4. Vani
CHAPTER 4
Vani
Unfamiliar language rolls over me, and I shiver. Their deep voices rise like a choir as their chanting picks up tempo and volume. Both men begin to circle me, and I hold my breath, my heart thumping against the inside of my ribs.
What the fuck is going on here?
Suddenly, it all comes to a halt. The chanting ends, and I think it’s over.
Is that it? Is that all they needed from me? To have me stand here in my underwear while they chant at me? Hope pricks at my terror, making me think I might get out of this alive.
Roman walks to the table and picks up one of the bowls he’d been pounding a variety of ingredients into before Malachi joined us.
Walking toward me, he dips his finger into the bowl and reaches forward, swiping across my collarbone. I gasp in dismay at his touch, but then he pulls back, and I glance down to see what looks like blood smeared across my chest. He repeats the motion, two fingers dipping back into the bowl to swipe the deep red mixture down in a line from my collarbone to deep within my cleavage.
He stops again, examines me critically, and goes back to his work. There is nothing sexual in his touch or the way he looks at me, and despite this being incredibly strange and scary, I at least take comfort from that.
He repeats what he’s doing, this time down both arms, then smears the thick liquid in a circle around my belly button. Finally, he draws two wavy lines horizontally across each thigh.
“This next bit will hurt, but we aren’t doing it to be cruel. We need this from you.”
My pulse races. I’m already hurt. I don’t need or want any more pain.
Roman walks over to sturdy shelving fixed to the wall at the far side of the room and takes down an ornate silver bowl. Turning back to me, he crosses the room and takes hold of my arm near the cut.
“Wait,” I say, trying to yank my arm back again. “What are you doing?”
Roman passes the bowl to Malachi, who holds it beneath my arm.
“Please, don’t,” I try again.
But Roman uses both hands to pry my wound apart. White-hot agony rips up my arm, and a scream barrels up my throat and peals from between my lips.
He quickly presses it closed again, squeezing hard, and I realize he’s trying to get some blood out of the wound. The bleeding had slowed as they’ve been carrying out their strange ceremony. The squeezing is painful but nowhere near as unbearable now. Blood drips into the small silver container, my vision blurring through my tears. When he has enough, I pray he’ll stop, and the pain will end.
Malachi watches my blood drip into the bowl, then he glances over at Roman and nods once. Roman lets go of my wound. I sway on my feet, sweat breaking out across my upper lip and forehead.
Malachi takes the knife and holds it up above his head. He utters words I don’t understand. He brings the blade to his face and pulls up his mask. It gives me a view of a sharp, masculine jaw and harsh mouth. He brings the blade to his mouth and kisses it once, reverentially, before letting the mask fall back into place.
Fast as a snake striking, he reaches for me, grabbing my throat. I scream in panic, but Roman slams a hand over my mouth, silencing my terror.
Malachi twists my head to one side, releases my throat, and takes a strand of my hair before cutting it with the knife. He lets the thick waves fall into the bowl along with my blood.
He steps back, and his fingers leave my throat. I suck in air, trembling and almost choking on my fear.
Who the fuck are these men?
Malachi drops to his knees in front of me. He pulls my panties to one side, and I moan in dismay. He puts them back in place with a huff of annoyance.
“Women and their addiction to shaving,” he mutters. “What’s wrong with a full bush?”
What the hell?
He grabs my panties again and pulls them down from the top instead. This time, he chuckles as he takes hold of a patch of curls on my landing strip and slices the knife through those as well before dropping them into the bowl. Then he stands, picks up the bowl, and hands it to Roman.
Roman spits into the bowl, and my stomach recoils in revulsion. Malachi takes the bowl and does the same. Roman grabs a small dark green bottle from the shelf and pours green liquid into the vile mix.
This is some sort of dark magic they’re practicing, and while I don’t believe in any of that, it doesn’t make it any less creepy.
They start walking around me again, once more chanting strange things.
I feel myself falling into an almost dreamlike state as they walk around me, their voices strangely soporific despite the horrifying circumstances. The chanting goes on and on, and the air around us grows heated.
