4. Rain

E is on edge. He hasn’t slept.

He is acting like a drug addict going through withdrawals, but knowing his next hit is only hours away, there is an added intensity to his insanity.

I still don’t completely understand everything. His family is deeply involved in something bigger than my brain can comprehend at the moment.

Wandering around the house, I find myself in the guest wing as my hand mindlessly plays with my black leather collar decorated with rose gold accents which encompasses his vial of blood, his soul, in the center.

Passing the secure door, I pause. Turning slowly I face it, placing my hand on the door, and a chill runs up my spine. It doesn’t make sense.

E is still in the backyard.

He has been out there since before I woke up. When making my morning coffee, I watched him through the massive back windows. Sitting on the patio furniture, his back to me, spinning his bat mindlessly next to him on the patio stones with his tattooed fingers.

The clouds were overcast, his breath floated in the air, and it made me wonder, how the fuck am I supposed to get used to this weather?

As I stood and watched him from the kitchen island, he threw his head back at one point and yelled into the morning sky. It’s possible he felt me watching. But I doubt it. At that moment, he was the most vulnerable I had ever seen. This is completely out of character for him. The restraint he is showing is mind-blowing, the fact that he hasn’t just said fuck it and gone out to satisfy his cravings shows that deep down, even if he can’t express it or properly articulate it, he does have some self-restraint against the voices, the demons that whisper kill, kill, kill.

It’s midday, and he still hasn’t come in.

I’ve gotten ready in a pair of oversized sweats and a hoodie. I know we have to go to his dad’s before this evening begins. Even when dressed warmly, the chill from touching the door lingers up my spine.

As I remove my hand, I take a deep breath in and decide I have to get him. I need to help keep his mind busy. Turning around, the eerie feeling remains, while a familiar one is added.

He is here.

My eyes look to the end of the long hall, and E is looking back at me from through the large window. Half of his tattooed face is covered with a shadow, his expression stone. Resting over his shoulder is his wooden bat. His outfit matches mine, all black. With a slight tilt of his head, I know, he tells me it’s time to go.

My feet pad across the hardwood as I find my shoes by the front entrance. Quickly, I slide them on and rush out the front door. I am eager to learn more.

A cool breeze tickles my cheeks. My lungs cough, adjusting to the dry, cool air.

Rubbing my hands together, my eyes wander the property, looking for him.

Where did he go?

Stepping down the large step, I shove my hands in my pockets and begin walking up the long stone driveway. It’s unlikely he has made it this far, but I don’t know where else to go. My mind races, I still feel connected to him like on that very first day while I was working at the bar, but I also feel very uneasy. He is isolating. And I don’t know how to fucking help him.

Perhaps the feeling of being useless is what is driving it. I am uncomfortable because I am unable to help him, when it’s all I want to be able to do. It hurts my soul knowing he is hurting. He would end anyone and anything in his path to help me. And I am here, walking up a driveway racking my goddamn brain, trying not to feel bad when this isn’t about me.

Spiraling.

Tiny pebbles crack under my feet as I continue to walk up the driveway.

I feel him .

A loud whistle behind me catches my attention, causing me to stop in my tracks. Turning my head, his beautiful eyes catch my attention first. The blue with the specks of brown thrive here. They were never this vibrant in North Carolina. This is where he is meant to be.

Smiling at the sight before me, E is driving a black-on-black golf cart in my direction .

“We aren’t walking,” is all he says as he stops next to me.

Once I am seated next to him, his foot presses down on the gas. His bat rests between us and rolls slightly at the acceleration. His fingers are holding the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white, as he tries to fight the twitching, the anxiety. His breathing is heavy.

Reaching my hand out, I place it on his thigh. His muscles contract under my soft touch while his teeth grind, my poor sweet boy.

With squinted eyes, he drives us up his long drive, across the private road, and down his dad’s driveway.

Like Elijah’s, trees surround the home, privacy is very important to this family, so I am learning. The home is immaculate. Two-story log home with accents of rock. Easily double the size of E’s place. It even has two front entrances on either side. A large fountain is in the middle, which we circle as E parks to the closer of the two front doors. Putting it in park, then switching the golf cart off, he grabs his bat and gets out. My hand breaks contact and is already missing his warmth.

Getting out, I silently follow his lead.

I always promised I would follow him without question in this area, and it is a promise I intend to keep, even if my soul is screaming from watching him suffer.

