Chapter Twenty-Seven God Of Wrath
Briar
Th e roar of engines vibrated the concrete stadium I walked into.
The smell of burnt rubber and weed. I’d been amazed when we walked up from the parking lot at the bottom of a small hill to see the towering lights still worked for this place.
Assuming it had been someone’s parents’ money that got them powered up again.
Underground rap to death metal, the music that clamored into the night.
People who looked no older than fourteen smoked cigarettes by the center of the track, even people who looked close to thirty huddled together placing bets on the lunatics that raced around the cracked and broken track.
The Graveyard was everything I expected it to be.
Chaos. Mayhem. Rebellion.
“How have the police not shut this place down?” I yell over the craziness to Lyra who is leading me to a row of concrete seats that are open. They aren’t too far up, so we can see everything pretty clearly.
Including the makeshift boxing ring that sits in the center of the stadium. A large patch of dirt in the middle of the grass from where the green refused to grow after it had been stepped on too many times.
I cringed as I watched a kid my age crumble to the ground after a knee to the face.
If something like this was in my small town in Texas, the sheriff and half the county cops would be on it like white on rice.
“They know they won’t be able to do anything about it. You can’t arrest all of us that are here, and even if you do, most of the people here have enough money to be out of the handcuffs before they are even booked. It’s pointless.”
The night air is chilly and I’m thanking myself for wearing layers. The soft material of the hoodie paired with the large button up coat I’d thrown over it was doing the perfect job of keeping me warm.
My uninsulated Converse were a different story, I was pretty sure my feet might freeze off before the night was over.
Shoving my hands into my pockets to heat my fingers, as I watched two cars line up at the starting line.
“Ladies, gentlemen, whores and bastards, welcome, to The Graveyard!!”
Well that’s pleasant, I think as the surrounding crowd begins to rumble and scream. Clapping hands, hoots and chants make my stomach bubble with excitement. Lyra bumps my shoulder as she joins in on the clapping, encouraging me.
“As always, if you’re racing you should already be waiting in one of the pits. Please, no one walk on the track during the action, I don’t feel like scraping brains of the asphalt tonight.” He announces with a joking tone that makes the crowd cheer louder.
That should have scared them, it only ignited their exhilaration.
The first heat of cars rev their engines, the motors purring. We spend the first thirty minutes applauding as vehicles from Mustangs to Ferraris tear down the track. We weren’t even sure who we were rooting for but we knew it was fun.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking over between races for Alistair. The signature leather jacket was nowhere to be found and neither were his friends, not yet at least.
My curiosity wouldn’t let me leave it be. Leave him be.
I showed up to his dorm with a plan. Thank him for not killing my rat and returning her unharmed, she actually looked a little chunkier which meant he was feeding her a little too much, but I thought that was kinda cute.
I’d return the ring and we’d go our separate ways.
He knew I wasn’t involved in Rose’s death, he ensured I wouldn’t talk about Chris, and we’d cured whatever sexual tension had sizzled between us. There was no reason for us keep in contact.
I was supposed to be done with him.
Then he did what Alistair does best. He pushed me. He tempted me.
My brain wanted nothing to do with him. It knew that everything Alistair would be nothing but trouble and pain for me. But my curiosity, my body, they wanted just a little bit more.
Secretly, I also wanted to know about what they were up to.
I wanted to understand why they were looking so hard into Rose’s death and how it landed them in Mr. West’s office.
And if they didn’t plan on saying anything, I would, because there were more missing girls out there apparently and we couldn’t just let them be sold.
With timing I couldn’t have planned any better myself, I saw Thatcher’s blond hair reflect in the moonlight appearing from the entrance of the stadium. Silas in step behind him, wearing his hood down for the first time that I’ve seen.
Girls took immediate notice of this just as I had.
The gray skullcap beanie, paired with a sliver nose ring hoop that I had just noticed, a cigarette tucked into his lips and a skintight white workout shirt that did little to hide what he has beneath it.
I thought about that video, I thought about how terrible the pain he keeps inside must be. And even though they’d given me no reason to feel sorry for them, even though they’d been a living hell, I felt sorry for Silas.