Finally, they both come to a halt in front of me, and the chanting stops. Roman takes a different bowl from the shelf, cradling it in the crook of one arm, and carries it toward me. He digs into the bowl and pulls out what looks like confetti, but is actually dried, crushed leaves, sprinkling it all over me.
“We thank you for your contribution,” he says. “Now we ask that you are washed of all energy from this place and time.” He sprinkles more of the crushed leaves over me.
He places the bowl back down and picks up what I recognize to be a smudge stick, which he proceeds to light. He walks around the room waving it in front of him, and the scent of sage fills the air. When he’s finished cleansing the entire room, he brings the sage to me and waves it in front of my face. The smoke catches in the back of my throat, and I cough, sending fresh waves of pain through my ribs.
“You are now cleansed of what we did in here,” he says to me. “It cannot affect you going forward. You can go back to your life in the college, and no one will be able to tell that you were a part of this.”
“A part of what, exactly?” I snap. “Your stupid little games? None of this is real. You understand that, right? This magic stuff is bullshit.”
He leans in close, and I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
“Believe what you want,” he says with a smile, the skull covering his face grinning manically. “I know the truth, and so does Malachi. We don’t need you to believe, we just needed your contribution. Now we have it. Freya thanks you.”
Who the fuck is Freya? Some Viking goddess? These guys are absolutely insane, and I need to get out of here.
“Will you let me go now?” I beg.
I wish I’d had the strength to run out of here before all this shit started, but I hadn’t. They’d have caught me before I even reached the door. It was safer for me to go along with what they wanted and hope they release me.
What will the Vipers do when they find out what these men have done?
But I shake the thought from my head. They won’t do anything, because I won’t tell them. The Vipers are none of my concern anymore, and I’m none of theirs.
“Yes, of course, once I’ve seen to your arm.”
He reaches for me once more, and I yank my arm back, ignoring the pain, and hide it behind my back.
“I can fix it myself. It’s not even bleeding that badly anymore.”
That’s a lie. It could definitely do with stitches. I don’t know what I caught it on when I came off my bike—maybe a piece of sharp stone or a stick, or perhaps it was even a twisted piece of metal from my poor damaged Harley—but either way, it needs proper medical attention, not freaks in an old water tower.
His eyes narrow behind his mask. “I’m not letting you go tramping back through those woods with a bleeding wound. We’ll take you back ourselves. Let me just clean this up first. I have some good herbs here for cleansing.”
I really don’t want him sticking herbs into my wound, but I also don’t want to antagonize him. All I want right now is to be back in my room, safe and sound. I don’t want to see the Vipers, I don’t want to see any of the girls either, I just need time to myself to think. I’m not sure I even need to be here anymore. All I want, really, is to be back within the safety of the club. My thoughts about staying no matter what have been dampened by this latest experience. I don’t think I’ll ever be safe here. There are dreadful people every which way I turn.
Cool against my skin makes me jump, and I realize I was so lost in my own thoughts I hadn’t been taking notice of what Roman was doing. He’s dabbing at my wound with a clean white cloth and gently removing the dirt and blood crusted around it.
Once he’s finished cleaning it, he applies a thick ointment.
“What’s that?”
He glances at me briefly. “It’s a healing cream I made myself. It contains manuka honey and calendula, both of which have intense healing properties. Better than the antiseptic ointments you get in the pharmacy.”
I bet it’s not, but I don’t say anything.
“Is the spell you’ve created intended to kill them?” My voice is small as if I’m a child again.
I don’t need to explain who ‘them’ refers to. I’ll never forgive myself if the strange, dark magic they tried to bring to life in here actually works. Not when they used parts of me to make that magic.
He laughs and shakes his head. “What an imagination you have. That would be extremely dark magic, and we would never go there. No, it won’t kill them, it’s just going to give them a run of bad luck, you might say. We need them to lose a few fights, and we really want that peacocking little shit, Saint, taken down a peg or two. That’s what we’ve asked for.”
So, Saint is now in danger, because of me. My heart sinks, but I give myself a shake. I should want him to come to a shitty end.
I should want that for all of them.
So why does the thought make it hard to breathe?