The Whipping Girls Page 15

  That night, Priest doesn’t visit me with another injection. The pain ebbs, flows, ebbs…and consumes me like a tidal wave.

  Nurses arrive with a gag. They restrain me on my cot. A few of them say prayers over me as if to expel the demon that’s possessed me.

  Morphine.

  I should have known.

  It was too good, too perfect; that absolution of pain.

  It’s not a demon inside me at all. No, this beast I know all too well.

  I should have known. Should have paid attention. But there was no way to track time, except through pain. And Priest always arrived when my pain was just about to peak.

  That injection.

  Sweet release.

  I’m fucking addicted again. And this time, there’s no Hunter to cure me.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Hunter

  A WEEK LATER

  “Tonight.” I thump a fist into the kitchen counter. “Tonight!”

  “Gees, okay.” Lars lifts a hand, rolling his eyes toward Kane. “Fucking drama queen.”

  “You have everything you need. Everything!” My voice echoes back to me.

  Kane watches me, silent and unmoving.

  “Everything except lack of goddamn snow,” Lars says. “It’ll make it impossible to get close enough without being spotted. We can’t move as fast, as quietly, or as inconspicuously as we need.” He throws his hands up. “You might as well go knock on that church’s door and ask them if we could plant some fucking charges in their basement.”

  “That’s what you’re worried about? Getting seen?”

  “Yeah, guy,” Lars says, standing. I fucking hate it when he does, because he’s got a few inches on me. “I didn’t come here to get a fucking bullet through my head because you’re too impatient.” He leans down, resting on his elbows. “There’s no rush. The church isn’t going anywhere.”

  My hands turn into creaking fists. I so badly want to punch his calm smile from his face, but I know I need him. And fuck, he knows it too. He straightens, reaches over the counter, and pats my shoulder.

  “Turn that frown upside down.”

  I shrug away from him, heat flashing inside me like a pilot light. “What if I get camo suits? Will you do it then?”

  Lars consults his watch. “At eight o’clock on a Sunday night?” He cocks a perfectly trimmed eyebrow at me. “You got a camo guy or something?”

  “No, but I have enough money to find someone who does.”

  Lars sneers at me. “’Course you do.” He glances over at Kane. “Guess with all that money, you can find yourself someone else to set the charge, too.”

  “Yeah, maybe I will.”

  Kane stands, sighs, and rakes his hands through his hair. “You’re not finding another guy, Hunter.” He turns to Lars. “And you’re not going anywhere. If Hunter can get the camo suits, then we’ll do this tonight.”

  “I don’t get a fucking say in this anymore?” Lars says, narrowing his eyes at Kane.

  “I just want this over and done with. And Hunter’s right, you’re playing for time. Fuck knows why.”

  Lars’s mouth thins as he stares first at me and then Kane. He throws up his hands. “Fine, what-the-fuck-ever you suicidal idiots.” He stabs a finger toward Kane. “But if I get shot up because your boy can’t wait another day or two, you know who’s gonna come visit you and break your legs, right?”

  Kane drops his eyes, grits his teeth, and stalks out of the kitchen.

  “Who?” I ask.

  Lars gives me a dismissive sniff. “My sugar mommy’s man, that’s who.”

  I frown after him, trying my best to make heads or tails of the comment. But I need to find three camo suits, and fast. I stare out the kitchen’s glass walls.

  Straight at Father’s cesspit of a Church.

  “Enjoy your last days on earth, motherfucker.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Clover

  Priest was right; I do heal fast. The scar over my stomach is nothing more than a thick, pink line. There’s no pain…but that’s for entirely different reasons.

  I’m sitting in a window seat in a circular room. It’s Priest’s room, right at the top of his satanic chapel. He’s rarely ever here; seems he’s a busy man.

  Guess the Devil’s got a lot of shit to do up here.

