nine
The Merciful
Every time I see the Hellhounds coming, I scurry away like a coward, though I know I’ll have to confront my brother eventually. I tell myself that if I stay out of their way, maybe Saint will protect me from Heath, tell him to call off the dogs.
I spend a lot of time in the chapel, begging God to take away the fever dreams that have consumed me every night since Heath made me sign that entry form. Every night, I replay the words I agreed to, terrified and thrilled by the prospect of living through the game. But every night, no one comes.
The weekend rolls around, and I accept that they’re not going to. I hate the way my stomach sinks with disappointment at the thought that Saint has surely forbidden them from including me in such debauchery. He always kept me near, but he never let Heath flirt with me the way he flirted with other girls.
Check out her little tits.
Except that once.
I roll onto my side, fold my hands under my cheek to keep them from wandering during my dreams, and fall asleep.
I’m awakened when the door flies open and the light blinks on, blinding me as I start from sleep. This time, there’s no stealth. Heath drops an armload of stuff, lets out a whoop, bounds across the room, grabs me, and drags me from the bed. He shoves something in my mouth when I cry out. I try to spit it out, but he braces his palm on my chin and forces my mouth shut. My tongue takes in the texture and feel of the small beads— he stuffed a rosary in my mouth. I can feel the small cross cutting into the inside of my lip, and the familiar taste of blood leaks over my tongue.
“As much as I’d love to hear you scream, tonight you’re going to play along,” he says. “If you don’t, you remember what happens.”
I’m tempted to spit the beads out and bite his fingers off, but after a second, I slowly nod, rage and humiliation pouring through me. He heard what I said. What I wanted him to do to me.
And the sick thing is, he’s giving me my fantasy.
“Good little lamb,” he croons, stroking my cheek with tenderness that makes my rage boil even hotter. “Spit them out and start talking, and the whole world will hear your confession. I want you to keep them in your mouth all night. Understood?”
Glaring at him above his fingers, which are smashed over my mouth and nose, I give the slightest nod, holding my jaw clenched.
“I could help you out and tie them in with a gag,” he says. “But I’m not here to make things easy for you. Don’t worry. You can still moan when we make your dirty dreams come true. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you little slut?”
I glare up at him, refusing to nod when he called me that vulgar term.
He laughs softly, menace lacing the sound with bitterness, releases his hold on my face, and chucks me under the chin. Then he yanks up my long, cotton t-shirt, revealing my panties. I struggle, trying to fend him off, but he’s too quick. The next second, he’s wrenching my cotton nightshirt over my head. I scream behind the gag, my hands flying to the white cotton bra and panties set I wear to bed, trying to cover my exposed flesh. Chuckling, Heath takes a moment to stare down at my ivory skin, a smirk of pure evil curling the corners of his lips.
“Oh, I’m going to enjoy hunting down this little lamb,” he says, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip.
My pulse flutters at the quick glimpse of pink, and my thighs squeeze tighter together.
His smirk grows into a feral smile, and heat throbs in my cheeks that he caught the slight movement of my knees from the corner of his eye. Does he know what it means?
The look on his face says he knows exactly what it was.
He reaches out, running a knuckle down over my belly. I slap his hand away, growling behind the beads. He doesn’t retaliate or push, but instead bends and picks up a bundle of white fabric. He wrestles it down over my head as I flail my arms, trying to get it off. I’m operating on blind panic, since I’d rather be covered. But nothing he’s going to do to me is welcome, and even if he’s stronger than me, I’ll be damned if I let him take my innocence without putting up a fight.
He wrenches my arms into the sleeves and lets the garment fall over my body. It’s a frilly, white nightgown that reaches to my mid-calf and has long sleeves with ruffles around the wrists. It looks like some nightmare a grandmother from the eighteen hundreds would wear. I hate how much I love it. Every inch of me is covered.
He smirks when he sees my expression, my eyes wide and the beads making my cheeks bulge as I hold them in with tight lips. He reaches for my face, gripping my chin with one hand and carefully extricating the small iron cross that was cutting into my lip. Releasing it, he lets it dangle against the outside of my lower lip.
“Well, aren’t you the most fuckable little lamb I’ve ever seen?” he murmurs, his eyes heating with something a thousand times worse than the hatred I’ve seen there already. He strokes his thumb over my lower lip, toying with the cross when he reaches it.
“The ways I’m going to defile you…” He shakes his head, looking truly regretful for one moment.
