Chapter 17 Melody
Melody
The grinding, gnawing feeling in the back of my skull takes over all rational thought.
It's all I can feel. It's all I can think.
I need to wrap my hands around someone's throat—anyone—and watch the life drain from their eyes.
I'm twitching in the prison-style cot. My teeth chatter as I clench my fists, trying to force myself to think about something else. Anything else.
But it doesn't work. My nails dig little half-moons into my palms with the pressure. I try to focus on the pain, but it just makes me need it more.
I need blood. Preferably Ella's but at this point? I'm not picky. Every muscle in my body is strung taut like a bow. My eyes burn, and my mouth feels gritty and dry.
Can't think. Need blood. Can't think. Need blood.
I bite my tongue to keep the mantra internal, but it spills out of me, anyway.
My voice echoes around the cinderblock room, taunting me, teasing me.
It doesn't even sound like me. It sounds like the vicious little voice in my head that repeats Charlie's words.
Fat bitch. Can't even kill anyone. Pathetic.
"I can!" I scream into the empty room. "I can! Watch me—fucking watch me!"
"God, you're so annoying," Hannah complains as she stomps up to my cell door. "You give people like us a bad name."
People like us? What? What does she mean—what's she talking about? I roll my head from side to side, willing the nervous tension to abate. She watches me with a look of disgust, her lip curled over her teeth.
"You're so fucking weird. No wonder Roman hates you."
My hands are claws. My nails are knives. I need to rip and tear and slash and kill—
"He warned me about you, you know," Hannah continues. "He said you get… like this. And there's only one thing that helps."
She disappears again but quickly returns with…
someone. I can't see their face. They have a grungy yellow pillowcase tied around their head, and their hands bound behind their back.
Hannah whips out her key ring and quickly unlocks my cell, shoving the person inside.
They hit the floor with a thud and let out a tiny whimper.
"Go ahead, girl," Hannah whispers. "I wanna see this for myself."
"No," the person pleads. "No, please, please! Don't!"
Oh, good. It's a man. He's probably done something horrific in his days.
I stalk closer, quietly, tilting my head to the side.
I focus on the rapidly fluttering vein in his neck.
His heartbeat. There's so much blood in the human body.
I don't remember exactly how much, but I yearn for the deep crimson. I need it.
I need to see it spill. I need to see it spray from wherever I hack and slash. I need to see it pool under his corpse. I need him dead.
The man shivers on the floor, unable to push himself up.
He just… huddles there in a fetal position.
Well, fetal position and arms behind his back.
He yanks at his bindings. It's not the crappy, cheap handcuffs like Ella used—no, it's zip ties.
Thick, substantial zip ties. He wriggles and writhes, trying to break free.
That won't do.
Baring my teeth, I pounce on the man and rip at him with my claws. My nails barely scratch the surface, but the skin breaks—a tiny bit. Microscopic beads of red well up. A deep groan rumbles in my chest. I need more. I need fucking more.
Clank!
The noise startles me, and I flinch. My vision is blurred, but it looks like Hannah threw me…
something. Something metal. Something long.
With a shaking hand, I snatch up the object and feel it all around.
It's a metal rod—rusty, but useful. My hands flex around the rod, and I pull it close to my chest.
Yes. Yes. This is good.
Rearing back, I swing for the fences, and the metal connects with the man's ribs. The reverberation zips up my arms and down my spine. Ohhhh, fuck, that's good. He lets out a yelp, and I bite my lower lip, hard.
"Please, no, please, no, no, no, no," the man mumbles. I roll my shoulders and rear back before bringing the rod down on his head. He screams and delicious red blooms through the pillowcase. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Screaming like a banshee, I hit him. Again.
And again. And again. Every time the rod connects with his head, he jolts, but he doesn't make any more noise.
Red stains the end of the rod, and I reach out to touch the substance.
Another shiver rolls down my spine as his blood coats my hand.
I smear it on my face, my other hand, my body—everywhere.
I need to be covered in it. I need to feel the heat of his body seep away. I need to see the light fade from his eyes.
My hands are still trembling as I drop to my knees and struggle to untie the pillowcase. As soon as it's off, my stomach lurches.