With his hood covering his head, short pieces of his dark hair stick out.

He is gorgeous.

“I know you’re checking me out.” Turning his head to me, he winks before carrying on forward. It’s the first bit of joy I have seen from him in days.

A piece of him is still inside this shell of a man, trying to show me it’s okay.

Instead of going inside, he starts to walk around the house—it’s a compound, really. This property is insane and slightly overwhelming.

Cameras can be seen around the home and hiding in the trees as I take everything in. Steel shutters cover the second-story windows, which is unique. Iron fencing appears, not just posts but entire solid pieces. E puts his thumb up against one part and the buzzing of the gate begins before clicking open. Pushing the gate open, he exposes the backyard, which is surrounded by dense forest. Walking up the side of the house, I continue to follow as my curious eyes take everything in.

A beautiful view of the mountains keeps my attention, some peaks are already decorated in white snow.

Without noticing, Elijah has stopped and the side of my face meets the soft fabric of his hoodie. My feet briefly try to lose their balance by stumbling backward, which I try to prevent by gripping onto the back of him. Helping, he leans forward slightly.

A hiss leaves his mouth, my face scrunches in confusion. Did I hurt him?

“Are you okay?”

He doesn’t respond with words, only a nod of his head.

As I let go of his hoodie, I find his free hand and interlace my fingers with his. Looking up at him, his teeth are biting on his lip ring, playing with it absentmindedly.

Anxiety.

Hesitantly, I ask, “How can I help?” I hate feeling helpless with him. He does so much for me, protects and takes care of me. I need to help him in his time of need now.

“You can’t.”

He is short in his response. Nothing taken personally, I can only imagine how it must feel being in his head right now. Battling the demons and holding them off, it must be exhausting.

At the same time, I didn’t realize until now, how much not killing would hurt him. He has been accustomed to acting on his urges since he was a child. What was I thinking? Of course he would get an itch, which he hasn’t scratched in months.

As we step farther into the large backyard, there is an old building, possibly the shed I heard him reference yesterday with his dad. But I can’t be sure. He will tell me once he is ready.

E squeezes my hand, and the corner of my lip rises.

He is still in there.

Leading us closer to the tree line, I continue to look around. The backyard is pretty bare with the exception of the large patio at the back of the house, which is a giant outdoor living space, and the shed.

As we stop on the lawn, standing side by side before the forest of trees, I look deep within. It doesn’t look as full as they would in North Carolina. Leaves fallen, branches bare with multiple tones of brown are before me. Some green spruce trees are in the mix, giving us that pop of color that I am so familiar with.

A breeze blows past, making the tip of my nose cold and starting to run as I sniffle it back.

“This is a graveyard.” As he speaks, his arm lifts, pointing to the woods with his bat.

My eyes squint, I don’t see any headstones.

“More bodies are buried here than you can even fucking imagine. Whatever number you are thinking, at least double it. Triple it, even. The graves are generations old.”

Fuck me.

My eyes widen, taking it in.

“When I was five, I was introduced to the lifestyle. One question at dinner with my dad and his friends about killing a person, turned into my tendencies being nurtured. My dad never got mad. He only asked how he could help. He then set me up with a mentor to hone my craft. He never made me feel different or fucked in the head.”

E points his bat in another direction beside me, but farther up the property. “That’s the shed.”

Just as I suspected.

“At the time, I didn’t realize that dinner was full of powerful people who also supported my learnings. Before my question, they were just my dad’s friends who came over often. But then everything changed because of one fucking question. What is the best way to kill someone? Maybe things do happen for a reason, I don’t fucking know. But it seems to have all worked out.”

I want to look at him, but I worry he will stop sharing if I do, so I continue looking forward.

He lowers his bat next to him again and continues, “As years went on, I went from learning the fundamentals at five—torture, dismemberment, and disposing. To kidnapping and killing by the age of ten, when I left here for Blackwood. My mentor always told me, ‘ You can’t kill if you don’t know how to handle the bodies after. Usually there is a cleanup crew, but not in all cases. You have to fucking know how to cover your tracks.’ And he was right. It’s how I got so fucking good at what I do. Because of him, my dad, and that fucking shed.”

Before I can stop myself, my mouth opens and the question comes out, “Who is your dad?”

E chuckles, looking back at me with a sinister smirk decorating his face, “Welcome to The Exodus, Rain Sinclair. I am a Disciple, my father is an Elder, and you, my little bat, are a Pawn.”

