Macabre Gods (Port Macabre #3)

Chapter 1

1

W hat the fuck do you wear to go on a blind date with three men?

Especially when they’ve already seen me naked, and quite possibly might be arriving at my front door to abduct me into a secret society underworld.

Strangely, after the events of my life in recent months, that sounds more appealing than it has any right to be.

My best friend took me to a sex club turned haunted house, and it turns out even my darkest, most depraved fantasies were nothing compared to the three men I encountered there.

I run a finger over the brand new phone—a device they provided me in the aftermath of our night together, and contacted me on with one solitary and slightly ambiguous text—almost reverently caressing its perfect, unblemished reflective sheen.

See you tonight, little flower.

Except, to my surprise—my intense dismay—that promise never eventuated. After a week, I stopped hoping. After a month I tried to forget them. In the length of time since, I’ve been stuck somewhere between willing myself to move on, and imagining that one day they might reappear in my life.

This morning, everything changed. I received a new message, without warning or explanation.

Unknown:

We know you’ve been waiting.

It is time, little flower.

Little flower. That’s what he called me, even though there’s no way he could have known my name prior to our paths crossing in the heart of that mansion.

Yet, it nags and tugs like a thorned tendril stuck in a sweater. Is it too much of a coincidence that he used that nickname without hesitation?

Posey isn’t exactly a conventional name.

Or, maybe I’m just overthinking things. He also called me love in a slightly confusing manner; meanwhile, the other two men, who I readily allowed into my body multiple times over, didn’t say a word to me at all.

I hover my finger over the reply button. In my head, I’ve composed a multitude of replies. Even more than that, I’ve asked an endless string of questions about where they disappeared to and why they never showed up as promised. Yet, in the face of a landslide of confusion and entirely unfamiliar feelings of need… trepidation… lust… I’ve been unable to bring myself to allow my fingers to walk across that keypad.

This device is sleek, black, and polished. Similar to them and their energy I found myself all too easily drawn in by. No longer have I had to look at the spider-web cracked screen, scuffed casing, and dented exterior of my previous phone. One that shattered to pieces when I dropped it while surrounded by a maze of mirrors as I ran for my life that night.

Or at least it felt like I was at the time.

Potent liquid adrenaline feels like it still lingers in my extremities when I think back to how things went.

My pulse thuds a little harder at the knowledge the men I found myself entangled with somehow delivered me home, without me having any memory of them doing so. Not only that, but they left me this brand new cell phone.

Three strangers, all dressed in suits, with their faces concealed by skull masks.

Gold.

Copper.

Crimson.

The only identifiers I had, other than their hands and eyes and hair.

Sapphire blue. Burning hazel embers. Dark pools that sucked me deep. Three sets of eyes that watched me enter into their depravity.

After all this time, what do I remember about them? One had tattooed hands, short hair, and a wristwatch. One was so enormous I thought he might crush me—not to mention the rows of piercings he had that my pussy certainly won’t ever forget about. The third man… I honestly struggle to recall if he had anything that might give me a hint as to his identity, although that seemed intentional on his part.

After no sight nor sound of them, I presumed they had vanished like whispers on the night breeze. These are men from a secret society after all. A fantasy I was given a glimpse of, only to have their unique brand of temptation ripped away without warning.

And now?

Now, I’m already prepared for whatever, or whoever might appear on my doorstep at any moment, wearing a simple black strappy dress that lets me feel like a badass, even though my insides are a trembling wreck.

I don’t want to examine too closely the way I have been a jumble of nervous anticipation, and hopeful excitement, all because of one text.

Snatching the phone off the counter, I decide to go in search of sanity, or a pep talk in the form of Rita’s wisdom. In all honesty, I’m surprised she hasn’t turned up pounding on my door with one of her stupid green juices she loves so much. I’d half expected her to barge in and thrust one upon me unceremoniously while regaling me with tales of her own adventures from a night out in Port Macabre with her latest date.

I dial, waiting for the line to connect, teeth pinching the inside of my cheek. It rings, and rings, and rings… until eventually, her perky voicemail kicks in. Upon hearing that same light-hearted recorded message she’s had for years, I hang up with a heavy exhale.

I love you, but no, I will not be leaving you a message, bestie, because you better have a damn good excuse not to pick up my call.

Dialing again only produces the same result.

Just as I’m silently cursing that wild child’s name, the buzzer on my front door sounds.