"No."
"Yes!" Hannah cackles. "Wasn't he one of yours?"
A very dead Forge stares lifelessly at the ceiling. I can only recognize him by the color of his hair. His face is completely caved in, covered in blood, bone shards poking through—but it's him.
I killed Forge.
I fucking killed Forge.
My stomach roils again, and I twist away, retching. Tears stream down my face as I plead with any god who might be listening. No. No. No. No. No. Bring him back. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to do that. I didn't mean to hurt him. I didn't mean to kill him.
But I killed Forge.
"Ella's going to break you," Hannah says with a giggle. "She's going to break you and rebuild you, and you're going to kill your own husband. It's going to be hilarious. And Roman's gonna love every second of it."
I can barely hear the lunatic ravings of this woman.
I can't hear anything but the repetition in my mind: I killed Forge.
I killed Forge. I killed Forge. My whole body convulses as I reach toward his body, clutching at his bloodstained clothes, sobbing and screaming.
I pull the man's corpse into my arms, and I rock myself back and forth.
"Don't be dead," I plead. "Don't. Please. Please, Forge. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I didn't fucking mean it!"
"But you did it!" Hannah gloats in a singsong voice. "You did it, and you'll do it again!"
"I fucking won't," I snarl, snapping my gaze to her face. "I fucking won't. The only people I'm going to kill here are you and that bitch!"
"Sure, sure. We'll see, girly. Once you get crazy like that, we could point you at anyone." She grins again. "It's going to be so fun."
I clutch Forge's body to mine until he grows cold.
His blood no longer oozes to the floor. His eyes don't flutter.
His body is completely still. He's gone.
He's fucking gone. Hannah did this—Hannah made me do this.
But did she? I was clawing at the walls, acting like a fiend, and she just…
tossed him in. She gave me the man and the tool.
But she didn't hold a gun to my head. I did it. I did this. I killed Forge.
I'll never forgive myself, and Dante is going to hate me.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper to Forge's corpse. "I'm so fucking sorry."
Sleep is the only reprieve I get from this hellscape.
I sleep; I wake. I eat; I drink. I sleep again.
Forge's lifeless face haunts me when I'm awake.
I dream vividly, seeing his horrified expression.
Even in my dreams, I can't stop myself. He begs and pleads.
I scream my apologies. I sob as my body does what it wants: I kill him.
I kill Forge, over and over, even in my dreams.
But I can't keep myself awake. The drowsiness doesn't go away. My eyelids feel so fucking heavy, and my limbs move slower than I want. Reaching up to rub the grit from my eyes, I smack myself in the face and hiss in pain. It feels… familiar. It feels like I've been drugged. But how?
I giggle at the thought. I barely eat, and I drink the minuscule amount of water Hannah provides, so how could they be drugging me?
Maybe an IV in my sleep? With fuzzy vision, I look down at my arms. There are bruises everywhere, of course, but nothing that would suggest an injection. Or repeated injections.
But what do I know? I'm not a nurse. Or a doctor. My passion lies in ripping people apart, not sewing them back together.
My stomach twists again, and my mouth fills with the disgusting taste of bile.
Fuck, no. I can't think about ripping anyone's throat out.
But I did that. I did it. The words repeat in my mind.
I see Dante's face, twisted in disgust. Melnyk's steel gray eyes fill with tears as he screams at me. Helena looks at me like I'm a monster.
I am a fucking monster.
Maybe Ella should have left Forge's corpse in my room. Maybe she should have made me watch him bloat and decompose, like we watched in her basement. Maybe that would be an appropriate punishment.
Curling my knees to my chest, I stare at the crumbling mortar between each cinderblock.
Higher on the walls, some of the old paint remains.
I imagine it used to be white, but now it's a sickly yellow.
Smudges of blackish grey accompany the smoker's-house yellow.
I don't know what they are, but I can imagine they have to do with the violence of this place.
I belong here. Ella's right. I belong here in this forgotten prison.
But I won't kill my husband—I won't. She can't make me.
She can break my bones and rip out my hair, scream in my face, stab me—but I fucking won't kill my husband.