  I hate myself for what I did. For being so weak-willed. But then I remember the pain, and I forgive myself. Chalk it up to survival instinct. After all, it’s not like I’m a newbie to addiction, right?

  Morphine’s not quite like heroin, though. It takes longer to kick in and subsides much faster. Then again, maybe it’s just my perception in this place.

  It’s snowing outside, and there’s a permanent haze over the sun. The days are gloomy, the nights pitch black.

  But at least there are nights again.

  Except for administering a new shot of morphine every few hours, I’m left alone in Priest’s room.

  For the moment anyway.

  I have no doubt this pseudo-peace will only last so long. But he seems busy, and so I sit, undisturbed, on this window seat and stare out at the falling snow.

  It could have been heaven.

  Briefly, it is.

  But then Priest comes back. And, this time, he doesn’t just have a shot of morphine for me.

  Chapter Fifty

  Hunter

  The driver gives me a curt nod, drops the package on my gravel drive, and leaves. All in silence — I had already concluded the transaction via a wire transfer less than an hour ago. I take the package inside and set it down on the kitchen counter. Lars and Kane look at it, and then at each other.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “As I’ll ever be,” Kane mutters.

  Lars says nothing; he opens the package and starts going through it as if intent to find a problem with the snow camo suits.

  But I guess he can’t because, a minute later, he glances up at me with cold, green eyes.

  “S’pose you really did love her,” he says, dragging out a pale camo jacket and holding it up against him as if to make sure it would fit.

  My heart squeezes tight, and for a moment I can’t breathe. Lars looks up and gives me a faint smile. “Can’t fault you for that, guy. We’ve all been there.”

  He shares a look with Kane and then starts putting on the suit. When I don’t move, his eyes dart back to me. “Well, come on then.” He waves at the two remaining suits. “We’ve got ourselves a fucking church to blow up.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Clover

  There’s a drumming in my chest, a nervous rushing in my ears. Father glances down at the bundle in his arms, and then up at me with a fond smile.

  “Are you ready?” he asks.

  I shake my head and lift my hands to ward him off. But he doesn’t stop — he just keeps stepping closer with that tiny bundle in his arms.

  It’s so small. Too small. Premature, deformed, diseased. I’ve cursed it with a stunted life.

  “Hold out your arms,” Priest commands.

  But I just clutch myself tighter. His eyes flash up, narrowing when I disobey. He must see something on my face though because he twists his mouth and goes over to the bed instead. He puts the bundle down and comes back to me with a syringe in his hand.

  “Arm.”

  This time, I don’t hesitate. I stick out my arm and draw back the long sleeve of my dress in one smooth motion. Leprous sores dot my inner elbow, but my eyes are locked on that wicked sharp needle as it draws close to my skin with complete disregard for the additional damage it will cause my flesh.

  I’m throbbing in anticipation. Inside, an ephemeral pain grows, grows, explodes.

  Priest draws back the syringe at the last moment. I whimper, try to grab him, but he sidesteps me effortlessly.

  “Will you hold your child?” he asks.

  I glance toward the bed and freeze. A tiny hand juts up from the bundle, clenching at thin air.

  Fingers too tiny for m
e to comprehend clench like a little fist.

  “Yes,” I whisper and hope he doesn’t hear the lie.

  A pinprick. Heat courses through my veins, then ice. I fall back against the window seat, eyes fluttering closed as my arm dangles toward the floor. Priest bends, plucks free the syringe, and walks away.

  Minutes later, warm cotton wool cushions me.

  I’m aware of being led away, but life is so distant, I’m barely capable of registering my existence.

  Bed springs creak.

  “Arms.”

  I hold them both out and hope to feel another pinprick. Instead, a weight settles in the crook of my arms. There’s pressure around my waist, and I slowly register that Priest is touching me.

  “No,” I murmur.

  “Hush, child.” More pressure. Something firm surrounds me, momentarily wiping out the feel of blissful nothing. I shift, my mind jarring when I see I’ve grown an extra pair of legs.

