It lunged for Ophelia.
Fear seized me, and I pivoted on my heel, slicing the stolas’ wing. Feathers erupted across my vision. Dozens, thousands, innumerable feathers scattered in a dizzying array, like fluffy stars spiraling across the sky.
I turned to defend her, save her.
“Ophelia—”
A blunt force cracked across the back of my skull. I dropped to my knees, vision instantly fading around the edges. The last thing I saw was Ophelia’s hand reaching for me. My eyes narrowed on her fingers nearly brushing mine—
Darkness crashed into me, and I was gone.
30
Smothering, fierce heat whipped me awake.
I jolted, eyes snapping open to find a large, hazy cavern yawning overhead. A large flickering fire threw everything into sharp relief. Ominous shadows hid in the craggy, uneven surface of the cavern walls, firelight stressed the crude sigils carved into the stone, and the insensible shapes in between danced like living shadows. A pillar of smoke curled toward the ceiling, and the scent of ash clogged my nostrils and throat.
When I jerked again, panic slammed into me as coarse rope bit into the sensitive skin of my wrists. Alarm tightened my chest, making each breath saw out of me, and my heart thundered at the base of my throat. I felt sick, with fear slithering through me from being bound and helpless.
I barely had time to process how I got there when the low cadence of chanting voices broke through the pounding pulse in my head. Dozens of robed apostles were intoning in a foreign tongue, words fast and blurred in my ears as they sang of their explicit idolization and reveled in their fanatical devotion to Moloch.
Iknewwithout a shadow of a doubt—I had seen the place before.
Oh, no. Oh, fuck.
Horror and revulsion twisted knife-sharp through me, chased by a frigid wave of despair. It wasn’t a stress-induceddream or a torturous nightmare. Not this time. It wasreal. Horribly, dreadfully real.
I was there in the flesh, undoubtedly in the underground sanctum of Moloch. After weeks of insanity and running, I’d been captured by his fanatical servants. Memory of the party, the tryst with Luther, and the attack came rushing back to bludgeon me in the head. Like some sick game, my mind replayed those last moments of terror as if fate meant to mock me.
Half-lost in pain and distress, I was barely aware of the chanting growing louder. Only when the central fire raged, surging and billowing into a near-blinding inferno, could I force my groggy head to turn. I wriggled against my bonds, but it was futile. If I squirmed much longer, the rough rope would bite deeper and cut the skin. My wrists were already chaffed raw.
During my brief and pathetic attempt at struggling, I froze, catching sight of another body slumped and bound on the ground beside me. Those broad shoulders, that dark, slightly wavy head of hair—the shape of him was so imprinted on my mind, body, and soul that I recognized him even in the dark.
Luther.
Seeing him unconscious beside me was like plunging my head into freezing water. A blanket of ice hitting brutally hard. It was an excruciating shock to the system. He was the only person who would have known to come for me, the only person capable of saving me. The sickening apprehension in my belly hardly mattered against the bone-deep knowledge that we were in immense danger.
“Luther.” My voice was the barest whisper and urgent. Hot tears escaped the corners of my eyes and carved down my cheeks as he remained unmoving. “Luther, Luther, please—oh God, please…”
Please wake up.
Please… still be alive.
Movement stole my attention, and I craned my neck to watch the figures around the fire. Just like in my nightmare, the apostles stood in a circle wearing dark cloaks that covered their heads. The fire highlighted some faces angled toward me, and my stomach plummeted. Many of the faces I recognized. Fellow students, the barista at the campus coffee shop, and noteworthy people involved in Kilbride politics or the school board. All influential in one way or another, weaving webs through the city and pulling strings behind the scenes. These were the descendants of the founding families, like mine, who had accepted Moloch and the power he doled out to his most devoted.
Moloch’s cultists peeled their hoods down. Heavy woven fabric dropped into forgotten husks around their feet, and they raised their arms overhead as if reaching for where the smoke vanished into the darkened cave ceiling. The firelight burned away the traces of humanity in their eyes, and terror overflowed my nervous system.
Then two familiar faces came into view. Betrayal clawed through my intestines and surged up my throat. My insides revolted against the revelation, and I almost vomited.
Moth and Niffy.
No, Timothy and Jeniffer.
All this time?
No, no, no… This couldn’t be happening.
I couldn’t argue with reality standing right in my face. Although a small part of me wanted to curl up in a ball, go to sleep, and shake this nightmare from my head, that wasn’t possible. Flashes of conversation, of odd moments, crossed my mind. Those little pieces of a puzzle sprinkled just out of reach, taunting me with answers. I had missed every sign thrown at my feet.
