Page 5 of Gift from the Tree

“Are you willing to sacrifice your material possessions for the society?”

“I am.”

“Are you willing to sacrifice your time and dedication to the society?”

“I am.”

“Are you willing to sacrifice your life for the society?”

“I am.”

What is happening right now?

Why is my father asking Donald to sacrifice shit?

Most importantly, what the fuck does this have to do with me?

“What is that?” I hiss, pointing to my father as condescending laughs echo around me.

In my father’s hand is a large dagger. The blade’s at least six inches long, attached to a beautiful handle that’s decorated with a multitude of symbols, and on the bottom sits a stunning red gem. It’s so dazzling, the dim light in the room makes the red look like it’s swishing around, dancing with every move of my father’s hand.

No one bothers to answer my outburst as all the men line up. Unease settles in my chest like a cold lump, and I need to get out of here, but I’m frozen in place. The scene in front of me is a captivating picture of some crazy shit you’d see in a documentary on cults. Also, Donald’s grip on me has only tightened. No doubt at this point I’m bruised, and he’d snatch me up the second I took a step away from him.

This feels so wrong, so, so wrong.

“Gentlemen, your sacrifice, please,” my father states to no one directly, but apparently, all the men here have done this before. One by one, they line up and lay their right hands in my father’s as he slices their palms open with the dagger.

“My blood is the blood of the Mastery,” each one repeats.

Oh my God. My father and Donald are in some crazy fucking religious cult that still practices blood sacrifices.

Fuck, am I about to be sacrificed?!

That thought sends panic through me that finally has my ass moving. I try to snatch my arm out of Donald’s grip, but he pulls me closer to him, pressing me firmly into his side, and the smell of his overbearing cologne makes me want to gag. I fully embrace the panic as the line of men gets shorter by the second. Hitting his arm, scratching his hand, kicking his legs, I even go as far as biting him. I resemble what a cat looks like when you’re trying to give them a bath.

Sighing deeply, Donald shakes me hard, then shoves me to the middle of the room. “Someone give me a hand with her.”

At his command, two men seize me on each side, and one grabs me by the nape of my neck. Again, I look like a fucking restrained cat. This is crazy. There’s no way there are still cults around today who do shit like this, and people really go along with it. That’s fucking nuts.

“Willow, control yourself,” my father demands.

“I won’t sit here and be sacrificed or killed for your crazy religious cult,” I yell.

“No one is killing you, Willow. Quit with the dramatics.” He sighs, rolling his eyes.

If I’m not here to die, what the fuck is the point of me being here and witnessing this? I, for damn sure, am not joining their little fucked-up boys’ club they’ve got going on.

With much more patience than he has for me, he turns to Donald with a proud glint in his eyes. “Donald, please step forward. Are you prepared to take the oath?”

Donald slips his suit jacket off, hands it to the man next to him, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. “I am.” His voice is clear, smooth as velvet, a tone I’ve never heard from him in the eight years of this nightmare.

“With your blood, you seal your fate, unite with the rest of your brothers to serve this society, everything that is yours becomes theirs, and everything that is theirs will be shared with you.” As Father speaks, he steps up to Donald and slowly drags the dagger across his chest above his heart. Donald stays silent. The clenching and unclenching of his fist is his only reaction.

“With my blood, my fate is sealed. I unite with my brothers, what is mine is theirs, and what is theirs is mine. I swear this to the Mastery.”

A shiver runs through my body as he seals his fate. He spoke the words with such reverence, I can hardly believe it was his voice. Then he turns, and I get my first look at the slices carved in his chest.

As my eyes follow the pool of blood soaking into his suit pants up the three messy streaks, lying right above his heart sits a capital M. Mastery. Something about that name sends anger and fear coursing through me. I want to throw up, cry, and scream all at the same time, but I don’t know why. I’ve never heard of it until tonight.

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