Chapter Thirty-One Violet
Chapter Thirty-One
Violet
When morning came, it wasn’t gentle.
Now, I sat at the edge of the couch, knees drawn up, blanket around my shoulders and more scared than I’d ever been in my life.
Because today the whole truth would finally come out.
But something else sat in me, too. It was a low hum of .
. . resolve, like I was closing a chapter in the book of my life for the first time.
Grayson stirred on the couch behind me, the heavy weight of his hand lightly touching the small of my back.
“Didn’t sleep?” His voice was drowsy, deep and husky laced.
I didn’t verbally respond, just shook my head.
“It’ll be okay, baby.”
I rested my chin on my knees and exhaled. “I hope so.”
He shifted behind me, strong legs on either side of mine, arms wrapped tightly around my body. I rested against him, and for long minutes we stayed like that, the silence a welcome companion.
With a kiss to the side of my neck, he got up and threw on a pair of sweats. He was a shadow moving through the house, his presence as steady as the four walls holding us in. When he brought me a cup of coffee, his eyes were sharp, dark, and unwavering, like he was ready for whatever was coming.
I went through the motions of showering, dressing, and choking down a light breakfast. When the knock came hours later, I didn’t flinch.
Grayson sat beside me on the couch, his body taut with readiness, his hand already on his gun, as if the cult would knock and ask for entrance.
He pulled the slats of the blinds down and peered outside. When he opened the door, Marie Brownstein stood on the other side with several people at her back.
The air was heavy and thick as they all entered.
“Good morning, Ms. Santos.”
“Violet, please.”
She gestured to the men with her. “These are Detectives Kaufmann and Lawson. And this”—she held her hand out to a middle-aged woman—“is ADA Mowery.” Her gaze flicked to her watch.
“Your counsel should be arriving any minute. And for clarity, Agents Skillet and Landry are no longer assigned to this matter. The bureau determined it falls outside federal jurisdiction, so this is now a local investigation.” A knock sounded right after she spoke, and Grayson let in a man who I assumed was the attorney.
Detectives Kaufmann and Lawson seemed tense as they stood off to the side.
Marie and ADA Mowery smiled softly at me, as if trying to counterbalance the severity in the room.
Although they were in plain clothes, no one would mistake them for anything but cops.
And ADA Mowery, even with her stern posture and her stretched blazer, had kind eyes.
The attorney introduced himself as Kevin Steinbach. He looked to be in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a calm, no-nonsense air to him. He gave me a nod, then positioned himself on my other side on the couch, setting his briefcase on the coffee table.
“Before my client says a word, I want it clear this is a proffer session. She’s here in good faith to give you everything she knows.”
The living room was too small for all of them, and their presence was suffocating. But Grayson placed his hand on my knee, and once again I felt a steady calmness filling me.
Marie started gently. “Violet, we know this isn’t easy. We’re here to take your statement at your pace.”
I sat taller. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
Detective Kaufmann moved to stand behind Marie, a legal pad at the ready. “You can start wherever makes sense. From the beginning, or from the most recent threats.”
My palms were slick against my thighs, but my voice came out steadier than I felt. “I’ll start at the beginning. You won’t understand the threats unless you understand what the cult believes.”
ADA Mowery’s brows lifted, pen already scratching across the page.
I forced air into my lungs and let it out slowly.
“I was a child when they found me. I remember little of my life before.” I rubbed my hands together on my legs until they felt raw.
“My memories before the Bleeding Ground were just a series of foster homes that blurred together. Marcus—the one who calls himself the Prophet of the Bleeding Ground—told me that was fate. That I was empty because I was destined to be filled with the Family.” I told them about my time in Ohio, about the routine that was placed on me.
I tried to not leave out any detail. “I was barely a teenager—too young to escape with no money, no education, no idea how the outside world even worked.”
Kaufmann’s pen squeaked, halting for half a beat.
“Marcus made everyone feel chosen. That was his power. He didn’t scream, didn’t rage.
He looked at you and said you were seen.
The Blood God demanded sacrifice, but in return He would make us eternal.
Fear was proof we belonged, he said. So when we shook, when we bled, it was a holy sign that we were loved.
” My voice caught but didn’t break. I made myself look at ADA Mowery’s gaze as I spoke.
