27. Julian
Julian
I’m sitting in the armchair by her window, watching the rise and fall of her chest in the dim evening light.
She’s finally asleep, but it’s a fitful, restless thing.
She asked me to stay while she slept—a small, whispered plea that nearly broke what was left of my heart.
I was going to stay anyway, whether she wanted me here or not, but having her actually want me around again feels like a reprieve I don’t deserve.
Every time I close my eyes, images of that piece of shit’s hands on her skin, flash through my mind.
My blood turns to ice—a blind rage that makes my fingers itch for the hilt of my knife.
I have to physically restrain myself from getting back in the car, driving back to those woods, and finding a way to bring that waste of life back, just so I can kill him again, in a more prolonged way.
I was a fool to think I could stay away from her.
I tried. I really, truly tried to be the “good” brother, the one who stepped aside so she could have a normal life.
But last night proved exactly why I shouldn’t have.
The world is full of monsters, and if I’m not the one to drag her into the dark, someone else—someone worse—will try to take her.
I stand up, my joints aching with exhaustion, and walk over to the bed.
Her long hair is a mess, spilling over the pillow and covering part of her face.
I reach out, my hand still trembling slightly, and gently brush the strands out of the way.
The only positive thing to come out of last night’s shitshow is that it seems to have pushed her right back into my arms. It’s the only place she feels safe now.
And that’s the ultimate irony, isn’t it?
My entire existence is dedicated to keeping her safe, yet I’m the one who put her in harm’s way by trying to leave her.
How do I keep her safe from the world, from my brother, and most importantly, from me?
The contradiction of it all is going to drive me mad eventually.
She starts to stir under the covers, a low whimper escaping her split lip. Her brows pinch together, her face contorting in fear. She’s having a nightmare—a flashback of the Billy, the blood, and the hands that tried to take from her.
“I’m here, Junebug,” I whisper, though she can’t hear me. “I’ve got you.”
I can’t stand the distance anymore. I pull my shirt over my head and kick off my boots and pants, sliding under the covers beside her.
The bed is small, forcing us together, and I pull her tight against my chest. She smells like Nanas hand made lavender soap and the faint, lingering scent of the woods, but mostly she just smells like home.
We didn’t sleep much at all last night .
As exhausted as we both were, there were too many unspoken words between us—a floodgate that had finally burst. I tried to apologise the best I could for the last few months: for the garden, the silence, the distance I put between us.
I hope she understands now just what lengths I’d go to for her.
I’ve spilled blood for her now. I’ve crossed a line I can never walk back from.
She settles into me, her breathing evening out as she feels my warmth.
For now, the nightmares are at bay. For now, she’s safe.
But as I stare at the ceiling, I know the clock is still ticking.
We have one year left before the Ritual, one year to figure out how to survive the fate Cain and I have written for her.
I don’t know how long we dozy off for, but when I finally opened my eyes, the light had vanished.
A heavy blanket of darkness has settled over the world outside her window.
June is still in a deep heavy sleep, her body finally surrendering to the exhaustion of her trauma.
She needs this, but I have loose ends to tie up.
The last thing I need, is any attention regarding a dead sack of shit in the woods.
I can’t keep June safe from a prison cell, and I certainly can’t protect her from Cain if I’m behind bars.
I lean down and press a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be back soon,” I murmur. She doesn’t stir, remaining dead to the world as I slip out of the room.
The drive back to the woods is silent and cold.
I pull my car off the shoulder of the road and begin the long trek back to the clearing.
When I reach the spot, I stop, looking down at the heap of flesh that used to be Billy.
I sigh and spit on the already decaying corpse.
Flies are already thick around the dried blood on his neck, and a few crawl out of his open, slack mouth.
Sick.
I need to get this done as quickly as possible. It’s a miracle nobody stumbled upon him yet, though in a town like this, a guy like Billy is usually gone a while before anyone starts asking questions. He was nobody to be missed.
I drag him deep into the tree line, where the pine needles and solid dirt give way to the black, sucking mud of the wetland.
The woods grow dense here, the canopy blotting out the moon until I’m working in near-total darkness, my arms burning from the dead weight.
The night chill is sharp, but sweat stings my eyes anyway as I haul him over slick, exposed roots and through ankle-deep water.
I don’t dig a traditional grave. The water table is too high here; any hole would just fill with liquid mud before I could finish. Instead, I haul him out to the edge of the deep peat pool at the centre of the mire, where the water is black as oil and eerily still.
I roll him onto the length of heavy wire mesh I brought from the garage, wrapping it around his torso like a shroud and binding it tight with rusted chains and two heavy cinder blocks.
The wire mesh is the key—it will allow the decomposition gases to escape so the body doesn't bloat and balloon to the surface, while the blocks will anchor him into the deep, oxygen-deprived silt at the bottom.
With one final heave, I push him over the bank. There’s a thick, heavy splash, a brief churn of bubbles, and then the dark water swallows him whole. The thick, anaerobic mud at the bottom claims him, pulling him down into a vault of black slime.
