Page 52 of Her Wicked Knights
Brooke gasps, and I wrap her tighter in my grip. "It's pretty, isn't it? Look at the different sizes, too."
I don't actually know what I'm saying. I'm babbling, because I can't let this girl die encompassed by the nightmare going on around us... the roar of the flames, the screaming and arguing. I hear Tripp and Colton, but I can't tell what they're saying either.
"Look at the seagulls flying. There's so many of them up there."
Words fall from my tongue, and I don't even know what they are. I lose track of what I'm talking about.
When someone drags me to standing, it's like my brain has glitched. It's like I fell asleep, because I don't know what happened, but I know I wasn't conscious for all of it. Colton supports my body weight until I can feel my legs under me, and I turn to see Tripp staring at me. But I don't think he's really seeing me; his gaze is unfocused and far away.
"It's on you now, Rev." Colton says. "Do it."
I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do... until I realize Tripp is holding the blade out toward me. The entire thing is saturated in blood. Some of it drips onto the floor between us as he waits for me to take it.
"Nine souls are binding together." Whit says. "The ritual is almost complete. It's your turn."
I don't want to be bound to these psychopaths. Murderers. Monsters.
"This isn't optional, Rev." Colton's voice is hard, edged with desperation. "They won't let you leave if you don't do this."
"She's already dead, anyway." Mark says, and I guess that must have been how he justified it, because when I turn to look at him, he looks like he's going to be sick.
"I c-can't. I-"
Colton grips my wrist and twists, wrenching it so that my hand is out for Tripp to pass the blade. He does, and his gaze doesn't leave mine.
The metal hilt is heavy as the weight transfers to me, and I want to drop it. I try to drop it, but my fingers wrap around it instead and Whit watches victoriously as I clench my fist, trying to fight with my fingers to open. It's like I have no control over my body anymore. My brain is screaming at me to stop, but my body doesn't listen.
I don't know how, but Whit's controlling me. I realize as much when he flings his hand toward the girl on the ground—the corpse. I think they're right that she has to be dead by now. But that doesn't make it any easier as my body follows Whit's motion.
"Stop!" I beg, grunting to get the word out through my clenched teeth. My stomach is burning, like there's a fire in the pit of it that's going to open and swallow me up. I don't know if it's from vomiting or the guilt of what's about to happen or whatever the fuck hold Whit's got on me.
He wriggles his fingers a minute, enjoying watching me squirm, before he brings them down through the air.
The blade cuts into her easily at first, sinking inch by inch as I try with everything in me to pull back. It's useless, because I only end up driving the blade deeper until I feel resistance, and a sound that makes me shudder.
"Carving her bones, are we, Rev?" Whit chuckles. "I like the enthusiasm, but let's carve the flesh instead. We need the blood."
I want to be relieved when I pull the knife from her back, but it's not over yet. I still can't control my body.
I don't know what he wants, but it doesn't matter. He just takes what he wants, flipping the body over so that she lies on her mutilated back.
I've seen plenty of girls in less than a bra but seeing her like this feels like a violation. The front of her body is unmarred, her stomach smooth and flat and definitely not moving.
Nine of us.
Nine stabs.
Is that all it took to kill her? Was she dead before number nine? Who delivered the fatal blow?
I don't get to linger over these questions, because Whit directs my hand, which still hasn't dropped the blade, poising it over her unmarred skin.
Whit draws patterns in the air that appear in her skin, which splits beneath the tip of the knife as I drag it over her flesh, my entire body trembling as I try to break whatever the fuck he did to me. This spell or curse or whatever the fuck it is, is incomprehensible. Not just because it's making me do something so vile, but because I have no control over my own body. My choice is gone, and no fighting or resistance is going to help.
And when he finally decides that's enough and lifts the blade from the wounds, I can't even feel relief that it's over. I can't feel anything as the knife clatters to the ground, making an echoing sound against the floor.
I feel nothing, because I am nothing.
Or maybe Iamone thing... a fucking killer.
