Page 40 of Tempest

Miguel rubs at his face, begging for patience. “Jesus fuck, do as the man asks so we can get out of here.”

Sniffing impatiently, I pull a bag of salt from under the stairs. “Do you think this is kosher or Himalayan pink salt?”

“Fuck you.” Hunter’s not looking at me as he says it. He beckons it over eagerly with his hand. “Pour a circle around us.”

“Dude.” I look at Miguel. Are you fucking serious?

Miguel, the bastard, nods his assent.

Fuck me. I get to work making the damn psycho a circle.

“Don’t close it until I’m back inside it, Storm Cloud.”

While I’m spreading salt and planning where to dump Hunter’s body so nobody will find it, Hunter moves to a chest in the corner, pulling out a maroon, moth-hole-infested cloak that he throws around his shoulders, then rifling around for something else.

With his back to us, Hunter affixes something onto his face, then slowly turns.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Desmond asks. “What the fuck is he doing?”

Bored, I glance over at Hunter, then roll my eyes at the spectacle.

No wonder Desmond Cartwright’s shitting his pants.

Hunter’s donned a goat skull for a mask, framing it by pulling up the hood to his cloak. With clasped hands, he returns to Desmond, and I happily finish his exfoliation circle behind him.

Hunter says to Desmond, “See, these boys prefer to cut out their victim’s heart after they’re dead to send to my father as proof of death. But me? I must cut out your heart while it’s still beating. Oh, I know,” he says with pretend empathy over Desmond’s wails and pleas. “Grizzly stuff, but please be quiet. I have to recite an incantation while I do it…”

I stop listening when Hunter strikes the center of Desmond’s chest, his stained work shirt blooming with red. Desmond unleashes a bloodcurdling scream.

I massage the back of my neck. Check my watch.

This better be over with soon. I have a party to get to.

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