Page 55 of Dirty Little Saint

Torches light the cavern. They flicker wildly in response to our presence. A small grouping of ravens has gathered at Barnaby’s chained feet, squawking over his wails. It’s a beautiful sight.

Before Maureen pledged her oath and added her bloodline to our coven, we used to draw on the ravens for power. We made sacrifices to them. Carved sigils into our flesh as offerings. But now, it’s the other way around. The bond shifted in our favor. Each new sigil makes us stronger. Now, they draw power from us.

No one knows where they come from or how they got here. They just always were. Rumors and speculation have been passed down through the generations. Some say the ravens embody the spirits of our ancestors. Others believe they are the devil’s children. Nocturnus was born from the desire to be invincible. Immortal. But it came with a price. A price that Jessamine and countless others have paid with their lives.

It has spurned feuds and curses, deceit, and greed. The ones before us have benefited in ways most mundane people could only dream of. Our fathers have had their fun for long enough. It’s our turn now. And we’ve done what they never could. We’ve turned the ravens into our servants.

The only sacrifices we’ll be making now is to each other.

The four of us form a circle around Barnaby. His trousers are soaked with piss and shit. I have to choke back the bile from the stench of it.

Atlas rips the man’s shirt open. “Hey there, Barnie boy.” He dips the tip of his dagger into a vial of poison before waving it in front of his face, taunting him with it. “Now that you have all of our attention, why don’t you start from the beginning? When did my father first approach you?”

Barnaby’s eyes widen as he fixates on the knife. “Right after the Winter Solstice Ball,” he stammers.

Maureen’s fists clench at her sides. I can practically smell her anger, feel the rage reverberating off every cell in her body.

“Did he say why he wanted you to do this?” Riot asks calmly, even though every vein in his neck is bulging.

Barnaby shakes his head. “I don’t know. He said that pretty dolls should be played with. That I could play with her if I did what he asked.”

Maureen snaps her fingers. “I’m right here, fucker. But I’m not your doll to play with.”

Atlas presses the flat of the blade against his chest.

Barnaby’s lip quivers as a big glob of snot falls onto it. “Pl-please don’t kill me.”

This whole display infuriates me. Barnaby should be at Absentia Asylum, not running errands for one of the most powerful men in Raven’s Gate. Fucking, Pisces. The sick fucking bastard. He’s always had a strange way with women. Charming as fuck, but deeply disturbed.

“I’ll ask you again,” Atlas roars. “What the fuck does my father want with Maureen Blackwell?”

His eyes dart back and forth as his chest heaves. I think this asshole might hyperventilate to death before we get a chance to kill him. “I-I don’t know. She’s pretty. Who wouldn’t want to keep her?”

He’s right about that. But Pisces Thorn doesn’t go out of his way for pretty girls. I shake my head. “Kill him quick. He doesn’t know anything.”

Maureen snaps her head to look at me. “Fuck that. This asshole was planning on abducting me. He needs to feel pain before he dies.”

Riot lets out a sigh. “Firecracker, you could kill him with a flick of your wrist. You have no idea how powerful you are. He wouldn’t have succeeded in abducting you.”

“Let her do what she needs to do,” Atlas urges. “An eye for an eye.”

“A soul for a soul,” she whispers back.

Barnaby’s gaze hardens. “Dolls aren’t supposed to talk.”

Oh, fuck.

Maureen whips out her knife. She moves toward her stalker while the ravens flock around her like a small army. “You know what, Barnaby?” She rests the tip of her dagger against his chest. “You talk too fucking much.”

“In absentia lucis, tenebrae vincunt,” Riot chants. In the absence of light, darkness prevails.

I feel a deep rumbling in my chest. An electric spark shoots through my veins as my sigils come alive. I glance around the room and see theirs are glowing too. There’s an invisible thread connecting us, tiny little fibers that stretch out between us like tendrils. The power rushes through my bones, spiking my adrenaline like it did that night we drove off the cliff.

I take a deep breath and lean into its power. I surrender to it. “Mors tua, vita mea.” Your death, my life.

Atlas holds up a vial of poison in salute. “Mors vincit omnia.” Death always wins.

Maureen exhales before plunging her dagger into Barnaby’s chest. His eyes bulge out as he lets loose a bloodcurdling scream. She drives the blade in hard and deep, twisting it until it’s buried to the hilt, her gaze locked on his.

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