Then he grabs my hands and wrenches them down, holding my wrists in one of his strong hands while he snatches a cincture off the floor. I yank a hand free, but he shoves me back on the bed, straddling me. My panicked gaze moves to meet his sea-glass eyes, electric with the thrill of the chase, excitement vibrating through his every cell, and for one moment I’m that stupid girl who was caught on Eternity’s bedroom floor while he thrust his bare shaft against my belly.
His eyes harden, and I know without a word spoken between us that he’s remembering that day too. He jerks my hands in front of me, quickly looping the tie that’s usually used by priests on their robes and pulling it tight before I can free myself. Giving a sharp tug, he makes sure the smooth rope is tight enough to hold. I snarl behind the gag, and he gives me a triumphant look and leans down, gripping my chin and pulling my face straight.
“I’m going to enjoy breaking you in for the others,” he growls. “I can’t wait to hear you scream when I bury my cock in your tight little virgin cunt for the first time. But the real fun will be watching you shatter into a million pieces as they rip away everything good and pure about you until you’re nothing but a used up, hollow shell like the rest of us.”
I shake my head frantically, a hiccupping sound escaping as a tear leaks down my cheek. Saint would never allow that. He’d never let anyone else touch me.
“I will love every second of it,” Heath grits out. “Watching you break will be my life’s greatest triumph. If I catch you tonight, I’m going to keep fucking you until you’re a lifeless whore who knows nothing but being used and abused. And don’t think surviving tonight is the end of it. If you escape, I’ll just come for you harder.”
I shake my head harder, yanking at my hands.
Heath leans in, his eyes sparkling with malice. “Maybe the others will join me sometimes,” he whispers against my cheek, his hot breath curling over my skin and lighting it on fire. “Would Saint’s sweet little sister like him to defile her every hole until she craves our treatment as much as she already craves the gush of twelve men’s cum spilling down her dirty legs while she limps home at dawn tomorrow morning, her cunt a bleeding wreck and her soul as depraved as the rest of us?”
I shake my head harder, bucking under him.
A low chuckle escapes him, the sound a mixture of menace and mirth that sends a chill quaking through my whole body. Why didn’t I leave when that note told me I didn’t belong here?
Why didn’t I run?
“Come on, little lamb,” Heath says, hopping off the bed, jerking the cord so I’m forced to sit. “The wolves are waiting.”
He picks up the last item he brought—an oversized, terrifying sheep’s head from a Halloween costume. He winds my hair up and shoves it under, then yanks the huge mask down over my head, giving it a spiteful extra jerk on the back to make sure it’s on firmly. I glare at him out of the translucent eyes of the mask, but he can’t even see my face anymore. He takes one look at me, throws his head back, and howls with laughter, slapping a hand on his toned abs as the belly laugh rolls out of him.
Dear Lord, why does he have to look so good while being so bad?
Heath snatches up the cord and gives it a yank, starting for the door and dragging me with him. I follow, glancing up and down the hall, wondering if I can call for help. If I spit out the beads and scream, would it be loud enough for anyone to wake? Probably not, muffled behind the huge mask.
Then we reach the stairs, and I’m distracted by trying not to fall and break my bones on the stone steps. I realize the problem with the nightgown then. It’s not forgiving material like the Jesus Loves Me nightshirt I wear, which is basically a t-shirt that reaches mid-thigh. This is a woven fabric with no give, cutting my stride to only a foot or so, since it binds my calves close together. I can’t use my hands for balance, either, and Heath doesn’t go slow and make it easy for me.
I cry out behind the beads as I stumble and pitch forward, ready to bust my face into a bleeding mess and knock out a few teeth in the process.
But Heath’s arm shoots out lightning-quick, and he steadies me before continuing, a little more slowly this time. At last, we reach the bottom of the stairs, and he hurries us out into the damp, still night.
I’m horrified when I see at least half a dozen other girls in white costumes of varying descriptions, each topped with the same creepy, oversized sheep head. A couple of them are walking together, murmuring excitedly. Others drift toward the chapel, spectral ghosts shrouded by the whisps of fog that hover over the dewy grass.
You will go, as a lamb to the slaughter …
An icy chill grips my body.
As we stream toward the chapel, the others move closer. Heath tugs on the cincture around my wrists, shooting a wink and a grin over his shoulder at one of the other sheep. “This one wanted to start the game early,” he says, his tone jovial, like the stakes of this game are no bigger than a game of Monopoly instead of our very souls.
