I finish and close the razor with a definitive snick. I rise, placing the razor on the high shelf, far out of her reach. I look down at her, sitting undressed and shivering slightly on the edge of the bathtub.
She looks small. Defeated.
I hold out my hand to help her up. She looks at it for a long moment, then places her cold, damp one in mine.
She is still here. She is still mine.
But as I lead her from the bathroom, back to our bedroom, I understand that the battle is far from over. In fact, the most brutal part of the war has just begun. And the prize is no longer her love, but simply her continued breath.
Three Weeks Later
The scent of incense is the first thing that registers. It’s layered over the smell of new stone, fresh polish and the faint, cold dampness of a place that wants to be ancient but is, at its heart, a newborn imitation.
Antonio had me up early. He had me washed, dressed, and readied in a way that put the fear of God into me but I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t fight. He made sure to give me enough sedatives that I couldn’t do a thing.
My head swims, making every movement feel like I’m pushing through deep water.
I blink, forcing my heavy eyelids apart and the world swims into a horrifying, beautiful focus.
We are in the cathedral, the same one I know they murdered my father in. The vaulted ceilings soar, every inch painted with intricate frescoes of angels whose faces are strangely severe, more like warriors than messengers of peace. Where the great rose window was blown out, a new one burns with a furious, dark glory - a crimson phoenix rising above molten flames, the symbol of the Brethren, swallowing the light of the setting sun outside and casting the entire nave in a bloody glow.
The pews are filled. Rows and rows of them, a silent, watching audience. Every face is hidden behind a mask of polished gold, expressions frozen in serene, anonymous judgment. Their eyes, visible through the slits, are unblinking. Hungry.
And I am walking amongst them.
Antonio’s arm is a steel bar locked through mine, his grip a brutal, unyielding brand on my bicep. My feet, encased in delicate silk slippers shuffle silently over cold marble.
I look down. Blink, as I see white fabric billowing beneath me.
I am drowning in a river of fine white silk, the dress a confection of lace and pearls that feels like a grotesque parody. It’s a wedding dress.
No.
Nooo.
The thought is a spark in the drugged fog. It’s a tiny, frantic flame, but it’s enough. Thisisa wedding.Mywedding.
Panic, sharp and clean, lances through the chemical haze in my veins. I try to dig my heels in as a feeble attempt to halt our procession down the endless aisle.
A sound escapes me, but it’s a weak, guttural protest, as futile as my fight is.
Antonio’s head turns in a smooth, predatory movement. His face is all sharp, handsome lines under this menacing light. His eyes gleam with a possessive triumph that makes my stomach roil.
He doesn’t break stride.
His fingers dig deeper with a silent, cruel warning, and he simply drags me forward.
The masked faces turn in unison, following our progress. Not a word is spoken. The only sounds are the whisper of my dress, the click of Antonio’s heels and the ragged, terrified wheeze of my own breath.
“How are you even lucid?” he murmurs, his voice a low, intimate thrum that feels like a violation. “I gave you enough to put down a horse. Be still, Dumpling. You’re making a scene.”
A scene?The absurdity of it almost chokes me. He is parading me, a drugged prisoner in a wedding gown before a cabal of monsters, andIam the one making a scene?
I try to pull back again, summoning every ounce of strength the drug hasn’t stolen.
But it’s like trying to fight the tide. His grip is absolute. He is relentless, a force of nature I cannot hope to battle in this state he’s put me in. The altar looms ahead, a monstrous slab of black veined marble.
And standing before it, waiting, is Konstantine, our Grand Master. His mask is more elaborate and terrifying than all the others, depicting a face of beatific calm that does nothing to hide the chilling emptiness of his real eyes.
