4. Chapter 4

The stench of death surrounded me, metal and acid and fetid meat. Nauseous sweat broke on my forehead, and I pressed my hand to my nose, taking shallow breaths.

Rusty braziers were scattered throughout the church, casting flickering shadows on the dark brick walls, dancing along the slender stained-glass windows. Viscera tainted the nave, two different sets of large boot prints impressed into smears of red and black. Bones decorated the empty pews, strung to the wood with coarse rope. But in the first row, with heads hanging like spineless dolls, sat six bloated corpses.

My heart beat as if to shatter its ivory cage, and my mind shrieked.

Shouldn't have come here. Shouldn't have come here. Shouldn't have come here.

I turned, fingers slipping around the door handle. I had to get out while—

"It seems we have a visitor, my lovely creations. You shall greet them. This is a house of the Creators, and all their faithful children are welcome."

Up on the chancel behind the candle-littered, bowl-cluttered altar, right where the smooth, gravelly voice came from, stood a figure, facing away, unmoving.

I had thought the deathly pale, bald male with the bare upper body a tall statue.

I was wrong.

The queasy pit in my gut grew bottomless.

The muscles on his broad back shifted as his hands lifted to the ceiling, enveloped by a green glow. As if tugged along by invisible strings, the graying corpses in the first row got up. The man's fingers twisted, and the bodies turned in jerky synchronicity.

He was their maestro, and they were his cursed dancers, following the silent rhythm of his grave melody.

The ghouls groaned, a wicked choir of gargled noises from loose, decaying jaws. But the Undead didn't attack, didn't advance, neither hostility nor amity in their hollow expressions.

"Approach, lost little lamb," the man at the altar said. "You must be spent and freezing. Let yourself be blessed in the name of the Creators." He lowered his arms, biceps flexing as he handled an object hidden by his athletic form.

I rocked on my heels, lips pursing.

What was my other option? The killer with the cleaver was still skulking around outside, no doubt on the prowl for me.

I walked along the aisle, quailing as the wet mixture of mud and blood squelched under my bare feet. Perhaps this man could be reasoned with. At least he had not yet threatened to spill my guts while fucking me. And if he followed the old faith …

"As the bodies of their foes lay broken, a crimson tide baptizing their savage glory …" My voice wavered. I had not prayed properly in a long while, the words of worship alien and bittersweet on my tongue.

The man flinched, yet not turning.

"Zerian took Dianya's hand," I continued, climbing the steps to the chancel. "And he said—"

"Behold, my beloved, their flesh and blood shall be brick and mortar for our palace. Their suffering shall nourish our fertile lands and stain it red with righteous torment." Breathlessness edged into his tone as he finished the last sentence from the first chapter of the Sanguine Sermon.

I swallowed hard as I stopped by the gore-encrusted altar, willing myself to look away from the grotesque ritual bowls filled with body parts and organs, sorted into neat categories.

One bowl for eyes.

One bowl for hearts.

One bowl for lungs.

One bowl for brains.

The man's ribs moved with heavy gasps. Cords of bones and teeth rattled at his belt, his red, layered kilt brushing over the floor, the hem weighed down by muck. Stained bandages covered his eyes, wrapping around his head, and a metal collar encased his neck. Black studs and spikes pierced his ears. They were shorter than mine, but pointed.

A Half-Elf.

My belly clenched with a tinge of sympathy. I saw flashes of Cyn and Eli in my mind's eye, standing over the lifeless body of another child, blood on their knuckles.

After that evening, no one had dared to hurt them or call them names ever again.

"You are the first true believer to grace this place of worship, lost little lamb," the man said. "My associate did well, herding you to my flock. Your agony will please the Creators."

I recoiled, my lips forming a mute O.

My arrival in this church was part of their plan.

The male lunged, thrusting a wavy-bladed dagger in my direction. On reflex, I twirled, and his weapon missed my chest by a hair's breadth. Behind me, the ghouls stirred, cutting off my escape route.

I faced my attacker and a palpable pause reverberated through my ribs.

