Chapter Nineteen
The Lighting of the Flame
I didn’t return to my parents that night after the gas station explosion. When I peered at my reflection in the mirror, I realized it would be hard to explain my fat, bloody lip and the singed hair on the back of my head.
Mom and Dad heard about the fire and immediately called me when I didn’t come back. I pretended like I didn’t know what they were talking about and acted genuinely surprised. I hate lying to them, but what’s the alternative? Tell them the truth?
My excuse for not getting the popcorn and coming back was that I started driving toward the store, then thought about my apartment and some things I needed done, and by the time I realized I had passed the store, I was nearly home.
I could hear the disappointment in my mom’s voice, but I promised her I’d watch the next new movie as soon as it’s released.
I tuck my hands behind my head and stretch out on the couch.
When I close my eyes, all I can see is the man on fire at the gas station and Mastyx taking on his face.
I thought for sure I would hear the man screaming, suffering the way he made his poor wife, but besides the roaring of the flames and the crackling and crunching of the fire and twisted metal nearby, it was quiet—quiet and hot.
I didn’t realize how hot it was until I came home and saw my hair.
And the smell, God-awful. I had to trim off the singed pieces, which meant essentially giving myself a full-on hair trim to make it look less noticeable.
But that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part is how much I loved the way it made me feel. The sheer power and control of someone else’s life, their death, being in my hands, gives me a perceived sense of invincibility. Being able to beckon Mastyx at will is my new superpower.
In that moment, I felt no fear of the flames. It felt more like a flood of endorphins surging through me—pleasant and euphoric.
I imagine it’s the same feeling skydivers and base jumpers get when they first leap from their planes and cliffs. No matter how dangerous the act is, the desire to do it again pulls you, nags you, and consumes you. It becomes an obsession.
My heart thumps in my chest, and my face suddenly prickles. My fingertips tingle, and my thumb flicks a match that isn’t there.
That piece of shit deserved to die, that’s what I keep telling myself anyway. After watching the news report about the incident at the gas station and its brief mention of his rap sheet, no one could ever convince me otherwise.
The one thing I didn’t understand about the whole thing was the woman.
She appeared on the news, crying and not understanding what had happened.
She made a passing mention of someone yelling at her to run, but the sequence of events wasn’t right.
She thought she saw the flames before a young woman told her to run.
Perhaps she’s just a good liar, spinning a tale that makes sense to protect us both.
Watching her interview, I couldn’t help but notice a light in her eyes that wasn’t there when I saw her in the gas station.
I set her free. She can live her life without fear and pain. I did that. I saved her. A broad smile spreads across my face.
He was the bad guy, the villain, and I’m the hero.
Her hero. And now all I can think about is how happy I feel about that—about causing the man’s death for her.
About his dying in general. I mean, is it even wrong when the person is bad and deserves it?
I don’t think so.
A small part of me has concerns about Mastyx. Will he punish me for calling him to do my dirty work when I summon him?
I push the idea out of my mind and allow other moments between us to filter in.
A flash of his segmented flesh face pops in my head, and I cringe.
The mask definitely made a difference with our last encounter, but there has to be more I can do to make his presence less intimidating and more alluring.
Having feet instead of hooves and a smooth, hairless body would make things easier, but how do I get those parts of him to change?
I have noticed that the more people die, the more human-like he seems. It makes me wonder if that’s the key.
My eyes widen as something I read suddenly comes back to me, popping into my head like a pleasant memory.
It seemed so insignificant at the time, I didn’t give it a second thought.
I roll sideways off the couch, spring to a stand, and hustle to my computer, searching through my browsing history.
A few clicks of the mouse later, and I lower myself slowly into my seat, a sense of hope and promise making it impossible to stand.
Ritual sacrifice.
It’s been staring me in the face this whole time. My lips move as I read the background on the topic, its risks, and its benefits. I only skimmed this topic before deciding it was too rash.