I balk at the door to the church, ready to spit out the rosary beads and go back on my word. What is a leaked confession in the scheme of things? What does it matter if the world knows I’m a sinner, if the alternative is losing the battle between good and evil inside me, the one that condemns me to an eternity of burning in agony?
But then the door is opening, and a figure is standing there, holding it for the herd. He’s wearing a black robe that goes to his feet, the deep hood pulled up and obscuring his face in the shadowy entrance to the darkened church. All I can see is a square chin, and wide, full lips.
Lips that crooned comforting words to me when I had nightmares, that tightened into a grimace of sympathy when he bandaged my scraped knees and laughed with me while he picked me up and spun me around after I won a first-place ribbon for memorizing the most Bible verses at church camp.
I clamp my lips tighter around the beads in my mouth.
It’s not just some vague, faceless world who will hear what I say. It’s the people in it—the sisters and fathers at church, my aunt, the parents I haven’t seen in years, and my brother.
What would he think if he knew that I had these sins buried under my own skin, sins I condemned Heath for when I spoke to the judge after Eternity’s murder? Would he think I was no longer pure, that I’m the dirty slut Heath says I am?
Am I?
Two people know the truth—really only one. Father Salvatore doesn’t know it was me in the confessional that day. He knows the sin, not the sinner.
Heath knows it all, and I’m going to make sure he’s the only one who does. So, I resolutely adjust the beads in my mouth and step into the darkened sanctuary.
He leads me into the church, down the aisle between the pews where I sat so many Sundays, trying to pay attention to sermons on sin and hellfire, weaknesses of the flesh. Is it my fault they didn’t sink in, that they didn’t cure this ache inside me? Was it because I spent half those sermons giggling with Eternity and stealing peeks at my brother’s cute friends?
Heath leads me forward, all the way to where we knelt for blessings and communion, holding out our hands like hungry children, waiting for the scrap of bread and the sip of wine from the chalice. Pausing at the altar, he runs his fingertips over it and smiles over his shoulder at me. In the darkness of the room, with only moonlight filtering through the stained-glass windows towering over us, he looks disturbingly tempting and terrifyingly sinister at once.
“I hope the Master names you this year’s sacrifice,” he whispers. “I’m hard just thinking about your whimpers when your blood drips from the altar.”
I shudder with terror as yanks me deeper into the shadows. He drags open a heavy, dark wooden door behind the altar, and we’re plunged into pitch darkness. My panic begins to rise as it sinks in how real this is, what danger I’m in. I could be destroyed by this boy tonight, the same way he destroyed Eternity. She was our friend back then. I’m not a friend. He’ll show me no mercy.
I’m the girl who put him behind bars, a girl who, in his eyes, betrayed him and deserves punishment. He’s not waiting for judgment day, for God to weigh my sins. He’s already found me as guilty as the judge found him, already convicted me for the crime of breaking rank with the group.
But he broke rank first.
He killed Eternity, even if the evidence wasn’t enough for the judge to sentence him for murder. They found her bloody clothes on the bank of the river, but they never found a weapon. I know what he did, though. I know how strong Heath is, strong enough not to need a weapon.
And now he’s holding me, threatening to take not just my body but my soul, condemning me to hell with him.
My thighs shake as we stand in the pitch black, dank air beyond the door. I can feel Heath moving around, and then he reaches back, his strong, warm fingers closing around mine.
“Stairs,” he says. He tugs me gently, guiding me forward. We go down the stairs slowly. Halfway down, a warm glow begins to filter up from the room below. At the bottom of the stairs, we move through a dark space before stepping into the room Heath where confronted me with the recording of my confession. I know the crypt is somewhere nearby, and I shiver at the memory.
Tonight, handful of figures roam the room, pacing like caged animals. Pent up energy and masculine hunger radiate from them as they circle the space, openly surveying the cluster of white-clad figures in giant lamb heads. My belly flutters at the reminder of what was written on the entry form I signed.
The Hellhounds all wear masks, though only one is a plastic hound mask with sad eyes and sagging jowls. Hidden under the deep hoods they all wear, I spot a black hockey mask, a wolf, a skeleton, a gamer with glow-in-the-dark Xs over each eye, a ski mask, Ghostface, a demon face, and Lucifer himself. They’re all wearing black robes like the ones my brother’s wearing, and many have night-vision goggles hanging around their necks.