  No, not mine.

  Priest’s.

  He’s wrapped himself around me. Legs around mine, arms around my waist.

  “No,” I manage, but it comes from somewhere far, far away.

  He manipulates my arms. I’m convinced he wants to make me touch myself, but then that weight is in my arms again.

  I look down and writhe pathetically. Firm, long legs trap me. The arm around my waist tightens. Priest’s other arm slides under mine, lifting the bundle in my arms, cradling it to my chest.

  Warm air teases the back of my neck. A short, soft beard drags over my shoulder.

  “Look at your child,” Priest commands.

  A long finger appears, drawing back a fold of soft fabric.

  My breath hitches.

  A tiny, porcelain-doll stares up at me.

  I laugh and relax back against Priest. “You tricked me,” I say.

  “How so?” He caresses my stomach, running his fingertips over the scar across my belly as if he can feel it through my dress.

  “It’s a toy,” I say through another laugh. “It’s just a toy.”

  Priest laughs too. “I thought the same thing when we cut her out of you.” He strokes the toy baby’s cheek with his knuckle. “I thought she looked just like a blood-streaked doll. I was surprised such a small thing left such a gaping hole in your body.”

  A shudder races through me. Priest strokes his knuckle over the doll’s face again, and this time, its eyes move behind nearly translucent lids.

  Eyes the color of tar stare up at me, wide and accusatory.

  Tiny lips part and thick drool spills over its rosebud mouth.

  I’m shaking, the baby trembling in my arms.

  “No, oh God, no. Please.” My voice becomes a wail. “No, God, please! Take it. Take it away!”

  “God can’t help you,” Priest says.

  I want to throw the tiny thing from my arms, but at the same time, I know a violent movement like that would kill it. So I hold the baby like it’s a fucking bomb, unable to look away from its pitch black eyes and drooling mouth.

  “I left it as long as I could,” Priest says, his hands gliding lower and lower with every word, “but she’s in desperate need of sustenance.”

  The hand that was keeping mine up disappears. Fingers that had been stroking the baby’s face skim over my breast and tug at the neckline of my dress.

  “No…” I hear myself say. It becomes a chant, my lips numbing to the point that I slur. “Nnnooo, nnnooo, nnnooo.”

  There are laces at the back of my dress. I’ve wondered why a few times but everyone in this place wears all sorts of weird shit. It’s like this place is stuck in a time-loop from the eighteenth century or something. Or the medieval time. Fuck it, whichever period had goddamn laces in their dresses.

  Priest tugs loose the laces. He slips a hand behind the bodice of my dress and squeezes hard at my right breast. “Do you feel how much milk you’re carrying? It’s all for her, child. And she needs it.”

  A tear traces a jagged path down my face. The baby flinches when it drops on her forehead.

  “Nnnooo…”

  “You must feed your baby.”

  I choke, rattling the child, and it blinks at me with sudden concern twisting its soggy mouth.

  She.

  It’s a girl.

  Her eyes.

  Her mouth.

  Her tiny, tiny little hands.

  I start sobbing as Priest kneads my breast to the point of pain. His other hand slides between my legs, cupping me, squeezing me until my breath hitches.

  Then he leaves my breast and guides my arms, tipping the baby closer to my tightly clenched nipple.

  Her face is as wet with tears as mine, but as soon as she focuses on my nipple, her mouth opens.

  I jolt when her tiny mouth closes over my teat, and try to pull her away.

  Priest holds me tight, keeping my baby close as he hikes up my dress to my hips.

  “There’s nothing more beautiful,” he murmurs into my ear, “than a mother feeding her child.”

  I’m squirming internally. Despite how tiny she is, the baby sucks hard on my nipple, clamping down with gummy jaws as if worried I’ll deny her milk.

  Priest massages my cunt, his lips against my neck, my ear, my collarbones.

