Page 44 of Little Nightmare

"Is my blood not enough to prove my loyalty at least?” I whispered. “You know, in Aztec tradition, they would offer their still beating hearts to the god, it was the ultimate sacrifice the most powerful way to honor was to give over the one thing keeping you alive.” I took a deep breath as we made another turn. The black basement door stared back at us. “Should I then? Hand you the only thing keeping me alive? Would you believe me then? That my life is yours? That despite all the sadness in your soul and all the damage in mine—I’ll live for you. Bleed for you. Die for you…”

Raven reached for my hand. One of the guards opened the ironclad door. The stairwell lights snapped on—Dante’s flair for the dramatic meant fire-lit sconces lined both sides. Bastard thought it was hilarious bringing guys down here for training. At least he squelched the idea of putting bloody hand prints down it as if to show that some escaped, some didn’t and got terrifiedenough of the souls of the dead that they decided to leave a mark for good.

“This is crazy.” Raven muttered under her breath. “Maybe if I talk to him?—”

“Don’t insult me by speaking to your dad and allowing me a free pass. I agreed to a pound. I’m honor bound by it and I’d never forgive you for using your tongue to speak against my honor.”

"My tongue?”

“Use it for other things.”

“Like what?”

"Praying,” I deadpanned. “Just like the Rabbi who was martyred for teaching under Roman rule. As he died he recited the Shama by saying all my life I longed to love God with all my soul—now I finally can.”

“That’s beautiful,” Raven murmured.

“Devotion,” I said as I squeezed her hand, “is easy when painted with pretty words—devotion is hard, when it’s proven with pain.”

Her eyes met mine. I couldn’t read her and for once she didn’t respond. Her face was pale, her lips parted like she wanted to find words but was at a loss.

I inclined my head toward her right before we reached the end of the hall. The door was older than the others, wood instead of iron.

After all, it wasn’t meant for torture.

It was meant for sacrifice.

And in the mafia, sacrifice must be heard by all, no matter how painful the cries might be.

The other doors were designed to keep the screams inside the room.

The one I was standing in front of was created to let the screams out like sacred bloody worship.

We stopped in front of the door.

The made man guarding it changed depending on the family, but they always wore a white blindfold, from here on out. I would come back a new man; he would only see me as the new me.

Tradition.

He was at least six foot two and appeared young from what I could see. “Name?”

“Ace De Lange.”

"Patron Saint?”

I swallowed the tightness in my throat. “The Penitent Thief, Saint Dismas.”

He went very still—too still.

The basement was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and the refrigeration units they kept for—things.

"The saint crucified next to Jesus. A saint who begged to be saved, who defended Jesus, who used his last few breaths as a sinner—to beg on behalf of another, and hope for forgiveness.”

"Correct.”

He held out his hand.

Slowly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the Patron Saint Card. It wasn’t stained with blood—typically it would only be stained once I was killed or left the mafia which meant I would be killed and the card would be burned again.

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