“They branded me when I was thirteen. Burned the sigil into my skin as a coming-of-age rite, a permanent mark of obedience. They called the marking a small price to pay for my obedience, that I was now tied to our god.”
“Like a fucked-up wedding?” Detective Lawson chimed in.
I shrugged but then nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. Just a hell of a lot darker. We were bound to the Blood God, not just our physical bodies, but our eternal souls. We crawled until our skin tore. Prayed until our throats bled.”
Marie’s knuckles went white where she clasped her notebook.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “The rituals escalated the older we got. What started with animals was nothing more than rehearsal. Warm-ups for what the Blood God truly demanded.”
I forced myself to keep my gaze level, though my stomach churned.
“Drifters first. Homeless, runaways. People Marcus said no one would miss. But when he decided the Blood God wasn’t answering loud enough, he turned inward.
He locked himself away for days, demanding bowls of blood from the ones that were already killed.
He said he was feeding his god directly, that it was the only way the Blood God would whisper His commands. ”
The memory clawed its way up my throat. “Marcus painted the walls and floors with it. Symbols, oaths, ramblings in a language no one understood but him. He said it was scripture, that every line was a binding promise.”
I inhaled sharply, the smell of those nights still lodged in the back of my skull.
“And when he came out of that room . . .” My voice faltered, dropped to a whisper.
“God, the smell. Metal and rot. It clung to him, to his skin, to his hair. You could smell it before you even saw him. It was like death itself walked out with him, and you couldn’t breathe without tasting it. ”
“Jesus Christ,” Kaufmann muttered, pen moving faster across the page.
Detective Lawson’s stare was unflinching, sharp as a blade. The others stayed silent, waiting, because they knew there was more.
“Marcus was a master manipulator,” I went on, low and tight.
“He said the Blood God wasn’t dead, only buried.
Entombed deep beneath the earth since before man walked upon it.
Every sacrifice we made was supposed to feed Him, seep into the ground until He was strong enough to rise.
Strong enough to reclaim what had always belonged to Him thanks to the ultimate sacrifice of the Vessel. ”
ADA Mowery leaned forward slightly. “And the Vessel?”
A shiver raced down my spine. “The Vessel was the Chosen. One person who would willingly give themselves over to the Blood God. Marcus taught that when the Vessel’s blood spilled, that would be the key.
The lock would turn. The Blood God would rise.
” My voice broke into a whisper. “And when He did, we’d be rewarded.
We’d be immortal in His kingdom, while the Vessel would be given over to what Marcus called the garden of the dead.
A paradise where all their desires, all their dreams, would be granted in exchange for their offering. ”
Mowery’s pen went still. She looked at me, sharp. “And you believed this?”
I lifted my chin. “When you’re young and scared, and when the people who were supposed to care for you tell you that the world will end if you don’t obey—you believe. Or you pretend to. Pretending was survival.”
Grayson’s hand brushed mine, steadying, but when I glanced at him, his jaw was clenched too tight. His eyes were too fixed on the floor. It made something cold coil low in my stomach.
“I stayed because I didn’t know how to leave,” I said, voice even, the room narrowing around the confession.
“When I finally ran, I thought I could bury it—new name, new life. I thought that would be enough. But Marcus doesn’t let go.
He sends people. He sends threats. And now they’ve escalated: bodies left where someone’ll find them, hearts delivered to my doorstep like grotesque gifts.
” The words landed hard. My chest felt hollowed out afterward, the air in the room suddenly too thin to breathe.
Detective Kaufmann’s pen didn’t stop, but his jaw tightened. “Can you give us names? Any last name tied to Marcus?”
“No last names,” I said. “Marcus gave us identities. He invented us. Anna—she called herself the Mother Hen, her role was to recruit. Michael ran the kitchen. Frankie and Jameson took over ‘hunting.’ Then there was Stephanie. She was the one who taught us to endure pain and call it worship.” I let the names sit there, ugly and true.
“Everyone had a role. Roles shifted when Marcus needed them to.”
Lawson’s eyes went cold. “Hunting?”
“You don’t need me to explain hunting,” I said evenly. Slowly. “Marcus said the Blood God required escalation. The bowls were warmed with animal blood at first, but then . . . that changed. Sometimes they used outsiders. Sometimes our own.”