The girls are dressed in a variety of outfits, from white jeans and a t-shirt, to a sparkly minidress paired with white heels, to what can only be described as lamb lingerie. I wonder if the Hellhounds chose each outfit, or if the other girls were allowed to choose their attire.
“Go on, little lamb,” Heath murmurs, nudging me toward the group. “Join your flock.”
I make an unintelligible sound, my words garbled behind the beads, and hold out my bound hands in a supplicating gesture. He laughs cruelly. “What did I say about making things easy for you, little rabbit? I’m just returning the favor you did me four years ago. What did they say about the hardships I’d face in juvie? Oh yeah—it builds character.”
With a hollow laugh that sends a shudder rolling down my spine, he turns and walks away. A soft thud sounds somewhere, and the jangling of keys, and then two more hooded figures enter the room. One of them lays an altar cloth over the end of the stone slab at the center of the room, which is already decorate with late summer wildflowers—daisies and asters, Black-Eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s Lace. In the center is a white figurine of the Virgin Mary, her hooded head bent over her praying hands, next to marble statue of a round, naked woman that’s such a stark contrast that it makes it even more shockingly obscene.
A Hellhound steps behind the altar and holds up both arms in front of him in a welcoming gesture.
“Hello, my little lambs. Thank you for joining us for HAVOC night, where there is no sin,” he says, his voice distorted behind a black, birdlike plague mask. “If you’ve played HAVOC before, you know the rules. If this is your first time…”
He turns slightly, his arm sweeping toward the dozen black-robed men. The Hellhounds let out a spine-tingling, bloodthirsty howl in unison. When it dies down, the one at the altar turns back to us.
“If you’re new this year, you should have familiarized yourself with the rules of the game in the packet delivered when you were selected from the entries to participate. There are miles of underground tunnel here, so if you didn’t familiarize yourself with the map, good luck.”
A few of the girls titter nervously around me, but the Hellhound continues speaking.
“Remember that no one will be left here, so don’t panic if you get lost. The tunnels will be cleared after the game. If you no longer wish you participate, you may leave at any time. Simply say the safe-word phrase and the game instantly ends—for you. You will be escorted safely back to your room, and the game will continue without you. All other words, sounds, and gestures will be assumed to be part of the game. Did everyone memorize the phrase?”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” a chorus of voices answer in unison, echoing through the cave like the Lord’s Prayer echoes through the church every Sunday.
I glance around uneasily, since I’m left in the dark. Of course Heath didn’t give me an out. He didn’t give me an orientation packet or a safe word. He wants me to lose the game.
Another Hellhound emerges from the other room, this one wearing a terrifying mask with glowing eyes and glistening fangs that must be the actual hellhound. I wonder if that’s the one Heath called the Master, or if it’s the plague doctor. As I count the figures—thirteen total—I realize I’ve lost Heath. He must have slipped out to put on his costume. The fact that I don’t know which one is my brother, and which one is Angel, and which mask Heath will be wearing makes my blood run even colder. My stomach is shaking with fear, and I think I’ll be sick.
But lower down, below my belly, a hot throb of pressure is building.
“Lastly, remember the same rules apply to the special player we select to sacrifice at the end of the game,” the plague doctor says in his distorted, muffled voice. “You are here to satisfy the appetites of our Hellhounds, but should you be unable to fulfill the role to completion, you will be dismissed and another sacrifice will be chosen to follow the first, and so on, until every Hellhound has been sated. Did everyone familiarize yourself with the rules of sacrifice?”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” echoes through the chamber.
“You’ll have a one-minute head start,” he says. “Then we will unleash the hounds of hell, and the hunt begins.”
With that, the Hellhounds let out another round of howls, this time snarling and growling at the same time. The sound is so animal, so primal, that shivers of terror and excitement clash inside me. What if Heath catches me? Will he really do what he said?
If I can’t stop him, is it still a sin?
Suddenly, the church bell begins to toll in the tower high above. The sound is muted in the basement room, but it reverberates through. Everyone stands silent, listening.
The hair on my arms stands on end, and my breathing comes quicker.
What if someone else catches me? A stranger who takes my body against my will, ruins me in ways too terrible to contemplate? Suddenly, I can hardly swallow, can’t breathe past the beads in my mouth. My ears echo with the bell and my thunderous heartbeat.
And then the last chime sounds, and the Hellhounds scream, “Reap havoc!”