Page 102 of Lust

Then there was the fire.

Blinding, excruciating fire.

Like nails driving into each nerve as the monster sliced into my flesh with its claws.

I felt.

Everything.

And now Brad’s still alive. Maybe this means it worked.

Maybe this means the others are alive too.

But what about me?

Shouldn’t I be dead?

Oh fuck.

I start to look down at my hands but stop myself as I envision what’s been haunting me—crawling around, covered in black blisters. Surely, I’m bandaged up—is that what the coarse sensation at my fingertips is? But shouldn’t I be in pain? Given what I remember of the vision, this will be brutal.

I wait for it to hit me, the intense pain from the severity of what I sustained, but…nothing.

How is that possible? No meds can be that strong. Or maybe the Sinners performed a spell to ease my pain? Or what if it’s like with Brad’s mom and his presence helps me somehow?

Whatever it is, it’s likely temporary and at some point I’ll have to feel it again—those nails driving into me, searing to my soul.

Brad looks up from the book, and he must notice I’ve woken up because he sets it on the edge of the bed and rises up.

“Luke? Can you hear me?” His expression is tense with worry.

My thoughts return to those last moments, when I asked Seth to stop him. How Brad cried out, his agony mixing with the horrible screams of the Slasher.

I try to say his name, but it catches in my throat.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. Just nod.”

I can manage that, and a gentle smile tugs up on his beautiful face, his eyes watering.

“What happened?” I force out.

“You did it. You killed it.”

Relief courses through me.

In our brief interaction with the Slasher, we discovered it was more powerful than we’d expected. And clever. If it hadn’t been destroyed, it would have killed everyone in sight.

And who would have stopped it?

As grateful as I am to have succeeded and still be here, I tear up at the thought that I’ll never be the same me. That I’ll always carry these scars with me. Will I even be able to walk?

I push those thoughts away. Plenty of time for self-indulgence later.

I fight to speak, finally managing, “How long have I been out?”

“Maybe ten…twelve hours.”

That can’t be right. Not for the injuries I sustained. And this doesn’t look like an ICU room. Shouldn’t I be intubated? What’s going on?

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