Page 10 of Devious Nightmare

“Does it matter?” This insufferable ghost has the nerve to shrug at my question. He wants me to go into a field of Satanic worshippers, and he is fucking shrugging at my questions.

“What do you me-” Blaze’s hand crashes into my mouth as he pulls me against him, silencing my words. I struggle against him, but it’s pointless.

“Look at them,” he whispers against the shell of my ear. The hand covering my mouth is removed as he uses it to point toward the men. “Focus on Donavan. I will deal with the others. Do you understand?”

I turn around and open my mouth to question him again, but my words are cut off by the intensity in his gaze. Even in the dimly lit wooded area around us, I can see his need for my answer clearly written on his stupidly handsome face.

I nod. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” With that single word, he holds out his hand to me. Resting in his large palm, is a black knife. The blade is long and serrated, but it doesn’t shine in the moonlight peaking through the leaves above.

It’s a dull, matte black. It looks lethal.

As soon as the blade is in my hand, Blaze backs away from me. He leans on a nearby tree before crossing his arms over his chest, waiting for me to start whatever he has planned.

On instinct, I take off running through the treeline, into the open field before me. The tears come naturally as they have since this man walked out of the smoky pits of hell.

“Help me,” I call out to the dark figures at the center of the open, grassy area. “Please, help me.”

The three cloaked men turn to face me in unison. In an instant, they’re tearing the hooded capes from their bodies, revealing their tan and beige Sheriff’s Department uniforms.

Blaze was right. All along, he knew we would find them out here, performing whatever ritual I just interrupted.

“Ripley?” Sheriff Donavan questions as my eyes lock on him. When recognition fully kicks in, he bolts in my direction.

For dramatic effect — and the fact that it’s so dark beyond the light of the fire — I trip and fall to the ground feet from the officers. Seconds after I hit the ground, the sheriff is at my side, wiping my sweaty hair from my forehead.

“Ripley, what happened?” One of his hands cups my cheek while the other scans over the exposed skin, presumably looking for injuries. His eyes frantically search my face. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

I almost believe the concern on his face. That is until I see the way he examines the field around us. It would make sense to assume he’s looking for the person who hurt me, but there’s something sinister in his eyes that makes me believe otherwise.

Sheriff Donavan isn’t looking to arrest my assailant. He’s making sure no one is with me.

I shove away from him, crawling backward on the ground to get some space between us, when one of the deputies screams in the distance. “Fuck!”

I turn just in time to see a deputy I don’t recognize being pushed into the tall flames. His ear-piercing cries ring through as the man flails amongst the firewood and embers in the middle of the makeshift fire pit.

In a flash, Donavan is on his feet, gun drawn, and pointed directly at the man with the mischievous smile across from us.

Blaze stands on the other side of the dancing flames, his hand holding a knife — a knife that he has pressed firmly against the neck of Deputy Hall. The light from the fire dances in his eyes as he stares off with the man who killed him, and in this moment, Blaze Dubois looks like evil personified.

Donavan moves to take a step toward his officer and the madman holding onto him, but it’s too late. Blaze attempts to drag the blade across his skin, but Hall bucks back, breaking his hold.

The man runs away from him, frantically, and is heading toward me. Before he can reach me, his eyes roll back in his head, and he falls to the ground beside me. I’m pretty sure he passed out from all the excitement, but I can’t risk it.

I look over to the standoff between the pig and the ghost, confirming no one is paying attention to me. Not overthinking my decision, I raise the blade in my hand and quickly drive it down into the side of the unconscious man’s throat.

Blood pours from the wound, coating the blade and his clothes in the dark liquid. I stare down at him waiting for the guilt to set in, but it doesn’t.

That’s an issue I’ll have to deal with later, because movement from behind me pulls me away from my latest victim.

The sheriff moves toward Blaze, but I’m faster than him. Without thinking, I’m on my feet and throwing all my weight into knocking the gun from his hand. It clammers to the ground, the sound of metal on stone confirms its descent.

When he looks at me and sees the bloody weapon in my hand, his gaze quickly focuses on the lifeless body behind me. When they return to mine, there is a new hatred there. It’s unlike the one I saw him give Blaze.

This looks like betrayal.

I haven’t betrayed him — not yet at least.

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