Page 22 of The Blood we Crave

The ghost.

The ghost who haunts the only person who ever saw her. The only one who made her feel not so alone.

The one she’d killed someone for.

a deal with death

FOUR

thatcher

Rule number twelve from Henry’s Guide to Murder: never be late. One second late is twenty minutes closer to getting caught.

I’d amended all his rules. All of them were fixed and alternated to fit my needs. I made them better. Fathers are supposed to set rules in the house: clean up your room, do the dishes for your mother, always wear a condom—basic standards for young men to follow.

The only regulation he’d ever taught me was how to end someone’s existence efficiently, relentlessly pounding each rule into my brain as if I would never forget what it looked like to cut someone up. It didn’t matter how many there were or how ridiculous, I remembered them all.

But now, they aren’t his to teach. They’re mine to polish.

Rule number twelve from Thatcher’s Guide to Murder: never be late. Unless it’s fashionable.

I couldn’t change the unfortunate truth that my father was the foundation of all my twisted desires. There was a part of me that would always belong to him, the evil seed that had polluted any good my mother may have given me in the womb. And instead of trying to heal that wickedness, he’d nurtured it.

Cultivated it like one of his precious roses. Watering my curiosity about the human body, shining a light on all the immorality inside of my soul, and trimming any person who tried to get close out of my life.

He wanted me secluded.

Alone. Weak. A piece of untouched clay that he could mold.

He had to be the only resource in my life. I couldn’t need anyone but him. This is why from the time I met the boys, I’d kept our closeness a secret from my father. It wasn’t until he was apprehended that they first came over to my grandparents’ home.

Maybe that’s why my loyalty is so intense, why it’s so important to me. I’d hidden them from a monster, shielded them regardless of the consequences because I knew, even then, they were like me.

Sorta.

No one is like me.

But they each have this kernel of corruption, this darkness in them they can’t manage, and I had been taught since a child how to control mine. They need me to show them restraint, teach them how to harbor whatever vile hunger they have, hold it in until it’s safe to release it.

The chaos that lives in each of us doesn’t need to be reckless. I can show them how to contain it, exist with it, without letting it consume them whole.

I follow the chain-link fence along the forest line. The smell of salt burns my eyes, and I can feel the sand in my hair already. When I find the slit in the metal that I’m sure was Rook’s doing, the one who refused to develop any form of self-control, I pull it back and slip through, careful not to snag my shirt.

The entrance of Black Sands Cove is protected by a pathetic excuse for a fence to keep people out during the hours it’s closed, which had never stopped any of us, but it’s been a while since I’ve been on the beach.

I’m used to looking down at this place from the Peak, not partaking in tourist activities like tanning and playing in the water. But it’s been a while since I’ve seen them—it would have been rude not to show up.

Denying anyone of my presence should be a crime.

The knee-high grass is moments away from fading into sand, and a warm breeze runs across my exposed arms. I look down to see my skin slightly raised, the bumps beneath my blond hair noticeable even at night.

I stop walking, hearing the subtle sound of footsteps near me. At first, I think it’s the group ahead of me, but I quickly realize that’s incorrect.

The quick, hustled steps are coming from behind me. I know the feeling of being watched, how it pricks my skin and makes me crave a shower. I know what it feels like to have her eyes on me, and every time I encounter it, all I want to do is clean it from my skin.

Her eyes contaminate me.

They make me just as filthy on the outside as I am internally, and that isnotsomething I’m fond of.

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