Prologue
Harlow
Three Years Ago ...
Holy Saints Church
The circle of robed priests around me were spewing Bible verses at such a rapid rate it almost sounded like a foreign language. Then again, it could be Latin or tongues, I wouldn’t know the difference.
Part of me was considering putting on a show for them, blowing their minds by making them think that I truly was possessed. Maybe writhing around and babbling to freak them out? This exorcism was just as much a joke as my life, but seeing as how I was tied to a chair, there wasn’t much I could do.
The thick ropes scratched at my wrists, and I knew damn well my skin would be raw if I was ever released. At the moment, my hopes weren’t high. Being surrounded by four priests and a bishop did not bode well for me.
They even set the scene to be like something out of a cheap horror film. We were in a dirt-floor basement with stone walls. The smell of dust and wet earth hung thick in the room, making me long for fresh air. Candles were burning on every surface of the crude wooden tables that were pushed against the wall. The basement of the church was one I had a feeling I would be learning well. My grandma had finally snapped at my diagnosis. Most would be relieved to have answers and a round of medication to help give me a normal life.Not her.
The bishop stood at the front, his white hair wild and unruly, his eyes just as feral. He truly thought he was here for a battle between good and evil.
Dumbass.
If I could get the ropes off, I could knock him out and run, and put this entire place behind me. Live a new life.
“Whatever you’re thinking, my little human, would be a bad idea,” Monty taunted from my peripheral as he prowled along with the shadows that love to reside there. My imaginary friend had been around since the first hallucinations started happening. At first, he terrified me. I was barely a teen, and seeing fanged monsters that knew me better than I knew myself was more than a little unsettling.
Hence the fun nickname.
It made him less scary to me despite his looks. His glowing blue eyes seemed to be burning with an otherworldly fire as he stared at me. He was human in shape, just much larger than your average man. Swirling shadows covered his form, the only thing truly identifiable was his face. The shape of his skull-like face was a mix of human and bull, long horns coming out of his head. With his cloak of black smoke, I couldn’t make out much more, but then again, I didn’t know that I wanted to.
Now he was the only friend I really had, thanks to Gran locking me away like some dirty little, crazy secret. The moment she heard the diagnosis, she snapped. If not for my doctor taking me seriously, I’m fairly sure I’d think I was possessed too. I held onto that diagnosis like it could save me. But in the end, I’d have to save myself, somehow. Who knows what she told the school, but no one had looked for me in the past two weeks of solitude.
“But it would be so fun,” I pouted.
“You can’t fight them all, little human,” he countered as he stopped in front of me. “Do you want to be locked in a cell forever?”
“They wouldn’t,” I said, but now I was unsure. Would they lock me in the depths of their church until they were positive I wasn’t possessed?
“Then just play the part of the good little girl and act normal. That’s the only way you’ll survive.” For once, his voice wasn’t taunting but serious. The change put true fear in me.What did he know that I didn’t?
My random conversation sends the robed men into another furious round of verses. They wielded crosses and holy water like they needed protection from me. It was the other way around. I wasn’t safe with them and their outdated views.
The group continued to preach and sprinkle their holy water around, making symbols with their hands that were supposed to rid me of evil.
“They think I’m possessed. You’d think the church would learn the difference between possession and batshit crazy.” My joke cracks me up enough that my hysterical laughter silences them all. Monty is laughing with me, the sound jagged and raspy. I wished they could hear it too. “Did dear old grandma tell you I was diagnosed last week? Schizoaffective, in fact. Hallucinations aren’t going to be prayed away, and as long as I can’t afford my own medication, it seems I need to make friends with the voices in my head, huh?”
The bishop gaped at my words and turned to his colleagues.
“Is this true?” he asked the others. His voice was sharp and biting, and I let myself cling to the hope he’d put a stop to this.
A priest stumbled forward, ignoring his question and getting right in my face. His gray hair falling over his eyes, and I can smell wine on his breath. The old man looked crazier than I did yet was judging me. Whatever he found there didn’t please him because he cocked his hand back and slapped me across the face. I was too stunned to speak, but Monty let out a feral growl that echoed in the basement. Again, I wished they could hear it. But oddly enough, the terrifying sound helped to ground me.
“We won’t listen to your wicked lies, demon. She’s just a child!”
“Actually, I’m sixteen, not a child. Not only are you all participating in an active kidnapping and holding me against my will, you’re listening to lies,” I said calmly. My lack of intensity seemed to shake the bishop further. But he had yet to stop this madness.
“Don’t bother. They’re not the type to be swayed,” Monty accused as he circled close to them. I laughed mockingly as he slinked past the one who slapped me, trailing a shadow-laced finger across the old man’s cheek. He immediately put his hand over the spot, eyes wide as blood dripped down his cheek from my nightmare come to life.
Monty continued his walk, moving against the stone walls. He scraped his claws over them as he moved, sending a cascade of dust and dirt falling. Their eyes tracked the movement, and I saw more than one man tremble like a scared child. Good. They should fear him. Especially if they hurt me. I’d only seen Monty hurt someone for me once... and now that person, my father, is buried six feet under. Where he fucking belongs.
Just the thought of my father had my breathing turning frantic. He’d sold me to his friend for gambling money. But the moment he did, he signed his and his friend’s death warrants. Murder-suicide is what they labeled it, but I knew it was nothing less than self-defense on my behalf.