Page 47 of Unholy

KING is written over and over again on every inch of surrounding walls and windows. At minimum five bodies are hung upside down, similar to how we found Cecilia, with nails in their hands and feet, naked. Faces are blue from all the blood that rushed to their heads and some trickle from the wounds. A couple are beaten; their ribs are bruised, with handprintsaround their wrists. My feet move closer to one, and I lift one female’s head. She has a similar build and features to Cecilia, which I find most interesting, but I don’t recognize her from The Exiled.

“Thomas, check them,” I frantically demand.

I think these are civilians.

He lifts the head of an older lady, with hair like Greta’s but with a less saggy body. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks.

“Check them all,” I respond, knowing we are both on the same page.

Another looks like Darian, my dad, and Rain. She is even pregnant like her. Nails are hammered around the perimeter of her stomach; I only notice because the light bounces off them.

Rage. Black fills my vision.

He knew I was coming.

He planned this. He baited me.

Or he is more sadistic than I am, didn’t plan this, and did it for his own enjoyment in order to get his dick hard.

Seething, I growl, “Find him!”

My boots stomp across the floor back to the staircase, where I see what I tripped over. Another body; this one is slit at the neck and doesn’t resemble anyone of importance. Maybe he was a commoner from The Exiled that Dalton recruited then decided to kill. Blood stains the steps leading upstairs. I follow them.

Midway up, I look behind me. Thomas is not there. Instead, he is frozen in place, shaking.

“Yes, it looks like Greta. Now get the fuck over here,” I snarl.

Startled, his head nods and his mouth moves, but I have no idea what he is saying as he rushes over.

Reaching the top, I peek around the corner. Two tall and burly older men are guarding Dalton’s door. This is going to be fun. Dim hallway lights give us sight for when I step out fromaround the corner and start swinging my bat with my wrist. A slight smirk adorns my face, and neither of them move. “Bravery will not reward you,” I inform them.

Both raise their hands in surrender, declaring, “He’s yours. We won’t stop you.” Traitors, how interesting. I was hoping for more of a fight.

“Betrayal won't be rewarded either.” I smirk, showing off my sharp fangs, hungry for blood.

Stepping forward, I crack my bat against the face of one. Their head swings backward, and their body follows from the momentum of my hit. From the corner of my eye, I see the other trying to escape, but Thomas takes one swing, slicing him from skull to mouth. Loud screams erupt down the dark hall, and blood splatters across my face as I take another swing. This one lands the guy on the ground. I can hear Thomas still going behind me as, “Die, motherfucker!” is being shouted, and I burst into hysterical laughter while bashing in the skull of my guy.

This feels so fucking good. My eyes hood in ecstasy. This is my drug, killing will never not feel this good.

A couple more hits, and I start to feel the floor against my bat instead of a skull and brain; that’s when I know he’s dead. Spinning around, I see if Thomas needs help, my chest still heaving from the rush. And to my surprise, the kid is absolutely covered in blood; his bright white shirt that could be seen in the dark is barely noticeable now as crimson drips down his chest. Then I see not only is the guy's face sliced in half but so is his torso, which is carved into an X.

The sight fills me with pride. “Well done, Pet!” I praise, patting him on the back. And hopefully this teaches him that wearing a suit to playtime is a really stupid fucking idea.

Stepping away from Thomas, I open the closed door and step inside the room. A single bedroom lamp is turned on, illuminating the space, and confusion washes over me. Whydidn’t we see this light on from outside? Looking up to the windows, I now see why. Blackout electric shades cover each one. Stepping closer to the bed, I take in the barbaric and pathetic sight before us. Dalton and his shaggy brown hair fill the space. He is basically starfished on top of the blankets in only his underwear. Drool runs down his chin, and the rush raging through my body dwindles then completely dies once I see pill bottles on his bedside table.

“Thomas, what was in them?” I ask.

“Ambien, boss.”

He didn’t do this to himself. He wanted a fight, he has been begging for it since Hell Fire Night. No, his team drugged him.

Rats. Traitors. Disloyal servants.

They deserved to die. And any other I find that was once a part of his merry men will die too.

I grip Dalton’s hair at the base and drag him off the bed and pull him behind me past his old friends and all the way down the stairs. His body thumps along each step, but nothing is going to wake him up at this point until the Ambien wears off and whatever else they may have slipped him. As we hit the last stair, a grunt follows. I shout back, “Shut up,” as if he can hear me.

I drag him to the front door, dropping his head, and it bounces on the floor before settling in place. I wonder if he’s even alive.

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