Ritual sacrifice has been used for centuries for a myriad of reasons. Two of them stand out to me and have me nodding at my computer screen—punishment for a taboo violation and offering a victim to appease a deity.
In some religions, deities were reinterpreted as demons, meaning Mastyx. So, if I combine the violations, sacrificing the men who are sinning and committing crimes, with the need to appease my deity, Mastyx, I will gain power.
And I need more power—a bargaining chip to have some resemblance of control.
I cover my mouth before swiping my face.
This has to be the answer. It makes sense, given what I’ve seen recently—Mastyx’s partial humanization appears to correlate with the deaths that precede it.
Even though the crimes these men have committed weren’t necessarily taboo, they were still punishable violations, right?
My head whips to the calendar. I need to talk to Mastyx. Get him to tell me if I’m on the right track.
It’s Saturday night, so there ought to be lots of dirtbags and scum lingering around the local bars.
Local…maybe I should drive to the next town over, where no one knows me.
After taking a quick shower, I pull a red dress over my head and shimmy it over my hips, smoothing it down. It lands just above the knee and barely holds in my breasts. I slide my feet in a pair of black flats, just in case I need to run, and iron my hair straight before putting on makeup.
The lipstick on my lips glimmers back at me as I gaze at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I look sexy as all hell. It’s too bad I don’t have a real boyfriend to appreciate it.
When I peer out the window, a thin layer of snow covers the top of the Nova. I grab a cropped cardigan sweater and stuff my arms into it before stepping outside. A chilly breeze penetrates my attire, sending goosebumps in every direction and hardening my nipples to stone.
Fuck it’s cold.
I run back up to my apartment, grab a heavier jacket and throw it on over my sweater.
The car rumbles to a start, and the tires spin briefly before it barrels backward out of my parking space.
If there’s one positive thing I can say about this car, it’s the heat it gives off.
My lips shrivel in seconds the moment the air flowing through the vents shifts from arctic to Death Valley.
I tilt the vents down and let the air warm my legs and feet.
The closest bar out of town is only twenty minutes away, and there are multiple roads leading to it. I pull to the curb on the side of the building facing one of the roads leading back toward my town and apartment and blow out a heavy sigh.
This is such a bad idea. Mastyx is going to be pissed when he figures out I’m using him. That is, if he hasn’t already. I rub my palms together before reaching for the door handle, my heart pounding. I hesitate to open it, my mind second-guessing what I’m about to do.
“You’re playing with fire, Contessa,” I say aloud. “Literally.”
I draw in a deep breath, grab my clutch, and climb from the car, slamming the door behind me as I bite my bottom lip. There’s no sense locking it. I have nothing inside to steal.
A wave of stale air, smelling of body odor and alcohol, hits me when I open the tavern door. I wiggle my nose as I scan the room, and a sudden sinking feeling weighs heavily in my stomach. This is not the type of bar I should be in.
All eyes are on me—lots of them. It appears I’ve just waltzed into a biker bar.
A jukebox plays a heavy metal song I’m unfamiliar with in a far corner, and a large pool table surrounded by some very scary-looking men sits nearby.
Fuck. Runaway, Contessa. Run the fuck away.
If I leave now, it will be too obvious, but if I stay, everyone will remember who I am and that I was here—too many witnesses to call Mastyx.
A leather jacket hangs over a barstool beside me. The back of it reads “Hell’s Hogs”.
Hell’s Hogs? What a terrible name.
A part of me wants to turn and dash out the door, but the other part of me likes the feeling of how dangerous this is.
The only problem is, I’m frozen in place.
My legs don’t want me to take this any further.
It’s as if my subconscious sounded an alarm and alerted all my limbs.
Now I have to decide whether to hold fast or retreat.
You can do this, Contessa, I say inside my head, trying to convince myself that I’m not petrified and bordering on shitting my pants.