I can't say the same about her. The thought twists my stomach again.
Sweat beads on my forehead and down my back while shivers wrack my spine.
Nausea bubbles up again, but I force it back down with a hard swallow.
I am a monster, and she ruined me. She took away the thing that gave me relief. Was it horrible? Yes. But I was good at it. Dante watched me with loving, soulful eyes in his basement—our basement—and praised me for my work. I was good at killing. But the thought sickens me now. Ella did that to me.
Taking in a wheezing breath, I squint my eyes shut and count to four while slowly exhaling.
I can control this. I can control myself.
I can get a hold of my… situation… and redirect it.
There are only two people on my kill list: Ella and Hannah.
I can do that. They'll be the last people I take from this earth, and I will enjoy it. They can't fucking take that from me.
"You can't fucking take this from me!" I hiss. "You can't. You can't. You can't."
God, I sound insane. Maybe I am like Hannah. But it feels so good to repeat the words. It's an affirmation, another mantra: a promise to myself and the universe that Ella won't break me. She can't. She just can't.
"Don't you just look like shit?" Ella pops in and stares down at me, smirking as I rub the gritty sleep from my eyes. "Perfect match for your husband. I really don't know what you see in him—he looks awful. All that rich-boy shine has worn off."
A pang of longing shoots through my gut. It's torture to know he's so close, but I can't find him. I can't see him. I can't get to him. Glaring at Ella, I say nothing.
"He gave us a real scare yesterday," she continues. Like we're two besties just catching up. "Threw a fit. Shoved me, hit Hannah, and booked it out of his room. So ungrateful."
"He got out?" I gasp.
"Don't get ahead of yourself. There's nowhere for him to go.
He ran around the compound before tiring himself out—well, no, Hannah tired him out.
He wanted to find you, but she made him forget pretty quick.
" Ella's blue eyes flash with a malicious glee.
Her perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth are exposed in a menacing smile.
"What the fuck do you mean by that?" I hiss.
Fury simmers in my veins at what she's implying.
Hannah dared to touch him? Actually, fuck what I said before.
I'm more than happy to be the monster. I'll be his monster.
I'll fuck her up. I'll rip out her veins one by one—I'll feed her her own intestines.
I'll rip out her toenails and shove them in her eyes. I will fucking ruin her.
"Relax, heifer." Ella points a finger at me, and I prickle. "She gave him a shot of tranquilizer. He dropped like a sack of bricks—got a bit of a shiner from it, too."
"Why are you here?" I ask, trying desperately to change the subject. She knows bringing up Dante riles me—she knows it's the best way to get me in a frenzy. And with her on the other side of these fucking bars, there's nothing I can do.
"Just checkin' in, Melly-bean. Wondering how you're doing since you had your little fit over the guard guy.
Do you still see his face?" She leans in close, wrapping her hands around two of the cell bars.
"Do you see him behind your eyes? Do you see his caved-in face?
Do you hear his pathetic pleas for mercy? "
I slap my hands over my ears, and shove my head under the threadbare pillow. Just like she said, Forge's terrified eyes flash in my mind. Fuck. Fuck!
"God, you're so fucking crazy." Ella snickers. "Good. Keep it up. I can't wait for the Nephilim to see you like this."
"Why does that matter?" I ask, throwing the pillow to the dingy floor. "Why does he care?"
"Proof of concept. The Goetia has fallen far, and you're tangible proof."
"What the fuck does that even mean?"
Ella grimaces and tightens her grip on the bars.
"They're handed everything. They're rewarded for being fuckin' born.
I worked for this—I worked for all of this.
Me. Not my daddy, not my grandpop, me. And the Goetic Consortium?
Dante was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
He didn't work for his money. He didn't work for his influence.
It was all handed to him. Filthy, little, rich boy.
But the Goetia has been diluting the bloodlines.
A couple hundred years ago, Dante's wife would have been hand-picked before he was born.
But not anymore. And he chose you. Some absolutely insane nobody.
You're proof that the Goetia is weak, and it's time to wage fuckin' war. "
She rattles the bars of my cage and stomps off. Why on earth does she care how GoCon works?