He was slightly shorter than the other killer, lither, with a ruthless elegance to his movements. Wet runes drawn in shimmering blood covered his face, coiling down over the cords of muscle straining in his neck. They stopped short of thick lines of black, spreading like gnarled roots in a triangular shape across his chest. It wasn't a tattoo, but a blight, seeming to come from inside him. An illness, perhaps, darkening his veins and afflicting his skin. Suddenly, fiendish, fiery-orange eyes flickered open from within the corruption, their pupils slitted, and I found my voice in a scream.

This man was far from blind, as I'd first assumed, his mortal sight replaced by something unholy. Something famished and rabid, devouring me with its thirteen, edacious gazes.

His shoulders dropped, his stance deflating, before he stiffened and grabbed my wrist. He twisted my arm, pulling my back against his chest while the ghouls formed a circle around us. His heart was racing like mine, the dagger against my throat trembling.

"It can't be," he said, and released my wrist, but the blade remained. "This is a Creators damned joke. It must be."

He gripped my small-clothes, roughly pulling them down, and I sobbed. I'd never been intimate with anyone before. Now I feared my first time would be with him, against my will. But his quivering fingers lingered at the right side of my hip, finding my oldest scar.

Three letters seared into my flesh.

C. E. M.

"No …" the man breathed, tracing the brand again and again, streaking it with blood. "Not in this wretched place. Not down here."

In an illogical way, this stranger's touch defiling the mark Cynthian and Elias had burned into my skin was a worse violation than fucking me. It was all I had left of them.

The blade jerked away from my neck, clattering onto the altar, and I jumped free.

"Stop, please!" the male yelled, stretching pleading hands in my direction. "Wait!"

With the ghouls surrounding us, I had nowhere to run. He could have grabbed me again, but he didn't.

"Get away from me!" I shouted, my voice breaking.

"I mean you no harm." His tone softened. "Please, I didn't know it was you, Myna. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt or frighten you."

A desperate laugh left my lips, even as tears wet my cheeks. No, I wouldn't fall for this. Malachar must have told him my nickname.

"Don't call me that! You have no right to!"

"Please, Mynarin, look."

His forehead creased, and he lowered his arms. The corners of his mouth dipped as he brought a hand to his kilt, grabbing the fabric at the right side of his midriff, tugging it down.

I slapped my palms over my mouth.

A brand.

Three letters, just like mine.

Three initials slanting across his hip.

C. E. M.

"Have you forgotten your brother, Myna?"

"E-Elias?" The syllables stuck to my throat, my tongue suddenly dry.

"Yes, sweet sister," he rasped. "Thank the Creators you remember."

I threw myself into his embrace, uncaring about the demonic eyes blinking at me or that he smelled like iron, like blood. His fingers tangled in my wet hair, cradling my head, his other arm slinking around my waist.

I'd spent so many lonely nights pondering what I'd say when I found them, filling countless hours coming up with flowery metaphors. Extravagant, poetic lines. Now, I couldn't remember a single one. It didn't matter. I didn't need fancy speeches to let him know how much I missed him.

All I got out was his name, over and over, hoping he could hear my love for him in the sound. Hoping he could hear the sorrow that had crushed my soul while we were apart.

Elias. Elias. Elias. Elias.

"Shhh, I'm here. But you must be quiet," he whispered, and I squirmed at the tickle of his warm breath on my ear. "We are not alone."

"Do you—" I sucked in a stuttered breath, lowering my voice. "Do you know where Cynthian is? Is he alive?"

"I do and he is."

Eli pried me from his body, grasping my shoulders, and I mewled. Now that I'd found him, I didn't want to let go again.

The ghouls parted at a wave of his hand, trudging to the pews where they sank onto the seats, all tension leaving their bodies. His lips pinched as he pushed his dagger into a slim, leather sheath tied to his belt by the strings of teeth and bones.

"I promise you will know everything, Myna. But first, I will take you someplace we can speak without the eyes and ears in the walls following our every move, listening to our every word."

I blinked rapidly, confused as Eli took my hand, leading me out into the pouring rain. But I followed willingly.

I would have followed my brothers anywhere, even to the Hells.

And maybe I already had.