Page 21 of Of Heathens & Havoc

An icy chill grips my body.

As we stream toward the chapel, the others move closer. Heath tugs on the cincture around my wrists, shooting a wink and a grin over his shoulder at one of the other sheep. “This one wanted to start the game early,” he says, his tone jovial, like the stakes of this game are no bigger than a game of Monopoly instead of our very souls.

I balk at the door to the church, ready to spit out the rosary beads and go back on my word. What is a leaked confession in the scheme of things? What does it matter if the world knows I’m a sinner, if the alternative is losing the battlebetween good and evil inside me, the one that condemns me to an eternity of burning in agony?

But then the door is opening, and a figure is standing there, holding it for the herd. He’s wearing a black robe that goes to his feet, the deep hood pulled up and obscuring his face in the shadowy entrance to the darkened church. All I can see is a square chin, and wide, full lips.

Lips that crooned comforting words to me when I had nightmares, that tightened into a grimace of sympathy when he bandaged my scraped knees and laughed with me while he picked me up and spun me around after I won a first-place ribbon for memorizing the most Bible verses at church camp.

I clamp my lips tighter around the beads in my mouth.

It’s not just some vague, faceless world who will hear what I say. It’s the people in it—the sisters and fathers at church, my aunt, the parents I haven’t seen in years, and my brother.

What would he think if he knew that I had these sins buried under my own skin, sins I condemned Heath for when I spoke to the judge after Eternity’s murder? Would he think I was no longer pure, that I’m the dirty slut Heath says I am?

Am I?

Two people know the truth—really only one. Father Salvatore doesn’t know it was me in the confessional that day. He knows the sin, not the sinner.

Heath knows it all, and I’m going to make sure he’s the only one who does. So, I resolutely adjust the beads in my mouth and step into the darkened sanctuary.

He leads me into the church, down the aisle between the pews where I sat so many Sundays, trying to pay attention to sermons on sin and hellfire, weaknesses of the flesh. Is it my fault they didn’t sink in, that they didn’t cure this ache inside me? Was it because I spent half those sermons giggling with Eternity and stealing peeks at my brother’s cute friends?

Heath leads me forward, all the way to where we knelt for blessings and communion, holding out our hands like hungry children, waiting for the scrap of bread and the sip of wine from the chalice. Pausing at the altar, he runs his fingertips over it and smiles over his shoulder at me. In the darkness of the room, with only moonlight filtering through the stained-glass windows towering over us, he looks disturbingly tempting and terrifyingly sinister at once.

“I hope the Master names you this year’s sacrifice,” he whispers. “I’m hard just thinking about your whimpers when your blood drips from the altar.”

I shudder with terror as yanks me deeper into the shadows. He drags open a heavy, dark wooden door behind the altar, and we’re plunged into pitch darkness. My panic begins to rise as it sinks in how real this is, what danger I’m in. I could be destroyed by this boy tonight, the same way he destroyed Eternity. She was our friend back then. I’m not a friend. He’ll show me no mercy.

I’m the girl who put him behind bars, a girl who, in his eyes, betrayed him and deserves punishment. He’s not waiting for judgment day, for God to weigh my sins. He’s already found me as guilty as the judge found him, already convicted me for the crime of breaking rank with the group.

But he broke rank first.

He killed Eternity, even if the evidence wasn’t enough for the judge to sentence him for murder. They found her bloody clothes on the bank of the river, but they never found a weapon. I know what he did, though. I know how strong Heath is, strong enough not to need a weapon.

And now he’s holding me, threatening to take not just my body but my soul, condemning me to hell with him.

My thighs shake as we stand in the pitch black, dank air beyond the door. I can feel Heath moving around, and then he reaches back, his strong, warm fingers closing around mine.

“Stairs,” he says. He tugs me gently, guiding me forward. We go down the stairs slowly. Halfway down, a warm glow begins to filter up from the room below. At the bottom of the stairs, we move through a dark space before stepping into the room Heath where confronted me with the recording of my confession. I know the crypt is somewhere nearby, and I shiver at the memory.

Tonight, handful of figures roam the room, pacing like caged animals. Pent up energy and masculine hunger radiate from them as they circle the space, openly surveying the cluster of white-clad figures in giant lamb heads. My belly flutters at the reminder of what was written on the entry form I signed.

The Hellhounds all wear masks, though only one is a plastic hound mask with sad eyes and sagging jowls. Hidden under the deep hoods they all wear, I spot a black hockey mask, a wolf, a skeleton, a gamer with glow-in-the-dark Xs over each eye, a ski mask, Ghostface, a demon face, and Lucifer himself. They’re all wearing black robes like the ones my brother’s wearing, and many have night-vision goggles hanging around their necks.

The girls are dressed in a variety of outfits, from white jeans and a t-shirt, to a sparkly minidress paired with white heels, to what can only be described as lamb lingerie. I wonder if the Hellhounds chose each outfit, or if the other girls were allowed to choose their attire.

“Go on, little lamb,” Heath murmurs, nudging me toward the group. “Join your flock.”

I make an unintelligible sound, my words garbled behind the beads, and hold out my bound hands in a supplicating gesture. He laughs cruelly. “What did I say about making thingseasy for you, little rabbit? I’m just returning the favor you did me four years ago. What did they say about the hardships I’d face in juvie? Oh yeah—it builds character.”

With a hollow laugh that sends a shudder rolling down my spine, he turns and walks away. A soft thud sounds somewhere, and the jangling of keys, and then two more hooded figures enter the room. One of them lays an altar cloth over the end of the stone slab at the center of the room, which is already decorate with late summer wildflowers—daisies and asters, Black-Eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s Lace. In the center is a white figurine of the Virgin Mary, her hooded head bent over her praying hands, next to marble statue of a round, naked woman that’s such a stark contrast that it makes it even more shockingly obscene.

A Hellhound steps behind the altar and holds up both arms in front of him in a welcoming gesture.

“Hello, my little lambs. Thank you for joining us for HAVOC night, where there is no sin,” he says, his voice distorted behind a black, birdlike plague mask. “If you’ve played HAVOC before, you know the rules. If this is your first time…”

He turns slightly, his arm sweeping toward the dozen black-robed men. The Hellhounds let out a spine-tingling, bloodthirsty howl in unison. When it dies down, the one at the altar turns back to us.

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