Page 98 of Pray for Scars
We are but dust and shadow.
The door creaks open at the back of the sanctuary.
“Hello, Daddy.” Brooklin’s voice echoes in the silent room.
There’s a second of motionlessness. Of everyone holding their breath. And just as I go to lunge toward Sid, heavy smoke fills the air, thick and choking. But I don’t stop. I run to where I last saw her, reaching out for her, hoping Maverick has her.
His sister.
But my hands close on nothing, and I swear to God I hear Jeremiah whisper to me, “Quid pro quo, motherfucker.”
And I already know she’s gone.
It’sNicolas’s Mercedes SUV I end up in. But Nicolas is nowhere to be seen.
Instead, Jeremiah is behind the wheel.
I’m in the passenger seat, and he wastes no time flooring his car, fishtailing us as we pull out of the parking lot of the church, onto the road.
“How did you—” I start to ask, my hands shaking, my eyes flying over him, trying to assess for injuries in the darkness of the car, lit only by the dash lights. I see the blood dried on his brow, I see bruises forming on his knuckles gripping the wheel, but he doesn’t look at me. He just…drives. His white tunic is slipping from his muscled shoulder, and I see the tendons there, his veins popping against his skin.
“Stop.” There’s no anger in that word. It sounds more like a prayer than a command, but fuck that.
“No,” I retort, turning in my seat. I have my seatbelt on because he’s driving like a bat out of hell, but also to stop me from reaching across this center console and strangling him. “What just happened?” I try to sound angry, but the words come out broken.
He doesn’t answer me. He just keeps driving.
Brooklin…saved us. Or did she fuck us? Did she love my brother enough to…
My brother.
My hands fly to my throat.
My brother.
And Jeremiah…
Lucifer.
“Jeremiah.” My hand slips to my chest, and I feel my heart pumping too slowly beneath my palm. Feel my breaths, coming out in slow inhales and exhales. “Jeremiah,” I say again. “Did you know?”
Jeremiah doesn’t blink. He keeps driving, and we’ve made so many turns, I have no clue where we are now. There’s nothing on these roads, just fields and trees and darkness.
He doesn’t say anything.
“Where’s Nicolas?” I ask him quietly.
He turns down a dirt road and I see it, where we’re going. Trees line either side of the road, if you can call it that. We get jostled all along it, potholes and dips that make me feel queasy. I flex my fingers, wishing I could crawl out of my own skin.
“I don’t know,” Jeremiah finally says, and I realize he’s answering my question. About Nicolas. “Maybe dead. Brooklin never saw him leave the club.”
Fuck.
At least Jeremiah is talking.
“Did you know?” I ask again, nearly choking on those words. “Did you know Lucifer was—”
Jeremiah turns to me, his eyes slits. “Don’t,” he says gruffly. “Don’t fucking say his name to me.”
