Chapter Twenty-Three
Damien
I drive like a man possessed. Because I am.
The road blurs, trees melting into shadows. I can hear her. Feel her. Every scream. Every sob. It carves out my sanity, bleeds me dry. They’re hurting her. My little flower. My angel. And I will make them pay.
I taste blood. My own. I’ve been grinding my teeth so hard my gums have split, the iron tang flooding my tongue. But I welcome the pain. It feeds me. Fuels me. Prepares me for what I’m about to do.
The moment I hear the chanting, I know I’ve arrived in Hell.
I abandon the car, shoving the door open so violently it nearly rips off its hinges. My boots hit the dirt, and I run. The scent of fire hangs thick in the air.
I see her. Chained. Suspended above the flames like an offering to a creature that doesn’t exist.
This village has no idea what it just unleashed.
I shoot the masked man holding the chain in an instant, and he crumples like a ragdoll, his head erupting in a wet explosion of crimson. The second man barely has time to turn before I send a bullet straight between his eyes.
The crowd erupts in screams. People scatter, running like the vermin they are. But two older men stay, still trying to lower my little flower to complete the sacrifice.
"You cannot stop this," one of them bellows. "The sacrifice must be completed. We offer her to the Hellkeeper—"
He must have missed the demons in my eyes. I raise the gun and fire. The bullet drives straight through his open mouth.
The other scrambles to lower Amelia down, frantically pulling at the chains. I cross the distance in two strides, grab him by the throat, and slam him into the ground so hard his skull cracks against the packed dirt. The chanting dies in a strangled gurgle.
My hands shake as I unchain her, as I cradle her fragile, beaten body against mine.
"I’m here," I murmur. "I’m sorry, little flower. But I swear to you, I’ll make them suffer for every second you were in pain."
She’s crying. Weak. But alive.
“I knew you’d come,” she whispers. “I knew it.”
I brush her blood-matted hair from her face. "I’ll take care of everything. Just rest."
I carry her to the car, tucking her inside before pressing my lips to hers. Gentle. Reverent. The only soft thing left in me. I turn back to the village with the cans of gasoline I fetched from the trunk.
The time for revenge has come. All one hundred and twenty-eight acres of this space will go up in flames. All one hundred and forty-nine people will burn today.
I move like a demon through this rotten village, gasoline in one hand, gun in the other. My heart pounds, breath ragged from pure fury, from the sheer, unrelenting need to watch them all burn.
I begin with the first cottage. The fuel sloshes against the dry wood, soaking into the cracks. The scent of gasoline chokes the night air. A man stumbles out, eyes wide with terror, coughing on the fumes. He barely gets a word out before I put a bullet between his eyes. His body crumples to the dirt, lifeless.
I keep moving. The crops, this village’s lifeblood, I drench them in gasoline. The stench thickens, suffocating and intoxicating. A man rushes at me, trying to slap the can from my hand. I barely acknowledge him before shoving him back. There’s so much rage inside me that my strength feels inhuman.
A group comes next, five or maybe six men. Desperate. Terrified. They think they can stop me. That they can save this place.
There is no saving them after what they did to Amelia.
I pull the trigger. One drops. Another staggers, clutching his gut, then collapses. The rest hesitate, their courage bleeding out. One turns to run, I shoot him in the back.
Cowards.
I strike a match and flick it into the gasoline-soaked field. The fire erupts, an orange beast devouring the crops, crawling up the fences, racing toward the cottages.
Screams.
Panicked voices cry out. Some order water, others plead to gods that never existed.
A woman shrieks as flames catch her dress. She spins, slapping at herself, until she falls. Another man hauls a bucket from the well, hands trembling so hard he spills most of it. I shoot him before he can throw a drop.
Some of them still try to put out the fire with the little resources they have, or dart into the woods like rats. But very few of them actually try to stop me, not that they’ll succeed either way, but it shows just how cowardly they are. Nothing more than sheep who don’t know what to do now that their elders have died. I cut them off, one by one, like a butcher picking his cuts. They’ve already made their choice. They chose to burn her. So now, I burn them all. No mercy.
I watch, expressionless, as figures crawl from the inferno, coughing, crying, begging. It doesn’t matter.
I raise my gun.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
One by one, they drop.
Those who try to run, I shoot without hesitation. The others, too terrified to move, I push into the hell they created. I watch it all, unaffected by the blaze.
Smoke thickens the air, choking the sky, turning it into a blood-stained haze. I keep going. Keep hunting. Keep burning. Until there’s nothing left but ashes and corpses.
And I stand there, watching it all.
This is what they deserve.
The smoke begins to get to me . My eyes sting, and a rough cough tears out of my throat. I leave the village square after making sure there's no hope left for any of them.
But then I see the white truck, the one they came in, with Linda trying to escape it. Without hesitation, I pour the rest of the fuel over the hood, drenching it until gasoline runs down the sides and pools beneath the tires.
I strike another match. Flick it into the gas-soaked engine block.
The fire erupts instantly. The truck ignites, a blaze roaring beneath the metal. Glass windows shatter from the heat.
The glass explodes in my face. Shards slice into my cheek, but I feel no pain. Only satisfaction.
Linda looks at me with pleading eyes, silently begging, but I just watch her burn. That’s what she deserves for what she has done.
I leave before the fire spreads enough to trap me and make my way to the car, parked far enough to avoid the worst of it. Still, the heat licks at my back. The fire will spread, fast.
I slide into the driver’s seat, ready to get Amelia out of here.
But before I can start the engine, her bloodied hand rests on mine.
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
I understand.
She wants to watch. Just a little longer.
So I let her.
She isn’t just mine, she is me. Cut her, and I bleed. Hurt her, and I become death itself. My love isn’t gentle. It’s all-consuming. If she cries, I will carve out the tongues that spoke against her. If she bleeds, I will drown the world in the blood of those who hurt her. There is no limit. No end. Only fire. Only ruin. Only the bodies I would stack at her feet just to keep her safe.
I would burn everything. Everyone. Until there is nothing left but her and me in the ashes.
Together, we witness the last embers of this wretched place die.
Together, we end it all.