Page 62 of Shadows in Bloom

CONTENT WARNING

Prey for Us Sinners is a dark sapphic paranormal romance short story intended for mature audiences 18+. Possible triggers include religious/occult themes (specifically related to Catholicism and demonology), internalized homophobia on account of religion, on-page alluded death of a parent, ritualistic self-harm, and dub-con.

Please note that this story is purely fictional, and intended only for entertainment purposes. Certain creative liberties when in regards to religion have been taken. So if religion is a sensitive topic for you, this story might not be for you.

If these walls could talk, they would be screaming.

—from the journals of D.B.

CHAPTER 1

WINIFRED CHAPEL

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”

Fingers steepled, an ivory rosary draped over my knuckles, I bow my head in prayer; the words I’ve had memorized since I was a child spilling quietly from my lips as effortlessly as the beads rolling between my fingers.

“…Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…”

My knees throb, despite the soft cushioning of the kneeler, my back aching from holding such rigid posture for so long. My devotion is my salvation, I remind myself. Mortal comforts are but one small sacrifice for His eternal blessings.

Prayer to prayer, mystery to mystery, decade to decade…

The beads slither through my fingers, their gentle rattle combined with my hushed recitations creating a heady, hypnotic lull I reckon would comfort even Satan himself.

“It’s like a spell, Winnie! Like magic!” a childlike voice echoes in the back of my mind.

I squeeze my eyes together, willing the memory away.

“O My Jesus, forgive us our sins,” I utter shakily, fingers trembling, “save us from the fires of Hell.”

Behind my tightly pressed lids, images of flames eating at black hair and freckled rosy cheeks scatter, disintegrating into clouds of smoke. “Lead all souls to Heaven, especially those in most need of Thy mercy.”

When I finish however many minutes later, a brief, heavy beat of silence follows where all is still. Silent. And I hold my breath.

The statue of the Blessed Virgin Mother looms over me, the first thing I see when I peel my eyes open on a gasp, the steam coating my thin, wire-framed glasses dissipating quickly now that I’ve no longer got my face buried in my hands.

With her stone-gray head angled toward me ever so slightly, unseeing gaze lowered in perpetual submission, and arms laid out open and accepting, I can almost imagine she was listening to my prayers. Pretend she’s offering comfort…reassurance. Yes, yes, dear, I’ll be sure to let Him know.

With a hard swallow, I climb to a stiff stand, teeth clenching on a wince, and I make the sign of the cross over my chest, bringing the rosary to my lips. “Amen,” I murmur into the warm metal of the Crucifix.

The blood is slow to return to my aching joints, and when I no longer feel like I might collapse, I twist around and gather my bag, tuck my rosary away, and begin making my way out of the pew and into the aisle.

St. Therèse’s Cathedral is mostly deserted, as it usually is at this early hour. Soft morning light streams in through the arched, stained glass windows, casting the sprawling, ornate, centuries-old church in glimmering shades of ruby-red and gold. With my back to the sanctuary, I spare a glance at my wristwatch, biting back frustration when I see the time.

Quarter to eight.

That’s what you get for being distracted…

Muggy air greets me when I shove past the heavy front doors of the church. Gone now are the sweeping arches, frescoed ceilings, and cloying scents of frankincense and myrrh, and in their place, a world dripped in gray skies and dew-dappled greenery and sweltering petrichor that brings a comforting burn to my nose.

The sun has only just risen over the mountains, but I can already tell today is going to be unbearably hot. Maybe even hotter than yesterday, which broke ninety. Summer might be drawing to a close, but it’s not surrendering its reign without a fight.

Jogging down the concrete steps, my skirt swishes around my thighs, stirring up the faintest of breezes. Making me ache for home—for my bed—and a locked door and a ceiling fan I can sprawl out naked under.

But instead I’m left to suffer in my school-issued uniform. I’ll be lucky if I make it to noon without sweat stains and blisters.

When I hit the sidewalk, I consider my options for all of two seconds before cutting a sharp right toward the woods. A shortcut I haven’t taken in years, and never alone, but know will get me to St. Agatha’s across town in half the time it would take to go around. And I need that half, if I have any hope of getting there before they lock the doors.

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