Page 99 of Like Grim Death: Part One
I pullon my shirt in the aftermath of the ceremony. A salty taste is on the tip of my tongue, and as I stand on shaky legs, buttoning my pants, I glance around in the darkness at my brothers, only a flickering sconce on the wall giving any light to see by.
They’re nearly piled on top of one another, Lucifer their center, as he was mine when I woke with my mouth pressed to his lower abs.
I adjust my hat, running my fingers through my hair.
Maverick’s head is on Lucifer’s chest, Ezra curled up into a ball, his spine pressing into Lucifer’s side. Cain is like a watchdog, sleeping at their feet.
And slightly set apart, his back to Lucifer’s head, is Sevryn Otto Astor.
Our littleinitiate.
His arm is stretched out, cheek pressed softly to it, his curly, dark hair drifting in his eyes like he is a wind-caressed angel.
But even still, I can see the gray irises, peering up at me.
I smile at him, and he returns it with a wicked one of his own.
Then I turn my back on my brothers and walk out of the deprivation room.
Colors shimmer as I enter the sanctuary. The sun beams through the stained glass, rendering it gold and yellow and my eyes hurt at the sight of it.
I slip my phone from my pocket, glancing at my lack of service, and I curse under my breath.
But I sweep my gaze over the empty rows of red pews, then further up, toward the pulpit, then the baptistry, a red cross painted on the wall behind it.
There’s a spot, just there, where I can place a phone call. It’s also the one area in this church Mikhail won’t go, so my father said. He has a thing about baptisms, almost drowned as a child for one. Maybe it’s why he’s so fucked up. Trauma handed down for generations.
A shiver crawls up my spine as I walk on the hardwoods toward the little door adjacent to the stage. Incense, oak floors, it’s all heavy in my nose, and the salty taste lingers on my tongue as I disappear into the darkness of the narrow hallway which leads to the baptistry.
Here, with no light, fear grips my heart, and it’s easy to remember I’m still coming down from a trip. Spots pop in the dark, green, then yellow, then red eyes flash, and I walk faster, gripping my phone tighter, my palm sweaty.
I reach the end of the hallway, bursting through the door, relief like a warm blanket wrapping around my shoulders as I enter the hidden place tucked behind the baptistry but still illuminated by the sun. Just out of sight from parishioners if we were to ever have any.
The thought of people coming here to see God makes me laugh a little, and the sound comes out like music, leftover from my high. But as I slide down against the wall, the scent of something like bleach—sharp against my nose as if they just cleaned in here—along with wood and incense and plastic—from the baptismal tub—spiraling in my nose, other remnants of my trip come on too.
A headache, just between my temples. Dry mouth. Paranoia, and images of Samson’s bloated body, slashes across his face and chest, lying out in that field for birds to peck at and worms to sludge through.
I know my brothers were supposed to find the corpse.
It was set there purposefully. Nothing the 6 do is by accident when it comes to scare tactics.
I draw my knees up and lean my head back against the wall, my hat sliding off as I do. I let it happen because no one will find me here. The 6 are sleeping on the upper level, and my brothers will be as disoriented as me when they wake. I have precious moments alone, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight, my phone between my palms.
Hatred and loathing tumble like the shimmers and spots in the dark. They say you should never do psychedelics if you’re working through a darkness unless you’re trulyreadyfor what might pop out of the shadows. Last night, Samson’s voice echoed across space and time during my trip.
“Atlas?”One word, over and over, full of surprise.
Atlas, Atlas, Atlas?Innocence, brevity, a slight smile in my name.
I knock my head back against the wall, my eyes flying open.
I stare down at my phone, clicking it on. I have two bars of service here, and I hold onto them like I’m trying to do with my sanity.
Three messages from Natalie.
Her: Please call me.
Her: I’m scared we won’t find him.
