Chapter Five Violet
Chapter Five
Violet
By the time I made it back home from the lake, I felt like I was wearing someone else’s skin, the itch below the surface almost unbearable.
The chill from the night had seeped into my bones like a sickness, and my cardigan was useless to keep out the cold.
I hadn’t said goodbye to Grayson. I’d just left him there in the dark, watching me with those too-perceptive eyes, like he already knew every broken piece I was trying to keep hidden.
And he hadn’t tried to stop me. He didn’t call for me, didn’t touch me to keep me in place. It was like he knew I had to go . . . for my sanity.
Once home, I locked the door behind me and double-checked the windows. Every shadow in the house felt alive. Talking about those murders, knowing what they meant and how they made me feel, was as if I were wrapped in a live wire.
Every creak in the floorboards was a whisper, or maybe a scream. I’d spent years convincing myself I was free, that I’d outrun the blood-soaked truth of who I used to be.
But tonight, standing alone in the quiet with only the memories of a life I was trying to outrun, the past wrapped its icy hands around my neck.
You’ve seen something. Lived something.
Grayson’s voice echoed in my mind, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push everything out.
He wasn’t wrong. He was just too damn close to the truth, and it made me uncomfortable. It made me feel seen.
I moved to the sink, grabbed a mug that had been drying since this morning, a tea bag from the canister on the counter, and filled the electric kettle with water. This was my routine. It was familiar, and something I had control over.
When the water was heated, my hands shook as I poured it into the mug. I spilled a little, burning my hand and cursing in pain. I hissed and looked down at the reddening skin, the pain diminishing as my mind clouded over.
My real name sat on my tongue like acid.
Vienna.
I squeezed my eyes shut tightly. I hadn’t said that name—hadn’t even thought of it—since I reinvented myself. But at this moment, I allowed the past to open up like floodgates.
Marcus used to say my name with reverence. Like it meant salvation.
You were chosen for a reason, Vienna. You were chosen to save us and everyone else.
Even now, his voice could find me, and I fucking hated it. I wanted to scrub my mind clean of him and everything I once knew.
Backing away from the counter, my heart thudding hard against my ribs, I moved into the living room, roaming aimlessly. I sank down onto the couch with the mug pressed between my palms for warmth I couldn’t feel.
The lights were off, the TV lifeless in front of me. I just sat there in the silence, the nothingness stretching out into the abyss.
Then I heard it.
It wasn’t loud, but I heard. A sound drifting from outside. Could it have been my paranoia? Of course. But that didn’t stop sheer panic from filling me.
I froze, held my breath, and strained to hear. For long seconds I heard . . . nothing. But then it came again—low, rasping, like a voice caught in the wind, or a chant unraveling in the trees.
It couldn’t be. I shook my head, sweat beading on my forehead as adrenaline rushed through my veins.
This all had to be in my head. Residual trauma, maybe a lingering delusion from the terror I felt building in me, not helped by speaking to Grayson just hours before.
This wasn’t the first time I thought the cult had come for me.
But this time, the doubt crept in stronger. I wondered if my mind was splintering, if the whispers were just echoes of my fear, or if Grayson—with his intense gaze and hidden motives—might not be who he seemed.
I set the mug down and went to the back door. I reassured myself the lock was in place, and pulled open the small curtain covering the window just an inch to look outside.
For long seconds I saw nothing. But then—there, a swatch of moonlight casting a glow over . . . whatever it was. A flicker of movement, humanoid in shape, shifting just beyond the tree line.
Don’t do it, my survival instinct screamed in my head.
But it was too late. I was already unlocking the door, my body on autopilot and everything else fading away.
The cold air slapped against my exposed skin as I padded barefoot over the damp grass. Everything felt too quiet. Too still.
The whisper had stopped—but the feeling hadn’t. There was a crawling sense of dread that I was being watched. That someone was here, untouchable but close enough. I felt them breathing down my neck.
I followed a faint trail of broken ferns and scuffed earth until I reached the old oak that marked the edge of my property. Something caught the moonlight. It was a pale slash against the dark bark, too straight and deliberate to be natural.
I stopped in front of the tree, my heart pounding in my throat as I stared at the etching carved into the bark. My lungs locked. The symbol from my nightmares stared back at me, fresh and glistening, as if the blade had only just been pulled free.
The symbol was unmistakable. Undeniable.
Unforgettable.
My knees almost buckled under the weight of it. The proof was carved into living wood that the nightmares I’d carried for years weren’t ghosts anymore. They were here, breathing the same air I was.
Terror slammed through me, cold and sharp . . . but beneath it, threaded so tightly I was ashamed to feel it, came a sick, dizzying relief.
The waiting was over. The worst thing had finally happened.
And somehow, in the ruin of that certainty, a tiny, traitorous part of me could finally exhale.
Within a circle was a triangle, and inside that was a bleeding eye.
I never thought I’d see it again in person.
It was the symbol that marked every offering given to the Blood God, carved into flesh before the final prayer. With shaky fingers, I touched the destroyed bark, feeling splinters under the pads of my fingers.
It was fresh, and I jerked my hand away, curling my fingers into my palm. Nausea hit me so hard I nearly doubled over. Closing my eyes, I shook my head, repeating my mantra as if I could wake up from this nightmare.
But this wasn’t a hallucination, some dream I could rouse from. This was real. Someone had been here, someone from the Bleeding Ground had come to remind me of where I came from.
Panic bloomed in my chest, clawing up my throat until I couldn’t breathe, until I raked my nails over my neck. I stumbled, nearly falling, and ran to the house without looking back. I slammed the door, locked it, but it was already too late.
I couldn’t hide. They’d found me.
My mind was a whirlwind.
Was it Grayson? I wanted to place blame on someone, anyone, within reach. He knew what the symbol was. We’d seen it together on his laptop.
But no. That seemed too obvious. I’d buried Vienna deep in the pits of hell. I’d changed my name, erased every trace of my identity. I thought I had, anyway.
I backed away from the door, every part of me buzzing with adrenaline and the sick, dizzying edge of disbelief.
I didn’t remember climbing the stairs, but somehow I ended up in my bedroom, tearing open the closet, dropping to my knees, and pulling out the scarred, dusty box I’d tucked away deep in the back, where I could pretend to forget about it.
I hadn’t touched it in years, but I thought about it almost daily. It was hard to forget hell when you had experienced it firsthand.
My hands hovered over the lid, but I was reluctant to open it. In the end, I tore the top open and stared at the contents inside.
I couldn’t explain why I’d kept any of these items. Maybe as a reminder that I wasn’t a good person, that no matter how far I ran, no matter how much I changed myself, I’d still been a part of something atrocious.
My hand shook as I reached in and pulled out the linen robe I’d been forced to wear during the ceremonies.
The material felt like blades on my skin, and I let it fall to the floor.
My journal lay beneath that, and although I didn’t open it, I remembered all the things I’d written in there, my fears and hopes, my confusion and questions.
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.