By the time I finish raking mud over my footprints and walking back to the car, I’m covered in a fresh layer of filth, foul-smelling mire, and sweat, my hands raw and blistered.
As the sun began to bleed across the horizon, a sickly, pale yellow that offered no warmth.
I pulled the car into the shadows of the alleyway behind June’s house, my chest heaving, the heavy scent of the woods still clinging to the back of my throat.
I looked at my hands in the dim light. They were destroyed; the skin over my knuckles was shredded, and my palms were a map of raw, weeping blisters.
I let myself in through the back door, moving with the practiced silence of a ghost. I bypassed the kitchen and headed straight for the upstairs bathroom, my movements stiff and robotic.
I stood before the small, porcelain sink, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror.
I looked like a man who had died and forgotten to lie in his coffin.
My eyes were sunken, rimmed with a searing, exhausted red.
I turned the tap, the water coming out in a sudden, cold rush.
I watched the water turn a muddy, rust-coloured brown as it hit the basin.
The dirt, the sweat, and the dried lingering traces of Billy’s life began to swirl down the drain.
I looked at my arms. The wilted rose on my forearm was smeared with grime; the crow on my bicep looked like it was trapped in the mud.
I began to scrub, my movements frantic and bordering on self-mutilation.
I wanted the dirt gone. I wanted the memory of the forest floor scrubbed off the ink I’d dedicated to her.
“Julian?”
The whisper was so soft I almost missed it over the sound of the running water. I froze. I turned slowly, my hands dripping a mixture of pink-tinged water and soap onto the linoleum floor. June was standing in the doorway, framed by the shadows of the hallway.
Her eyes were wide with worry. She looked at the sink, then back at me. She didn’t ask where I’d been. She knew.
She traced the line of the rose tattoo with her thumb, her touch so light it felt like a phantom kiss.
I pulled my hands back, breaking the contact. The water from the faucet was still running, a low, relentless hum in the tight space. I looked her dead in the eye, the adrenaline from the swamp still simmering violently under my skin.
"June... you know what happened last night..," I started, my chest heaving. "You can't tell anyone. Ever. You can't—"
"I know, Julian," she cut me off, her voice soft, trying to soothe me. "I know."
"No, June, listen to me!"
The shout cracked through the small bathroom, louder than I ever intended. It echoed off the tiles, sharp and ugly. June flinched, her eyes widening as she took a half-step back against the doorframe. She wasn't expecting it. She had never heard that voice come out of me before.
A sharp spike of guilt pierced my chest at the flash of fear in her eyes, but I couldn't back down.
I couldn't afford to be gentle. Not tonight.
I stepped into her space, gripping the edges of the sink behind her so she was pinned between my arms, forcing her to see the gravity of what we were standing in.
"I need to know that you understand," I said, my voice dropping to a harsh, fierce whisper that vibrated with panic.
"This is serious. This isn't a game. You can’t ever tell anybody.
Not a soul. Because if this gets out, I am gone from your life forever.
Do you hear me? They will lock me away and you will never see me again. "
She stared up at me, momentarily caught off guard, her breath hitching in her throat. The soft, comforting girl from a minute ago was gone, replaced by someone who finally realised exactly what kind of man was standing in her bathroom.
"Promise me," I demanded, my hands tightening on the porcelain until my knuckles turned white. "Promise me, June."
"I promise," she whispered, her voice trembling, her eyes locked onto mine. "I promise, Julian."
A single, silent tear tracked through the dark bruise on her cheek.
“He’s gone,” I reassured her. “He doesn’t exist anymore. He can’t touch you. He can’t even dream of you. He is for the bloodworms now.”
She collapsed against me, burying her face in the crook of my neck. I wrapped my raw, aching arms around her, pulling her flush against my chest. I didn’t care that I was damp with sweat and covered in filth; I just needed to feel the comforting heat of her.
“I missed you,” she sobbed into my skin, her fingers digging into the ink on my arm.
I pulled her back into her bedroom, the morning light now bright enough to show the true extent of our wreckage. I sat on the edge of the bed, and she climbed into my lap, straddling me. The heat between us now was different. It wasn’t just lust; it was a desperate, clawing need for survival.
I looked at her, my heart breaking for the thousandth time. She was beautiful, even with the bruise, even with the split lip. She was my girl, whether she liked it or not. She had been baptised in the blood I’d spilled for her.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promised, my forehead resting against hers.
“Look at me, June,” I commanded softly.
She looked up, her eyes searching mine. I saw the devotion there—and her sweet, blind trust I had worked so hard to destroy. It was back, but it was tainted now. She loved the killer. She loved the man who had turned his body into a map of her heart and his hands into tools of death.
“I love you,” she whispered, the words a final, death sentence.
I didn’t say it back. I couldn’t. Not yet. Instead, I just pulled her back under the covers, tucking her head under my chin, my blistered hands holding her tight as the world woke up around us—a world that had no idea that a man was missing.