Phones and texts and best friends all vanish from my mind. Instead, images of men with skeletal masks and bodies carved from stone fill my thoughts with the kind of self-assured dominance they so easily give off. Nerves roar to life, with an immediate flop in my stomach coming at the sound.

They’re here.

A surge of giddiness, a bright, burning shot of excitement, tracks straight to my lungs. Am I damn near floating at the prospect of seeing my masked strangers again?

Will they be masked? Or is now the moment—that opportunity in the soothing evening glow of sunset skies and wicked promises of nightfall—when I finally get to see their faces?

As I cross the room, I smooth my hands over the front of my dress and pause to quickly check my lipstick in the mirror hanging beside the entranceway.

My fingers fly up to fuss with my dark hair. I left it curly today, hanging loosely past my shoulders. Even though my lips feel tingly at the mere memory of how thoroughly they were used that night, all I see is my nude lipstick framed against thick lashes and my heart-shaped face.

This is the reflection of a woman who might be about to take the plunge into something entirely unknown.

God, this is nuts.

I know nothing about these men. Less than nothing, in fact.

However, they know my address and have an image of me sleeping in my own bed from months ago. Why I never called the police is a matter I’m going to have to bring up with myself later, because in the span of time I spent with them for one illicit evening—once the chasing and the taunting and the commanding evolved into something far more pleasurable than I’ve ever experienced before—I felt more fucking alive than I have in years.

They showed me a glimpse of truth about myself, and while it’s terrifying to admit out loud, I liked the reflection they presented. The possibility of being able to vanish from this life that has felt hollow for too long now has circled my mind ever since. To step into their world and inhabit someplace only a selected few know about? That speaks to me on a level I can’t explain.

Running my tongue over my teeth, I touch the corner of my lips, and the buzzer sounds again. This time, it jolts me. Another lengthy press of the button sounds impatient and demanding.

I might be willing to step into the unknown with these men, but I’m also not a complete idiot, so I keep the chain in place as I open the door a crack.

Confusion knits my brows together.

There’s only one man standing on my doorstep, not the three I was anticipating. He has his back to me, scanning the street below, and I manage to catch a quick glance at his figure and attire before he turns to face the sound of my door opening.

Am I disappointed to not find three of them here?

I guess it makes sense, considering that only one of them—the man with the copper decorating his mask—has sent me a text on that phone. Perhaps it was only ever going to be him arriving tonight, after all. Maybe that’s why it has taken so long for this moment to happen, if the other two are no longer interested in whatever this is.

His hair is short, a little darker than I thought it looked behind the mask that night, although in the long shadows and firelight. I suppose my mind could easily be mistaken.

Letting my eyes drop to his hands, to search for the tattoos that would let me know for certain it’s him, I see he’s wearing black gloves to match his all-black suit.

“Hello, little flower.” The man’s eyes don’t seem as bright as I remember, but they appear to be hazel. Or maybe more of a greenish shade now that I’m staring at him face-to-face in the natural light.

A goatee and mustache are trimmed short around his mouth, and his cheekbones seem sunken. Beneath the designer suit, it’s almost impossible to tell if he’s the same person, and without the other two men for comparison, I’m struggling to recall if he’s the same height. In fact, my memory is hazy, with everything having fallen into a blur of hands and limbs and growling commands. I sheepishly realize I wouldn’t be able to recognize any of them in a situation like this, at all, especially after all this time.

“How do I know it’s you?” My fingers grip the edge of the door tighter. Even his voice sounds different, but then again, he spoke through a mask the last time I saw him and that could have altered everything.

“Do you not remember?” He tilts his head to one side.

That, at least, seems familiar. I do remember him looking at me like that from across the room.

“Can you show me your hands?” I nod in the direction of his gloves.

“Of course.” He makes a motion to tug at the fingertips, then casts another glance over his shoulder.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but do you mind if I come inside?” The tone in his voice is apologetic. “Secret societies and standing out on the street revealing details like that… well… you can imagine the consequences.”

I swallow heavily.

“Are the others here with you?” Hesitation stops me from outright answering him. My brain is trying to scramble around and think of something that I can ask, anything that might confirm this man is who he says he is.

“They’re currently on business, but will meet us soon.” He shifts his weight. “I’m sure you have questions for all three of us.”

That right there. It settles my unease for a brief moment. No one else was in that room with us, so how could he know there were three of them?

I blow out a breath and laugh a little nervously. “More than a few questions, really.”

A smile pulls on his lips. “Do you drink champagne? I wasn’t sure.” Bending down, the man picks up a pink gift bag I hadn’t noticed tucked beside his shiny dress shoes.