I am a fucking what?

My brows rise, and my face has to be screaming explain because his response is quick. “The shed.”

Pulling on my hand, E starts to walk and I follow, making our way to the shed, which must have been like a second home to him.

Unlike this monstrous home, which is very Colorado in its exterior, the shed has white siding, gray shingles, with a white solid door and a silver handle. A similar keypad as the gate next to it.

Then I notice, it has no windows. For good reason.

Elijah places the pad of his finger on the keypad scanner, and then the lock clicks as it finishes scanning. His hand grabs a hold of the cold door handle and he takes a deep inhale, then blows it out slowly.

Pushing the door open, it’s dark. Immediately, I smell dust and have a couple rapid sneezes exit me. No one's been in here for years, I suspect, as E flips the light switch on, a single overhead fluorescent light turns on, which illuminates the space. Nothing has been covered with sheets to protect the furniture and equipment. A thick lining of dust is covering the area.

We step in, the floor creaks beneath us, which is covered in larger white floor tiles, some of which are broken, and underneath you see the wood floorboards exposed.

A table takes up most of the space, and the walls are lined with the same cabinets and countertop that E has in Blackwood, along with a tiny sink.

As we step in farther, I close the door behind us. It’s chilling how familiar the space is, but it must also be comforting to him.

“The Exodus is a society of very wealthy and powerful people who control the government and underground. From the police, to the mayor, and all criminal activities. If it happens in Vail, The Exodus knows about it and most likely is involved. Every ten years, new initiates get brought in. We call it The Reckoning. We get free rein of the city for ten hours, on the tenth day of the tenth month of the tenth year. During those ten hours, we are free to do as we please, even more than we usually are.

“Locals have heard stories over the years, they usually prepare their homes and stay inside the entire time or leave. Tourists are naturally at risk, as they are blindly unaware. Sometimes Elders, like my dad, give suggestions on what we do. Sometimes we get to decide on our own.

“During The Reckoning, there is a party in the woods at a giant home, done up and over the top. My personal version of hell. But the home is equipped with things we may need to fulfill certain plans. They are technically called sacrifices or party favors, depending on who you talk to. These individuals usually have been very naughty and must be put back in their places, then they are given an option: join us or die. If they join us, they are Pawns, the bottom of the ranks; they do what we say, they are the bitches of The Exodus. I am a Disciple, a born member. The Reckoning is to bring us into the ranks along with additional Pawns. At some point, the Elders show up and watch as we play. But some members don’t even make it to the party. They get carried away before showing up.”

My eyes are wide as my brain tries to take everything in.

This shit actually exists. Groups like this.

Then again, my bio dad was the leader of a fucking cult.

“You are a Pawn, for now. We are fucking one. They will see that and you won’t be called a Pawn for long. You are a fucking Sinclair. A Disciple.”

How is this my life? From a small town only months ago, to The Chapel, and now The Exodus.

Every moment of my life has been preparing me for this moment.

Each experience helps me navigate the next.

My mom would tell me to trust, and I am.

Logically, I should be freaking out. My anxiety should be in overdrive as my brain races trying to sort all these new details out. But my body isn’t reacting that way.

Why?

He is my life. Where he goes, I go.

My soul and his soul. We are forever.

E lets go of my hand and walks over to the table, placing his bat on it. The dust is disturbed and floats around him.

“This place, my shed,” he stops and looks around, “this is where my demons became my friends.”

With each pump from my heart, my chest becomes warm. His words touch me in a way I never anticipated. We all have happy places. Places that remind us of the good times.

This is his.

Then I get an idea of how to help him. How to keep this his happy place, instead of walking back into it feeling tortured and starved.

Walking over to the cabinets, one by one I open them up, looking for the perfect tool. So much of this stuff I had never seen before, but I want to know more. Another time. This is for him—about him. He needs this.

Opening the next cabinet door, there it is. Laying flat on the shelving, the steel is still shiny and the handle is matte black. Gripping it in my hand, it’s cool to the touch. As I rub my thumb along the black grip, I know this is the right thing to do.

As I turn around to face E, the blade is facing him as the knife rests flat in my hand.

Two simple but powerful words leave my mouth.

“Cut me.”

His brow furrows in confusion.

“If it’s going to help. Do it. Please. Cut me. Make me bleed. Let me do this for you.”

