IX
SILAS
The Archbishop is poised at the altar, golden chalice in hand as the congregants begin to gather, filing toward him in a single line, slowly. The lines are composed almost exclusively of male students.
Eden writhes slightly beside me, but I glance at Cedric who is doing a terrible job of hiding his smile. In fact, they all are—they’ve caught on to my plan. This is the only way I can be sure Eden isn’t the first female student to take communion.
There’s a hush among the students, it’s thick and unnatural.
Thirty seconds.
A minute.
Eden is doing a terrible job at hiding her emotions. They are playing out on her face, and I feel the need to reassure her, for some reason—if even to quiet any suspicions that may be forming in her mind.
“Our rank,” I begin, thinking of an excuse as my lips move. “We ought not to rush. Very few people are from pure bloodlines like us. Our nobility begets patience. ”
She nods, understanding washing over her delicate features.
“That makes sense,” she mutters. “The parishioners at my church are mostly nobility.”
She’s convincing herself.
The more I interact with Eden, the more I realize that my analysis of her was spot-on. She’s meek and malleable. She doesn’t question my authority. In fact, she willingly submits. Obedience overpowers the logical parts of her brain—the key to rewiring her thoughts and making her mine completely.
I loosen my grip on her arm, using my thumb to trace lines along the back of her fingers and palm. Her shoulders relax beneath my touch.
This is too easy.
She leans into my touch, her head practically resting on my shoulder. My cock twitches as the warmth of her body seeps through my dress shirt. I straighten, adjusting my pants subtly. Her auburn hair, caramel skin, the curves of her body—there’s nothing more I’d want than to see her naked before me on her knees.
You don’t know it yet, but I am your God.
Last night, I made peace with the fact that Eden most likely will be the lynchpin to save my family and secure my position as the Duke of Surrey. However, none of that negates my desire for her. In fact, it’s a pleasant surprise.
When the reality hit that I could only save my family’s name through marriage, I never thought the woman I end up with could be…enjoyable. That she’d look good on my arm, that she’d be so out-witted that she couldn’t realize my intentions.
That she’d be someone as pure and untouched as Eden.
I’m so wrapped up in thoughts of her that I don’ t realize what’s happening at the altar until Alistair touches my shoulder—snaking his arm behind Eden so she doesn’t notice.
A female student has joined the line.
One of the new students. I recognize her from the group of students Sister Sully had been giving a tour. She’s young—maybe only sixteen—and eager, the kind of girl who still clings to her faith like a lifeline.
Perfect .
I watch as she takes her steps toward the altar, her heels clicking against the marble. Surprisingly, once she joins the line, the other female students begin to as well, most of their faces twisted with worry.
Our mark bows in reverence before taking the communion.
She doesn’t know that her act of piety has sealed her fate.
Eden and I join the reverent procession. I let her walk in front of me, so I can study her some more. She lowers her gaze and clasps her hands before her chest.
Each step she takes is filled with purpose, with reverence, with faith.
Suddenly, it hits me.
How did I miss it before?
She is a believer.
Not just someone who goes through the motions. She believes.
This new observation settles in my mind, cold and calculated.
Faith is everything to Eden Lockhart. It dictates her thoughts, her choices, her purpose . That’s the key to her. People like Eden don’t need force. They don’t need manipulation. They only need conviction.
All I have to do is convince her that what I want is moral . That it’s righteous. That it’s what her god would want her to do. And she’ll follow me to the ends of the earth—to the depths of Hell, if I choose to lead her there.
I swallow thickly as Eden kneels at the altar, lowering her head as the Archbishop murmurs a blessing over her. He places the wafer on her tongue.
Oh Eden, you have no idea what’s in store for you.
The night is still.
Thick mist curls in the hollows of Augustine Academy like the breath of a sleeping dragon. It blankets the statues and ivy-covered walls, creating a soft, spectral glow. Despite the mist, it’s a clear night—the full moon hangs low, pale light streaming through the windows of my dorm room.
I’m alone in the room, everything is quiet.
Only the steady tick of the clock on the wall, marking time like a metronome for the Holy Ritual that’s about to begin. Excitement skitters through my blood. As soon as the clock strikes 2:22, I slip on my robe and disappear like a ghost in the choking darkness and mist. I know the path to my destination like the back of my hand.
My steps are silent, my mind focused, my heart prepared.
Soon, the ruins of the old Augustine chapel come into view.
The once proud church is now nothing more than a dilapidated skeleton of crumbling stone and rotting wood. Its bell tower stands jagged against the sky, shattered decades ago. The cross leans precariously forward, as if bowing to me.
