boxers down just enough to free my cock. She moves quickly, with practiced grace, and before I can push her away, her fangs sink into the middle of my hardening shaft.
The pain and pleasure blur together, and I gasp, helpless against her. It’s like a drug—addictive and violent. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
Then, just as quickly she withdraws, leaving me gasping, my heart racing in ways I can’t control.
I sit up straight, jolting awake. The cold sweat on my skin tells me it was no mere dream.
“Damn it,” I mutter, furious. She’s gotten to me. She’s won. She’s played me like a fool.