I lift my chin high, trying to appear unrattled and confident, and take a seat on the barstool beside the jacket and drum my fingers on the bar top, waiting for the bartender. He eyes me from across the room and shakes his head, before throwing a white towel on the bar.
“I think you’re in the wrong bar, sweetheart,” the bartender says with a heavy Southern drawl.
“Jack and Coke,” I say, ignoring his intense gaze.
He raises his eyebrows, “Do you have an ID?”
I glare at him, my eyes darkening. “No, do you? Does anyone in here have one?”
His eyes drift past me, and he nods to someone standing behind me before walking away and grabbing the Jack Daniel’s bottle from a lower shelf.
Heat from someone’s breath drifts across my neck. “Aren’t you a sweet little thing?” an older, deep voice says from behind me.
I peer over my shoulder. “There’s nothing sweet about me,” I say, ignoring the chill that’s running through my body.
The man standing dangerously close to me wears the same jacket as the one hanging over the chair beside me. His eyes are an intense blue, and his sandy blonde hair barely covers his scalp. He smiles broadly. “Not so sweet, huh? Does that mean you’re a working girl?”
It takes me a moment to realize what he’s asking me. Working girl. He thinks I’m a prostitute.
“No, just a girl desperate for a drink,” I say with confidence as the bartender rests a coaster down by my hand and places my Jack and Coke in a glass on top.
I quickly gulp it down, ignoring the burning pain that travels from my lips down to my stomach, trying to steel my nerves that are threatening to unravel my entire plan.
I push my tongue around my mouth, feeling a gritty texture and odd aftertaste.
Within seconds, I realize I have made a colossal mistake.
I shoot the bartender a horrified look before an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia shrinks me down in my seat.
Every patron in the bar has either risen to a stand and is facing me or is now slowly moving toward me. Within the blink of an eye, they’ve surrounded me, cutting off my exit. Over a dozen pairs of hungry eyes crawl down my body, leaving me feeling more exposed than I would be completely naked.
My head feels wobbly and my eyes heavy. They’re going to take me, all of them, and hurt me. The worst part is, whatever they gave me will wipe my memory clean.
I have to act fast.
The man behind me kisses the back of my neck. I push him back with both palms and nearly fall from my seat.
He steps back and chuckles. “You want to go, sweetheart, you can go.” He gestures for me to walk a now clear path to the back of the establishment near the pool table.
An exit sign blurs and splits into two as I slide my bottom off the seat and stagger toward it.
Hands graze various parts of my body as I pass them, and my legs grow tired, heavy, and weak.
I can’t walk in a straight line, and my body slowly melts to the floor.
Multiple hands grab me and throw me onto the pool table, knocking the balls in all directions. The blurry faces of numerous people surround me.
A lighter flicks nearby, and a distorted flame lights up the face of the man who appears to be in charge, right before he puffs on something white between his lips, and the smell of marijuana floats into my nostrils.
“When you’re finished with her, take her outside and drop her in the creek along the back of the property. ”
I try and flail my arms and legs, but they barely leave the felt of the pool table, the drugs leaving me vulnerable and defenseless.
When he tries to take another puff from the joint, he realizes it’s gone out.
I chuckle, the loudest I could chuckle, as my body grows heavier and heavier and my eyes fight to stay open. “He’s going to kill you all,” I murmur.
“What did you say, sweetheart?” The man in charge leans over me, a smile becoming clear on his face.
I shake my head, trying to force it to focus and stay conscious. “He’s going to kill you.”
The man tosses his head back, laughing at the ceiling. The others join in, laughing as the sound of unbuckling metal rings in my ears. Fuck they’re not even going to wait until I pass out.
“Who?” The man asks as he lights his joint, the flame rising high in front of his face, casting it in orange light.
“Mastyx.”
The moment the word leaves my lips, the man’s face turns pale as if he knows the name. The room heats up around me, and shades of orange block his face from view. My head falls to the side, and my eyes drift closed, the drugs pulling me under as blood-curdling screams slowly fade into the void.