When I brought Eden here, it was to see how the broken chapel reacted to her —not to get her opinion . The Spirit that haunts this Holy Place had no objections when we visited, and tonight I will channel their power to ensure that my Will will be done.
Cedric and Alistair emerge from the shadows when I appear.
My robe is the color of freshly let blood—stitched with golden thread—while theirs are the colour of dusk. Each robe is embroidered with delicate, Latin script befitting our positions within The Order. We each earned our places and titles in initiation.
I came out the leader.
I nod at them, and they do the same. Together, we retreat to the shadows. A few moments later, we hear footsteps and whispers. Max emerges from the dense shrubbery, his hand wrapped around the girl who took communion first today. She’s obviously enthralled by him. Even in the darkness, her smile is hard to miss.
It took a bit of sleuthing to identify her.
But once we did, we knew that the Spirit had led us in the right direction.
She’s the perfect mark.
Dana Khan is small—frail even.
She’s here at Augustine on an academic scholarship. She hails from some no-name family, and lives in a council community on the outskirts of London. She’s the type of girl nobody in our world cares about, the kind nobody would miss, the kind meant to be exploited.
It’s rich that she felt she could come here to change her life. I wonder what sweet nothings he’s whispered in her ears, what promises he’s filled her head with. Of the four of us—he’s the best at that .
The Spirit uses him to captivate the girls we’ve chosen to sacrifice.
Max towers over Dana. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, shifting on her feet like a nervous bird. Has it dawned on her yet, how dangerous it is to be out here alone? Her mahogany hair is thick and glossy, even in the moonlight.
But the way it’s been chopped bluntly at her shoulders makes her look younger than she is—and quite poor, I must add. No woman of good breeding would wear her hair like that. Her skin is as pale as the moon. Her eyes wide and dark, filled with an innocent kind of wonder. She’s like a deer in headlights.
Max draws closer to her, saying something to her that I can’t hear. But the way she reacts tells me everything I need to know. She flushes, smiling and looking up at him.
Oh, how innocent.
Dana took communion first.
She’s untouched—pure. She thought it an act of devotion, a step toward salvation. Poor thing didn’t know that one of the girls who takes communion is always sacrificed—and she was unlucky enough to be chosen this time, because The Spirit directed us to choose the first.
Her obliviousness makes this even more fun.
My heart is pounding, blood pulsing frantically through my veins.
Max pulls Dana into an embrace. She stiffens at first, then she relaxes against him, resting her head in the crook of his neck. It looks like a simple show of affection.
If only.
Her body goes slack a few moments later.
Max catches her easily, lowering her to the ground with practiced care. He cradles her against his chest for a moment, before straightening and adjusting his grip to make it look like she’s simply resting against him.
From a distance, no one would think twice. Not that there’s anyone around, anyway. Everyone on campus knows to stay indoors after the first Communion.
Max carries Dana into the shadows, laying her at our feet, then dons his own robe. The four of us are finally together, transcending from our roles as students.
We’re The Order of The Holy Sacrament.
Dana lies limp, her chest rising and falling with slow shallow breaths. Her eyes are half-open, her lips caught on a scream. The ketamine was perfectly dosed—just enough to leave her pliant and aware, but unable to fight.
Cedric crouches beside her, pressing two fingers to her pulse.
He grins. “Just right.”
He flings her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing. Her head lolls to the side, a soft sound escaping her lips. But she doesn’t resist—she can’t. The wind picks up, rustling through the ruins of the chapel. It rustles our robes, approval from the Spirit. The scent of the damp earth is kicked up by the wind—thick with history and suffering.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs, relishing this moment.
Then we descend.
The entrance to the catacombs is hidden beneath the chapel’s ruined altar. Max and Alistair pry the stones open, revealing a dark, gaping hole beneath. An unnaturally cold breeze rises up from the hole, bringing with it the scent of old decay, the remnants of our last ritual. These catacombs have been the meeting place of The Order for centuries—even while it was a functional church.
It was The Spirit that destroyed it, disgusted by what the teachings of the church had become. The Order of The Holy Sacrament is directly guided by The Spirit, a secret society meant to be protectors of the knowledge and power that comes from communing with the Spirit. We are the gatekeepers.
One by one, we step into the darkness.
The ground gives way to ancient stone steps. The walls are lined with crumbling bones, stacked high and untouched for centuries. Alistair, our light-bearer, walks ahead of us, igniting each torch with a stick of incense. They are held by rusted sconces, the flickering light casting grotesque shadows that stretch and contort as we move deeper.
The Spirit is ruthless—kind only to those who dare to worship it completely.