  Slowly, my resistance fades, as do my tears. It’s as if the baby is draining me. As if Priest is coercing me into this feeding by promising me sexual release.

  The baby’s mouth pops free but returns a second later. I realize fuzzily that I brought her back to my nipple as if the tiny thing had some right to my milk.

  Priest hooks his ankles around mine and draws my legs apart. I wasn’t given underwear, and I wonder if it’s because he knew this moment would come. That he would want access to my core so he could penetrate it, defile it, just like this baby cored out my belly.

  The baby closes her eyes, milk turning to foam as she sucks, sucks, sucks.

  I look up, feeling relieved that her black eyes finally released me.

  There’s a crucifix on the wall opposite the bed.

  It’s upside down.

  My body goes limp, my hands falling away as the morphine finally takes hold.

  So much slower than heroin.

  Priest takes hold of the bundle, holding her up to my nipple so she can drink as he caresses my cunt.

  “As soon as she’s had her fill,” Priest murmurs in my ear, “My Lord will have his.”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I couldn’t give a fuck. The world is a ball of cotton wool, and I’m snug in the middle. I can’t feel him touching me anymore. I can’t feel the baby sucking on my nipple.

  Just blessed oblivion.

  “Her name is Mary,” Priest says.

  “Mary,” I repeat lazily. “That’s a fucking awesome name.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Hunter

  We’re moving too slow; the camo suits are meant for disguise, not speed. Snow keeps falling, covering our tracks but adding what feels like an extra inch with every step. I’m frozen to my core, but it’s just motivating me to get this done sooner.

  Lars lifts a fist, and Kane and I stop. Then he makes some kind of gesture, and Kane steps around him, heading for the back of the distant church.

  The man glances over his shoulder, his silhouette blurring with the snow for a moment. “The fuck you doing, Richie Rich?” he whispers.

  “The fuck you want me to do?”

  “Go left, idiot.”

  I grit my teeth and wade through the snow, heading for the front of the church.

  I explained the church’s layout to Lars. Even drew the fucker a map. I shouldn’t have — it made him decide he’d be the one to go into the basement to set the charges while Kane and I kept watch.

  Everyone’s inside — I suppose they have mass or some satanic ritual tonight, and even the guards decided to stay inside. Lars refused to accept that this makes things easier for us. In fact, he claimed that they’d be even more on guard tonight, knowing vi
sibility is low.

  I don’t think Father’s cronies are that loyal or that fucking intelligent.

  I’m starting to wonder more and more about this friend of Kane’s. A man willing to risk his life to do this? What was Kane to him? I know for a fact they can’t be lovers; Kane made it pretty damn clear how he feels on the subject. But they have history — the kind that runs deep.

  Now’s not the time to figure that out, of course.

  I have to focus on my duty, my only reason for existence right now.

  I’m close enough to the church that I can make out some kind of choir singing. Or chanting. The small windows glow erratically, as if the congregation has a few thousand candles burning inside.

  I look up.

  There’s a faint light coming from the room above the church; Father’s accommodations. Kane said he and Zee were up there, bringing her back to life after she’d almost succumbed. I can’t imagine him in his boxers, tiny little Zee between his legs as he wills blood back into her veins.

  All for what?

  Nothing.

  Father still did what he did. Zee still lost what she did.

  It’s better Clover isn’t here. She could be up there right now, a toy for Father to play with while, below, his congregation conjures up every last demon in hell.

  The thought makes me feel empty inside…but it’s better than the alternative.

  I’d rather never feel again than feel the pain Clover’s death brought me. Especially since I know it’s still there, hunkering in the dark recesses of my mind.

  Waiting…

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Clover

  Baby Mary is safe in her crib. And, just like Priest promised, now that she’s had her fill, he’s having his.

  This man is Lucifer.

  I know because now, here, despite everything…I want him to fuck me harder, until I break. Such twisted lust could only be a side effect of some form of demonic possession.