E shakes his head, “No. I’ll be okay. It’s only a few more hours.”

His nostrils flare looking at the sharp blade, and his pupils dilate.

“Take it.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple moves in his throat and his teeth play with his lip ring.

His hand reaches out, his thumb twitching as he hovers over my hand.

Moving my hand up to meet his, the knife is now between our palms. Looking up with E, I nod, encouraging him to just take it. You can see the internal struggle on his face, unsure of what to do.

Taking the lead, I reach up with my other hand and begin curling his fingers around the handle. He doesn’t resist. Each finger is wrapping around it now as I let my other hand drop.

Stepping over to the table, I boost myself up as my legs hang over the edge.

Lifting one leg up I rest the heel of my shoe on the edge as I begin pulling my pant leg up. With my pale skin on display, I gently encourage him once more, “Do it.”

His eyes take me in, starting from my head and moving slowly down my body.

“Why aren’t you scared?” His question confuses me.

“Scared of what? You?” I shake my head. “I could never be. You would never hurt me on purpose.”

“You know after tonight, we can’t leave. Vail is home. We can go back to Blackwood, visit your mom, but this is home now, little bat.”

Tears prick my eyes. My mom.

Immediately I want to ask if we can relocate her here. So I can still have access to her whenever I need to talk to her. Or just be, sitting with her. What am I going to do without her? Fuck . No.

I can’t do that to her. She’s at rest in Blackwood, under a beautiful tree with flowers. Elijah did that for her—for me. He had no idea the impact he had by doing that, and he still doesn’t fully understand how meaningful his gesture is by doing so. I can’t disturb her over my selfish needs.

He has given up so much.

This is his time now. And I will just need to learn and adapt.

Rain, you can fucking do this.

Nodding my head, I say, “I understand. It’s you and me, until the end.”

The cool blade kisses my skin, lightly moving up toward my knee. Goosebumps follow behind.

“My demons will be able to come out and play more here. I will be free.”

Tears well in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I don’t want him to realize the internal turmoil I am experiencing, it will only make his current situation worse.

He hates it when I’m sad. It triggers him.

I need this as much as him now.

“Press harder,” my voice rasps, instructing E again.

His beautiful blue-with-brown-specks eyes are entirely focused now on the knife dancing along my skin. It looks like he is possibly spelling something out as he traces lines, but I can’t make it out.

Then, without warning, he pushes. Only a tiny prick at first, where a bead of blood forms as he moves the blade up again. It slowly begins to drip down my leg. His eyes watch as it slides, and his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath in. Before it reaches my shoe, E wipes the trail with his thumb and puts it in his mouth.

“So fucking good,” he moans.

My sweet baby E needed this.

The cut isn’t deep. He keeps it shallow the entire time, cutting maybe an inch more before he pulls back again.

As he takes the blade off my skin for the last time, he tosses it into the sink where it rattles before settling.

Leaning down, his fingers begin rubbing the blood along my shin, painting something abstract with it, I think. My eyes remain on his face, watching the expressions pass through him.

His touch and my blood are warm against me, his eyes are focused. He is happy.

Once satisfied, he steps back, admiring his work, then he nods for me to see.

Looking down, a smile forms on my lips. MINE .

“It’s perfect,” my breath whispers, as my hand reaches to my neck. My fingers faintly rub the vial, which encases the most precious gift I have ever received.

I am his.

I spend a few more moments admiring it before bringing my pant leg down, careful to not smudge it.

Looking back at him, his eyes seem brighter, happier.

Elijah is slowly coming back to me.

“We should go. We still have a lot to do before tonight. And I… We need to talk to my dad.”

Jumping off the table, I grab his hand and lead him out.

Playfully, I joke, “You were the one that distracted me, mister.” Winking at him as I finish the sentence.

He grabs his bat and follows behind. As we leave the shed, he turns the light off and closes the door behind us.

“Oh, little bat. You are in so much trouble later.”

Sticking my tongue out, I giggle. “Good, I hope so!” His face is slightly amused by my antics while looking equally confused.

Before I can continue to bug him, he stops. My hand pulls on his, but he doesn’t move. Instead, looking up toward the house. As I turn my head, I follow his eyes in the same direction.

Nate.

His dad is standing in a pair of dark slacks and a knitted sweater, looking down at us from the second-story balcony. Breaking the silence of our staring, his voice is firm and his words are minimal, “They are ready.”