The tunnels twist and turn, a maze of the Holy Undead. The deeper we go, the louder the silence becomes. Our footsteps, our breathing, every sound is being sucked away by the Spirit’s presence. We’re almost at the chamber when the whispers start.
“Have you brought my sacrifice?”
The words echo through the ancient, crumbling hallway. As leader of The Order, I am the only one allowed to speak directly with The Spirit. Sometimes, It speaks only to me. Other times, It speaks to us all.
This is one of those times .
We stop moving.
The others bow their heads—the hood of their robes falling over their eyes.
I pull down my hood, however.
Just ahead of us, The Spirit has materialised. A figure darker than a shadow swirls in front of us, an intense malevolent aura emanating from it. A smile twists my features.
It’s like looking in a mirror.
“We have,” I say. “We believe you’ll find this one especially pleasing.”
The Spirit is pleased, dissipating for now.
The air is at its coldest now, a familiar metallic scent wafting through the tunnel—blood long dried and left to fester.
Just then, Dana stirs.
She lets out a soft, broken noise. Her fingers twitch, her body trembling. Cedric’s grip on her is firm—so there’s no way she’ll escape—but it’s a pleasure to watch her think she can. The ketamine is starting to wear off.
Good.
Cedric shifts her weight as she starts to move. He chuckles, low and dark, amusement coloring his voice. “She’s waking up.”
A tremor of anticipation that prickles my spine.
They always run.
And they always fail.
We move deeper, twisting through the labyrinthine tunnels.
The walls start to narrow, and the air has weight to it, charged with The Spirit’s power and strength. It’s an honor to be chosen by It, an honor to be given the chance to wield even a simulacrum of its strength in our own lives .
Just as we reach the altar room, Dana thrashes.
Her body jerks violently, and Cedric—laughing—lets her go.
She hits the ground hard, a choked cry escaping her lips and then…
Dana runs.
This is our favorite part, so much so that we’ve made a game of it. The first to catch her has to pay all the others ￡1,000. A paltry sum, but it hardly matters.
The catacombs come alive .
The Spirit enjoys the chase too.
Dana’s panicked footsteps echo wildly, slapping against the stone floor as she stumbles forward. She’s looking around, unsure of the next step to make.
“Nox Maligna,” I whisper, and The Spirit obliges me.
A stiff breeze rushes through the tunnel, extinguishing all the lit torches. My eyes adjust to the darkness immediately. Up ahead, Dana darts into one of the many tunnels. Her breathing is ragged, her broken sobs catching in her throat.
Doesn’t she know that the louder she is, the easier it is for us to find her?
My steps are swift, as I consider the fact that this Hunt is less thrilling than the last. Our last sacrifice—Hannah, Holly, I can’t remember—had more gusto. She almost made it out of the catacombs, but I grabbed her foot and pulled her back in.
Dana on the other hand?
It’s too easy. She’s blind in the dark, announcing her every move with her sobs. They’re getting louder, and I’m getting more annoyed. I follow her as she turns a corner. Then another. I hear one of the others on my heels.
Truthfully, this doesn’t even feel like a Hunt. My steps are slow at first, watching her as she scrambles like a headless chicken. She doesn’t know these tunnels. When she hits a dead-end, she takes the closest tunnel, hoping it leads somewhere.
Hope doesn’t exist down here.
I catch up to her just as she turns down a tunnel that I know leads nowhere. A wall of bones stretches before her, endless and unmoving. She spins on her heel trying to make another run for it, but she hits my chest with a thud.
“Ah, there you are.”
I grip her shoulders.
She tries to wrestle out of my grasp, but it’s useless. A sliver of blood trickles from her forehead—presumably from when she fell out of Cedric’s grasp. The Spirit’s whispers grow louder in my head.
“Bring her to me.”
“Please,” she gasps, her voice barely a whisper.
The footfalls of the others join me.
“Your fate is already sealed, little lamb.” My eyes widen, and even in the dark, I know she’s terrified of my expression. “You’ve seen too much. There’s nothing we can do to help you.”
I shove her away, her body colliding with the ancient bones.
Before she can get her bearings, Cedric lunges. She screams as he grabs her, dragging her backward. Her limbs flail uselessly. I think that in her mind she’s putting up a fight—she’s attempting to claw at his robes, his skin, anything—but she’s too weak for it to matter.
I snap my fingers and the torches are relit, lighting a path to where we ought to be. We walk in single file. Alistair follows me, Max follows him, while Cedric brings up the rear. He drags a kicking, sobbing and pleading Dana .
We’re tens of feet below the earth.
