Rachel Hawkins - Grim

“Come home with me,” he repeated.

“Not now.”

“Later?”

She opened her eyes. “Yes.”

Locke stood at the window, staring down at the stand of oaks that lined the clearing. He’d left a path of ash. It glowed white through the darkness. Britt would come through those trees. If it blew away before she could find him, he would consider it fate.

He couldn’t stop thinking of the warmth of her skin, and the way it felt under his fingertips. The way her breath caught.

He wanted to make it catch over and over again.

Britt drew a bath, lacing it with lavender and rosemary, and rinsed her hair with rose-scented water. All her plans, all her wishes—the steps she’d taken to be with him—everything was finally in place. She pulled on a simple cotton dress and set out.

It was only when she found the path of ash and stepped into the darkness that worry pricked her conscious.

The moon shone behind the trees on the horizon as Britt reached the end of the path. A towering mansion made of stone and wood loomed before her. It looked medieval in comparison to the club’s urban aesthetic. Two torches burned on either side of the wide front door, but no lights shone from inside.

Reminding herself she wanted this, Britt crossed the wide expanse of grass to the house. She placed one fingertip on the iron door handle, for one second wishing to find it locked.

It swung open.

The hallway was dark, but the parlors to either side had roaring fires in their hearths. She didn’t smell smoke, only the faint scents of wildflowers and freshly overturned earth. Once she discovered the parlors were empty, she made her way past the stairwell and down the hall. A house this large had to have servants, but she couldn’t find any.

He had said he wanted to be alone with her.

Faint music echoed down a corridor, and she followed it to a bedroom. He was there.

Flickering candles made his skin glow like warm honey. She walked across the room, slid her hands underneath his shirt and tugged up. Her hands skimmed his chest, the outline of muscles, the waistband of his jeans. She worked his belt buckle free.

“Britt?” He took two steps back, sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I know, Locke. Everything.”

“Then you’re sure?”

Two buttons and her dress hit the floor.

He leaned back on his hands as his eyes moved from her face to her feet, drinking in pearl silk. No tattoos. No markings. Just smooth, perfect skin.

“Flawless.”

“All this skin.” She followed him to the bed. “And all this time.”

They were somewhere between dreaming and waking when they heard the sound of motors and slamming doors. Locke sat up before jumping to his feet and scooping up her dress. He handed it to her as a knock sounded. “Hurry.”

She covered herself as he spoke to someone on the other side of the door. He reached out for her hand.

“Go with Doris,” Locke said. “Do what she says.”

He opened the door. An old woman with milky eyes stood in the hallway. Locke kissed Britt again and ran toward the commotion, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor. Before turning the corner, he looked back at her.

He didn’t smile.

Doris reached out with one hand. Britt saw that her fingernails were crusted with dirt and dried blood. She let the old woman lead her. They descended a set of narrow stairs into the smell and sight of rotten earth.

“She’s so young. Fresh. Pretty.” Doris’s hand grazed the side of Britt’s breast and then went to her waist. “They always choose the prettiest ones. Not plump. They’re usually plump. Maybe that means they aim to keep her for a while.”

“I’m sorry?” Britt stepped back, bumping into a bucket that sloshed behind her. “Who do they aim to keep?”

“Her.” Gnarled hands reached out and tangled in Britt’s hair.

Me.

“Bless her.” The woman pressed her thin lips together before making the sign of the cross. “She doesn’t know.”

A cauldron simmered in the corner, steam rising to the ceiling. The heat made the wretched smell even worse.

“She should go home. She should run, run and not never look back.”

Voices sent Britt scrambling into the shadows. She dropped down behind a barrel and pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as a raucous noise filled the room. All she could see between the barrels were two sets of heavy boots. A pair of slender feet dangled between them, only one with a shoe.

Muffled screams, crying. Laughter.

“Uncover her head.” A male voice. Helm. He sang the next sentence like a song. “I want to see if what we caught is as pretty as what we thought. ”

A pillowcase fell to the concrete floor. Britt saw a young woman in a short black dress being tied to a metal table. A gag covered her mouth, and tears poured down her makeup-stained face.

“She may be lovelier.” It was Calen now, trailing one finger along the skin exposed at the bottom of her dress. “We should make her more comfortable.” A knife appeared. In one swift movement, he’d slit her dress from hem to neckline. He pulled it away, laughing as she struggled and cried. “No, no. No tears. We’ll be good to her, won’t we, Helm?”

The girl wriggled on the table, trying to keep the skirt over her legs. Strong hands pushed away the cloth until her thighs were exposed. Helm licked her from ankle to knee. “Honey crisp.”

Calen acknowledged the old woman. “Is it ready?”

“Yes, sir. I put on the water.”

He settled in the corner to watch, and Helm took over.

“Bring our guest the white wine, please, Doris.” The old woman handed Helm the glass, and he bent over the girl. “White, for purity.” He held it up, and she stared at him as he tipped it into her mouth. When the wine was gone, Helm licked her lips. She moaned in fear, not pleasure.

Doris held out another glass.

Helm took it. “Red, for sacrifice.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face before he put the drink to her lips.

The liquid in the last glass was gold. “For renewal.”

The girl finished, and her body went lax. After all his sweet ministrations, Helm dropped her head without care. It thudded against the table. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t breathing.

Helm set down the empty glass and walked toward the stairs. “She’s all yours.”

Calen approached the body with the knife, his eyes slits of pleasure, his mouth stretched into a predatory grin.

Britt heard the slick wetness of skin being peeled away, the crunch of the saw, separating ligament from bone. The blood circling the drain in the middle of the floor.

When the water ran clear, and the room went silent, she wiped away her tears.

Where was Locke?

Helm fisted the sheets and pulled them to his face. Closing his eyes, he breathed deep. “You had her.”

Locke didn’t move.

“You saw her skin.” Helm’s eyes opened, but he still held the sheets to his nose. “How perfect is she? How pure?”

The growl started low in Locke’s gut. It erupted under his ribs, shot through his sternum and landed at the base of his throat. He couldn’t let it free. If he did, Helm would know the truth, and his obsession with Britt would be even more fierce.

“Where is she?” Helm shook the sheets, flung them away and then dipped his head to check under the bed.

“She went home.”

“No, she didn’t.” Helm laughed. He stalked the room, seeking out its shadows. “The hood of your car was cold when I got here, and the wax on these candles is still warm. Sweet as she is, she’d be in your bed right now if we hadn’t interrupted. So where are you hiding her, Locke?”