Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Katya moves to a phonograph I hadn’t noticed in the corner, setting a record on the turntable. Classical music fills the warehouse—Wagner, I think. My father listened to classical a lot. The bombastic orchestral piece forms a surreal backdrop to the horror unfolding before me.
“The ritual requires preparation,” Dmitri explains conversationally, as if discussing dinner plans rather than my impending mutilation. “The blood must be…activated, we’ve found. Pain is the catalyst. Fear is the accelerant.”
Goldman approaches, blue blade gleaming in his gloved hand. He pauses, waiting for further instruction.
“Begin with the traditional markings,” Dmitri orders. “She should bear the same signs as the others.”
The knife moves toward me with dreadful precision, biting into my flesh with a searing arc. The mordernes slices through my shirt and the skin beneath, leaving a trail of agony and blood in its wake. I swallow down my scream, the sound staying in my throat, choking me.
Goldman works methodically, his hand steady and unhurried. He carves a symbol into my chest—a circle with intricate patterns radiating from its center. The pain is blinding, each cut sending shockwaves through my body, but he continues with merciless efficiency. My blood flows freely now, pooling on the concrete below and staining it a rich crimson.
I gasp for air, struggling to stay conscious as his blade etches more symbols across my arms and stomach. They shimmer an angry red against my pale skin, throbbing in time with the pounding in my head. Goldman’s expression remains hidden behind his mask, but I can feel his focus, his detached concentration as he creates his gruesome masterpiece.
“Remarkable,” Dmitri says, watching intently as he paces just beyond Goldman’s reach. “You truly are one of a kind.”
The words barely penetrate the haze of pain that engulfs me. I try to twist away from the knife, to summon any strength left in me to fight back, but the chains hold firm and my body refuses to obey.
“She’s losing consciousness,” Katya observes coolly from her place by the phonograph, the music still blaring like some macabre opera.
“That will not do,” Dmitri snaps. “Goldman—”
“I’m aware,” Goldman interrupts calmly, stepping back momentarily to select another tool from his array. A syringe appears in his hand—a monstrous thing with a needle long enough to pierce bone—and he plunges it into my arm without hesitation.
A new fire spreads through me—whatever was in that syringe burns like acid in my veins. It sends a jolt of adrenaline through every nerve ending, forcing clarity back into my mind and amplifying the agony tenfold.
I thrash against my restraints, desperate for escape—or unconsciousness—but there is no reprieve. The ritual markings glow brighter as Goldman resumes his work with the blade.
I grit my teeth against the scream building in my throat, refusing to give them the satisfaction.
“Fascinating,” Dmitri observes from behind his skull mask. “Such control. Elizabeth screamed much earlier in the process. As did Jeanne French and poor Sylvia Winters.”
The names of the dead women hang in the air between us. I think of Elizabeth—vibrant, ambitious Betty—suffering this same fate at their hands. The thought fills me with renewed fury.
“You won’t get away with this,” I spit, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears. “People will notice I’m missing. The police—”
“The police?” Katya laughs again, the sound grating against my nerves. “Half of them are on Cohen’s payroll, and Cohen is on ours. The other half couldn’t find their own shadows at midday. Besides…” She gestures around the warehouse. “No one knows this place exists. It was condemned years ago, scheduled for demolition. The paperwork simply…disappeared.”
Goldman moves to my other side, blue blade ready for his next instructions.
“The sigil of the gateway next,” Dmitri directs. “Where it will be most visible when she’s suspended over the altar.”
Goldman nods, his mask a ghostly white in the flickering light. He grips my shirt, yanking it down my arms and leaving me bare-chested. The sudden exposure sends a fresh wave of humiliation through me, cutting deeper than any knife.
“Perfect,” Dmitri says, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Now the real work can begin.”
Goldman’s blade flashes again, this time lower, carving a larger symbol into the flesh of my abdomen, then slashing across my breasts. My blood runs in rivulets down my legs, pooling beneath me like an obscene offering.
“Remove the rest,” Dmitri commands, his voice sharp as the blade that pierces me.
Katya steps forward, her golden mask glinting in the candlelight. She pulls roughly at my remaining clothes until they fall away, leaving me hanging naked and bleeding in front of them.
“The vulnerability suits you,” Katya taunts, stepping back to admire their handiwork. “Perhaps now you’ll start to understand your true place.”
The air is frigid against my skin, sharp with incense and iron. Every inch of me screams in protest—against the pain, against the shame of being so utterly exposed. The ritual markings burn brightly now, pulsing with each heartbeat.