“Nobody is here to hear you scream,” Cedric assures her.
Her scream dies in her throat.
We carry her to where she belongs.
The Spirit’s altar.
It’s as if the catacombs breathe a sigh of relief around us. The Spirit’s bloodlust is tingling with anticipation. I can feel it down to my very bones. Dana’s ragged breaths, the soft crackle of the torchlights against the damp stones, the muted sound of our footsteps—it’s all a beautiful symphony; nothing has ever made me feel this good.
And no one or nothing ever will.
We enter a small room.
The altar stands before us—a slab of ancient rock, its surface cracked, slick and stained with the echoes of past offerings. The whole room smells of blood and death. Above us, the domed ceiling is blackened with soot.
Back in the day, burning the corpse of our victim was part of the ritual. It’s harder to get away with murder now than it was centuries ago—especially when nearly everyone here is well connected. Though, I’m not sure anyone would miss Dana…
I’ve dreamed of completing the entire ritual one night.
The Spirit would be especially pleased. Cedric throws our sacrificial lamb onto the altar. Dana thrashes, wild and desperate, like a rabbit caught in a snare. Her limbs jerk, her back arching. Her sobs are broken, raw.
She’s perfect .
I place a hand on her shoulder, slamming her back down against the altar.
“Shh,” I murmur, my voice smooth. Almost comforting. “It’s alright.”
She shakes her head violently, her disheveled hair making her look like an unkempt doll. She breathes in frantic gasps. I pity her for a moment—what a tragedy it is to be weak.
That’s when Eden crosses my mind. She could’ve been easily caught in our snare earlier today, if I wasn’t there to protect her. Now, she’ll never be in danger because she has me. And this ritual is one of the ways I’ll ensure that she’s always safe.
“It’s not—this isn’t—please…”
Pathetic.
I nod to Alistair.
With practiced movements he pulls out the restraints from beneath the altar. The thick leather is cracked and stained with age. It’s hundreds of years old, the same ones used from the inception of The Order.
Dana fights.
It doesn’t matter.
Max grips her wrists.
Cedric holds her ankles.
Alistair binds her to the cold stone.
I rip off her clothes.
“Please, I don’t understand?—”
“So much begging,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face. I keep my fingers light. “You’ll understand soon enough.”
I take a step back. We assume our positions.
Cedric stands North, grounding us to the physical world .
Alistair stands East, connecting us to a higher consciousness.
Max stands West, becoming our link to the spiritual world.
And I take my position in the South, bringing raw power and the energy of both creation and destruction. The moment we’re all in place, the Spirit seeps into my body.
“Hoc est corpus meum.”
“This is my body.”
We chant in unison.
First low and rhythmic. It rolls through the chamber in waves, growing louder, reverberating off the stone walls. The torches flicker violently as the words pass our lips, the flame stretching, contorting, answering.
The Spirit materializes then.
I’m watching from above as The Spirit takes full control of my body.
This is where the real fun begins. As leader of The Order of The Holy Sacrament, I am The Spirit’s chosen vessel. Each time It possesses me, my consciousness floats away—leaving an empty shell for It to control.
“With pain, I awaken the power within. Through sacrifice, we are made anew. This sacred act binds fate and forges destiny in Shadow.” My voice is warped, sounding like a throng of voices twisted together.
Cedric steps forward first. The knife glints in his hand as he presses the blade just below her collarbone, slicing deep.
Dana’s shrieks fill the chamber.
The Spirit trembles with desire at the sound of her voice.
My eyes have turned the color of tar, my skin paler than alabaster .
Blood wells up from the wound, dark and rich. Trailing down her skin in slow rivulets. Max tilts a golden chalice beneath her, collecting every drop with reverence.
The second cut is deeper.
My hand stretches out over Dana.
She whimpers, her struggles weaker, her body trembling and held down by the weight of The Spirit. Her whimpers fade into silence.
With one chalice filled, Max moves on to the second.
Another cut, more blood.
By the time all four chalices are filled, the sight of the blood has The Spirit’s bloodlust pulsing through every inch of my body—even my cock is hard.
Max passes the chalices around.
I lift the chalice to my lips, taking long sips. The warmth coats my tongue, filling my mouth with the delicious metallic taste. It’s bitter and thick, burning through me like fire, filling my chest, my veins, my soul.
The catacombs tremble. A sharp wind howls through the tunnels. The air shifts, rushing through the chamber in circles, kicking up the ancient dust.
Power.
This is the real truth.
This is the real divine.