“Sure. Let me just…” I slip the door closed enough to unhook the chain and gesture for him to come inside.

As he passes me, squeezing into the entrance that opens up on my single-room flat, I let my eyes drift over his shoulders and how tall he is again. Maybe I’m just gaslighting myself. Now that we’re standing closer like this, he seems about the right height. Of course my brain is seeing things differently now that he’s here and inside my tiny rental.

Jesus. This place is such a hovel compared to the world they inhabit.

“Ahh, I see you got the phone.” He sets the bag down on the counter, pulls out three long-stemmed roses from inside, and hands them to me. They’re bone-white and tightly budded; hardly any scent comes off them at all.

“Thank you.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, still more than a little off-kilter about all of this.

Much to my surprise, or perhaps I need to learn to live with how these men operate in their day-to-day lives, he confidently goes straight to the cupboards where my glassware resides, pulling out two mismatched wine glasses. As if he already knows where everything is located in my kitchenette.

I wince. “I’m sorry. They’re way too shabby for champagne, I know.”

He’s already tearing off the gold foil from the bottle and shrugs. “A glass is a glass, love.”

Ok. Things seem a little more familiar now. I must have just been strung out and overthinking the entire situation at the doorway before.

When he starts unwinding the wire cage, he pauses for a moment, looking at the bottle, then extends it toward me.

“Do you want to open it?”

Brushing a fingertip over the silky feel of the rose petals, I shake my head. “Carry on. Knowing me, I’ll probably spill half of it if left in charge.”

“You’re funny.” He says, making quick work of the wire, followed by effortlessly loosening the cork on a dull pop. Bubbles froth, and the pale amber liquid flows neatly into two glasses as he pours for both of us, then scoops one in each hand .

He steps close, but not too much so, giving me some breathing room which I kind of appreciate.

“I have to apologize, it’s rather ungentlemanly of us to take so long to finally reach this moment. So, how about a toast? Then you can ask me anything you want about that night.” His head tilts in that seemingly familiar way.

“Ok.” I dip my chin, and take the offered glass. “What shall we toast to?”

“How about… three new friends? Or, in my case, one very special new flower.” His eyes flare a little brighter as he taps the rims of our glasses together.

“To three new friends.” I echo, with the fizz popping and tickling my nose as I proceed to take a long sip.

As I lower the glass, I see him setting his own back on the counter, all while studying me with a thoughtful expression.

“I’m incredibly rude.” He tugs on the fingers of one glove. “I was going to take my gloves off, wasn’t I? Yet, here I am, too busy handing you roses and pouring you champagne.”

I smile and take another sip.

Except, I shouldn’t have.

Nothing about this scene should have happened. I’m an utter fool.

As his eyes lock with mine, he pulls the glove free of his left hand, and tosses it onto the kitchen counter beside my phone. Revealing pale, unmarked skin.

Numbness coats my tongue and begins to spread down my throat, leaving me stumbling a little.

“Rude indeed of me to walk in here and not introduce myself properly.” He muses. Watching me with a beady stare as I clutch the back of the stool tucked beneath the benchtop.

A sight I might never see again after this moment, if what I think is happening, is actually happening.

I sway on my feet and blink heavily. There is thick, sticky molasses where my faculties are supposed to be. A drowsiness pulls relentlessly on my limbs. Meanwhile, the man in front of me whips off his other glove, and I already know before he sits the item alongside its matching pair. I already know with a sickening dread clenching my stomach what will be revealed.

His other hand is also completely free of tattoos.

The roses slip from my numb fingers as I lose muscle control. My limbs don’t belong to me anymore. Champagne and shards of glass explode at my feet as my drink collides with the floor.

I don’t understand.

Words roll in a dream-like state around the far corners of my mind. Trying to speak is futile. It comes out as a strangled, garbled croak around a tongue that feels like a toxic slug inhabiting my mouth.

My poisoner, and possible executioner, simply watches on, seemingly pleased with his handiwork.

My knees give way, leaving me to join the flowers and the shattered fragments of my life, seeped in a pool of laced champagne. I drop like a stone in the kitchen of my shitty flat.

All I can think as my head smacks against the linoleum is that this might be the most pathetic way to go.

Is this it? Is this the sum of my parts? To be drugged and left for dead, poison foaming from my mouth on a cold floor?

Black spots crawl in to claim my vision from all sides as two polished shoes fill my fading sight, and from above me, those final cruel words float in.

“Things aren’t what they seem in this world, Posey.”