Page 38 of Sinner's End

Possession.

I know enough about the man’s fucked-up life to know the girls he plays with are changed. The more of him they take into their bodies—and I don’t mean his cock—the less human they become. His drugs are the worst sort of addiction. A craving for forgetfulness. Empty husks, soulless and hungry.

For nothingness.

Any priest will tell you that a blank mind invites the Devil. Mana’s toys, once he discards them, appear to be fairgame for any demonic possession wandering around out there. Because I can’t imagine the man—demon, fucking whatever—that obsesses over possessing Addi with the same fucked-up fervor as me, thatmanwouldn’t hurt her the way her sister has done. And Addi doesn’t appear to remember a fucking thing about it at all.

I can’t tell who to aim my rage at. Mana, for starting this shit by accident, or the sister whose envy, one of those lethal mothers of seven mortal sins, her greed—because who doesn’t like to double on down with a little self-sabotage—fucked with her sister a hell of a lot.

Part of me hopes that little shit who smells like Emma but is nothing like her is dead inside. Because if she comes around and realizes what she’s done, no amount of self-flagellation will solve that personal problem.

Mana’s hand is in this, even if it’s accidental. He’s the cause of their blankness, their forgotten sins and fears and hurts that only mortals would ever fuck around with to find out.

Welcome to your own personal hell, bitches.

That’s what the warning over the door to Harken should say. Because if they haven’t found out before they cross that twisted, Gothic threshold, then they sure as fuck will by the time they leave.

Blank, empty minds. It’s a curse, much so more than feeling everything the way I do. Like Mana. Even Bowen. Maybe the other hanger-on Mana collected. All minds free to claim. And when someone—fuck knows who—pushes into their heads and shoves down their souls, their little mortals seem to capitulate, happy to let someone lead while they fulfil their darkest, most fucked-up fantasies, and they aren’t even in control.

It’s the perfect blame system.

My demon did it.

It wasn’t me, sir.

I didn’t want to do it. They made me.

Like an episode of some fantastically fucked-up sitcom designed to satisfy violent cravings at the flick of a single button. And Mana has the motherfucking remote.

Now … now, my precious, stunning, beautiful Addi is one ofthem,and she doesn’t even know it. Mindless. One of the forgotten.

“Don’t look so down. I got you one, too.” Addi smiles up at me, her head tilted to one side like a Stepford fucking wife made to order.

Only, I want my OG Addi back.

“Adreana,” I murmur, taking the coffee because it seems to make her happy. “Let’s go back to the house. I think there’s something you need to see.”

Like several things. The scorch mark on the floor where she lay as her sister stood there and did nothing but gloat. An instant replay of the way the house’s foundations and something below trembled with rage while she watched Addi writhe on the floor, screaming her soul out, smiling suffocatingly up at me like It. Was. All Right.

Noneof this is fucking all right.

What scares me most is that I might not be the only one to claim this sister. So, I fucked her. As she showed me earlier in her bedroom, that apparently didn’t mean as much as the weight I put on claiming her first. Maybe Mana holds that honor by proxy, fucked up as it is.

She’s mine.

I sling an arm around her shoulders, drawing in a long breath as I press my lips to the top of her head, and scent something different. Something old. Something broken. And most certainly something not her.

“Home,” I try again as she turns in my arms and angles her head for a kiss she doesn’t return.

Like a goddamn robot.

“Harken,” she whispers with a promise in her voice that isn’t hers.

I sigh. “Harken it is.”

Mana can fix this fuckup. Because I’m bringing the slops to his front door.

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