Dana’s breath shudders, her eyelids fluttering. Her lips are stuck on a silent plea. She’s weak, small—nothing. The Spirit compels me to take the blade from Max, and I press the blade to her cheek. She can’t even manage a whimper.
Over the next few minutes, I cut her, slicing nearly every inch of her skin. Each cut is slower and more deliberate than the last. Her blood trickles down, pooling at the base of the altar as a gift to The Spirit .
Dana’s chest heaves, her body jerking against the leather straps. She blinks rapidly, her pupils dilated. I lean down, licking the blood from her cheek.
She’s losing blood. A lot of it.
The Spirit thrashes within me, desiring more.
“It’s been decades since my adherents have given me the pleasure of a soul. I’ve grown weary of blood. I want more. I will give you more in exchange.”
I take the blade to her neck.
“Silas!” Cedric shouts.
My hand stills.
The Spirit grows restless.
“Continue!”
I press the blade into her neck, but the three of them begin to chant in unison.
“By the balance of all forces, we return you to the void from whence you came.”
My body starts to contort. The Spirit thrashes, screeching through my mind as it exits my body through my mouth. I come back to reality, the blade against Dana’s neck.
I’m tempted. The sheer power that would become mine from simply killing her? I can only imagine it. My veneration of The Spirit is what worship is truly about. Not bending before a god. No, it’s about becoming a God yourself.
Alistair, Cedric and Max’s eyes are all on me.
This has been happening as of recently. The Spirit wants more than we are—well they are—willing to give it. But without them, the ritual can’t be done.
I drop the knife from my hand. A quiet tautness hangs in the air.
Alistair breaks the silence. “When she comes to, she’ll remember everything. ”
“Well, we’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Max says.
I take a vial from my pocket, handing it to Max who passes it to Alistair. It’s small, unassuming and filled with a clear liquid, thick like oil. Dana is nearly catatonic. She’s lost an immense amount of blood. She will die in hours, minutes even. But the vial will fix that, and more.
Alistair opens the vial, holding it between his fingers.
I smile, stepping closer to Dana to tilt her chin upwards. She looks up at me, unfocused. A soft warbled moan leaks out of her parted lips.
“You don’t want to remember this, do you?” I murmur, my thumb smearing the blood on her cheeks. She lets out a shuddering breath.
I feel it more than I hear it.
“No—no, please?—”
All this girl does is beg. It pisses me off.
“Shh,” I murmur again, pressing my palm to her forehead.
By now, Alistair has filled a syringe with the contents of the needle. It increases one’s blood count when there is significant blood loss, but when injected into the bloodstream it puts the recipient into a trance.
I could care less about her blood count, the trance is what’s important. Alistair finds the vein in her arm. It takes a few seconds, but her eyes start to flutter, then her body tenses for just a few seconds until it goes slack.
I hover over her, waiting.
She blinks once. Twice. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the color of her eyes—they’re dark and endless. A window into her mind, a blank state for me to manipulate.
Perfect.
I lean over, my voice lowering to a whisper .
“This is a dream,” I say slowly. “Nothing more.”
Dana stares blankly, her breath even now.
“You don’t remember Max. You don’t remember any of us. You will remember walking to the chapel. Kneeling. Praying.”
Her lips part slightly, repeating. “Praying.”
“You will remember feeling lightheaded, dizzy, needing to lie down. You fell asleep and had this dream.”
Another flicker of understanding. “Dizzy…”
“That’s all.”
Dana nods slowly. I’m molding her mind like clay.
“Nothing happened here.”
“Nothing happened here,” she echoes.
I watch.
I wait.
Finally, I see my words take hold in her feeble mind. Her body goes slack and her eyes close as she falls into a deep sleep. The Order leaves no loose ends. Power still thrums beneath my skin, though there’s an emptiness inside from where the spirit once was. I straighten my robe.
“She’s ready.”
I take my leave before everyone else. As the leader, I do not take part in the cleanup—unless someone is killed. I walk through the catacombs. It should be a few hours before sunrise now. Dana will survive.
She’ll be confused, but alive.
Running my tongue over my teeth, I relish the taste of her blood. My mind feels exceptionally clear, and I’m riding on a high that I’ve missed for too long. Cold air greets me as I ascend the stone steps. I feel the last tendrils of The Spirit leaving me as I return to the mortal world.
“We’ll meet again soon, Silas.”
Turning, I give the catacombs one last look before I pull my hood over my head and disappear into the darkness. I grin. The Spirit has given me its guidance, its favor, its approval. But most of all, I have received its power.
The reign of Silas Peregrine-Ashford IV, the future Duke of Surrey, shall continue.
All I need now is my duchess.