They take a minute to scan the crowd, looking for where they are going to sit I think, when Thatcher’s eyes land on me.
It would take a lot for me to feel sorry for him. Even if I was civil with Alistair, I couldn’t stand Thatcher Pierson. Maybe it was because of his father, maybe it was because he allowed the reputation of his father to rub off on him. Like the fact his dad took lives didn’t even phase him.
And even though he didn’t know who Lyra was to him, I still hated the way he looked at her.
He begins the incline up the stairs, heading straight for our direction. My spine stiffens, preparing for an inevitable insult war that is coming for me.
“Ladies,” He coos, sliding into the row behind us and rubbing his hands together with excitement, “Who is ready for a little blood bath?”
“I think you’re out of luck, Dahmer. I haven’t seen much blood since I got here.” I sneer, looking over my shoulder and giving him a sarcastic smile.
He returns the same smile, matching my energy, “That’s just because Alistair hasn’t fought yet. There is always blood when he gets into the ring.”
Silas sits beside him quietly, puffing the brown end of his cigarette, my eyes making eye contact with him for longer than I would have liked. We sit there staring at each other, until he reaches into his pocket pulling out the pack of cancer sticks and leaning them towards me.
I think he thought I wanted one since I was looking at him so hard.
Shaking my head, “I don’t smoke, thanks though.”
“The only thing we seem to have in common.” Thatcher adds.
“You don’t smoke?” Lyra asked Thatcher, making conversation with the wolf in sheep’s clothing as if he wasn’t the scary kind of handsome that all successful serial killers had.
He looked over at her, tilting his head as if admiring a child so I automatically leaned closer to her. Feeling the need to protect her from him.
“I don’t believe in killing yourself slowly, Lyra, darling. If you’re going to do it, I say,” He runs his thumb across his throat, licking his canine teeth because the thought of blood probably made him hungry.“Do it quickly.”
“Like father like son I guess,” I say with a razor-sharp tone.
He moves his eyes off her, cutting them in my direction. Like it kills him to pull his attention from her. All of them had a different soft spot, something that sent them over the edge and Thatcher’s was his dad.
An icy glare slices through my hardened exterior and for a split moment I think he might kill me. My blood runs cold as his lips turn up into a vicious smile that rivaled Heath Ledger’s in the Dark Knight.
He struck fear in me because of what I knew he was capable of outside the gates of Hollow Heights.
He’d graduate from here, inherit a company, marry a dull, pretty woman, and have three kids.
He would live an essentially normal life, wealthy friends, golf on Saturday, and brunch on Sunday.
Except at night, in his basement where his wife thinks he’s working on small projects, he’ll be torturing innocent people.
He will never be suspected, the man everyone adored, but he has a vile personality trait.
They won’t ever catch him either. Because he’s stunning but twice as bright.
“No, sweets. My father didn’t have a type, he just wanted to end as many female lives as possible. Ya know, mommy issues and all.” He jokes.
He leans towards me, his face close to mine. My heart pounds into my chest, over and over again, he elevates his index finger to wrap around a strand of my golden hair. The urge to vomit hits me hard.
“I prefer dark hair, and I like to take my time with them. Bleed them slowly, cut them up. The dismemberment just,” He inhales deeply, shivering as he does, “gets me going.”
I can smell his oaky scent at this distance, like the forest after it rains.
His eyes darken and he has wound my hair around his finger so tight it’s starting to pull at the roots of my scalp.
“I’ll look over your tasteless, moronic comments because Alistair likes handling you himself and he's made it very clear no one else can touch you, but if you get in my way, I'll kill you and dye your hair after.”
Revving of bike engines drowns out the sound of anything else as he leans back into his seat, my throat dries with anxiety. It took all the strength in my muscles to swallow. It would seem Thatcher was over our banter, I’d crossed one too many lines with him.
I turn back around to face the track, uncomfortable with having him behind me. I had no idea what he could be doing back there. Planning to cut my hair with scissors, slice my back up.
“Van Doren better not lose. I have hella money on that fucker.” Some guy in front of us complains to his girlfriend, and I look harder towards the racer’s lining up.