Page 68 of Wicked Salvation
But this was all just myfirstact. The second? Oh the second is the one I’m looking forward to the most. You see, I’ve kept a list. Not a written one. I’ve never spoken it, either.
No, this list lives behind my teeth, between my ribs.
The boys who bled Vivienne dry—even though I have no proof of it, I just know their stupid little cult had something to do with it. The same ones who stand by while Silas plays god. I’m certain they know how he treats Eden, in fact—I caught them laughing the day when Silas left Eden crying in that classroom.
Cedric.
Max.
Alistair.
They will be my second act.
CEDRIC - 18:10
He isn’t hard to find.
After all, he thinks himself safe because he and his friends stand at the pinnacle of the school’s hierarchy. There were whispers of screams coming from the catacombs last night, another sacrifice I presume—though for what, I can’t be sure since there hasn’t been a Communion. No body was found.
Which can only mean one thing.
And that makes this all the more fitting.
I will be Cedric Crispin Langley’s reckoning.
Cedric’s in the gymnasium after house, earbuds in, lifting like he’s got something to prove. I watch him through the frosted glass window, arms straining, his fucking face as a red as a tomato. At first glance, most people would think Cedric formidable—menacing, even.
Well, that’s if they don’t know him.
Every Langley in his bloodline has a reputation of service to people in the House of Lords and Military service. Yet here he is—carving up girls and drinking their blood at the behest of a cultish secret society. Out of them all, he disappoints me the most.
We were fast friends in preparatory school.
Until Silas Peregrine-Ashford IV happened.
As I stand there watching him, my blood starts boiling. His form’s all wrong. All show and no discipline. Typical of someone who takes orders from Silas.
I slip in through the side door.
Quiet. Fast.
I’m behind him before he notices. I don’t have many words for Silas’ lackeys. I’m just here to give them a taste of their own medicine.
My syringe is already primed.
Two millimeters of ketamine—enough to disassociate but not enough to kill. The same drug they use to kidnap all the girls for their fucked up rituals. I jab the needle into his neck before he can make a move.
He stumbles.
His eyes are wide, clawing at the air.
“What the—what did you—?” He’s already slurring his words, already fading.
I step away from behind him and watch him fall.
“Today’s your lucky day, Langley,” is all I have to say.
He doesn’t deserve any more words than that.
