Page 52 of Of Heathens & Havoc

If I have to bind myself to one of them, I want it to be him, but the heathen with his maniacal laugh is the one holding out the rope.

“Once you’re bound, you’re ours, as long as we want you. However and whenever we want,” Saint says. “If you wish to enter this contract, repeat our words, binding your wrist once to each of ours.”

“And you’re bound to me?” I ask.

He nods, the movement almost imperceptible.

At least I’ll be bound to him too. Reluctantly, I take the rope and wrap a length around my wrist. “With this tie, I bind myself to you,” I say to Heath. Then I wrap the rope around my wrist a second time, stepping over to Angel. I wrap his wrist a second time, my heart hammering harder and harder. I feel a little dizzy, faint and sick. “With this tie, I bind myself to you.”

Saint holds out his wrist, and I wrap the end of the rope around my wrist a third time before winding it around his. Blood rushes in my ears, my heartbeat erratic now. I can taste copper, though I don’t remember biting my tongue.

“With this tie,” I whisper, wishing I could wipe my clammy, shaking hands. “I bind myself to you.”

I swear the candles burn brighter for a moment, as if they’re sensing the crackling charge in the air when I touched my brother. Or maybe I’m just aware of them suddenly, how many burn around the altar, like a séance.

“We are bound,” Saint says in his quiet rumble. I can feel it through the rope, racing up my arm, down my spine, nesting like a hot coal under my lower belly.

“We are bound,” the other two repeat, and I feel my lips moving, hear my own voice in my ears like it’s someone else’s as I obey the unspoken command by instinct, a lifetime of call and response in the pews having trained me to answer after a weighted pause.

Then my brother, the boy who grew up in a two-story house in a neighborhood that was so safe that our parents sent us around the block by ourselves to invite everyone to the cookout when we hosted; the boy who carried me around on his back and lined up my teddy bears in my pink bedroom with thick, soft carpet; who told me we could eat anything in the fridge when our parents were gone and never got punished for making a mess or leaving the food out; who preordered the latest Jordans every time a new pair dropped, was patted on the back for being such a model student athlete by every parent and teacher and pastor from every church in town, pulls out a switchblade and flicks it open like he’s a gangster from Angel’s side of town.

With one quick stroke, he slices through the rope, severing our connection. I almost cry out, but he cuts away the others as well, leaving the rope in pieces. They quickly gather the lengths, securing them around my other wrist before I can protest. Then they lead me around the railing.

“Wait,” I gasp, my knees threatening to give.

“Did you bring your rosary?” Heath asks, still behind the mask.

I nod, my throat working as I try to speak.

I hand it over, and he slips it over my head. “Open your mouth.”

I obey, and he pushes the attached cross between my lips, letting it come to rest on my tongue. Then he loops the string of beads double, squeezing it over a third time and settling the three strands over my lips. “As much as I love to hear you scream, tonight requires silent submission,” he says. “If you scream, these will fall into your mouth and become a gag,” he says. “And the cross might slip back and choke you. So keep your mouth shut and suck on that cross like it’s your brother’s cock. We all know how thirsty you are for him.”

He gives my cheek a patronizing little pat that makes me want to spit the cross in his face and punch him in the windpipe. Instead, I clench my teeth tight, letting the metallic taste of the object calm me with its familiar, blood-like flavor.

Without a word, he scoops me up and carries me around the railing, lowering me onto the tilted cross.

The other two jump in and grab my hands. My stomach lurches as they pin them down on the crossbeam.

“Wait,” Saint says, and my heart swells with hope.

Maybe he’ll stop them at the last minute, like he did on HAVOC night. Maybe he’ll save me, absolve me.

Maybe he’ll tell me I’m forgiven.

“We have to turn her the other way,” he says.

My hope deflates as Angel picks me up this time, setting me on my feet. “You sure about this?” he asks, his smoky, jade green eyes searching mine from behind the shadows of his mask. For one second, I feel the concern I hoped for in Saint, and all I want to do is grab hold of Angel and never let go, beg him to carry me home and keep me forever and never let anyone else hurt me.

But I hurt him too, and after a second, he steps back, and my moment to answer is gone.

“We need her naked,” Heath says.

“Do we have to do that part?” Saint mutters.

“Shit, of course,” Angel says. “The Master will want her ready when he arrives.”

I gulp, my gaze flying from one of them to the next.

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