quick flick of his wrist.
Pedro gave a throaty growl, pushing down so hard into me that I yelped. And with that deep movement my own body responded, trembling as it found its own release.
Then it was done, both he and I, and the red haired boy.
All of us finished.
I lay there with Pedro slumped on top of me, both of us wearing nothing more than sweat; his of exertion, mine of terror.
The boy still stood, held by two of the robed men. They were draining the life from his body, directing the red flow from his wound into a bowl of silver.
The robed leader wet a brush in the bowl, and then began painting something on Pedro’s back.
I shivered.
The leader finished his marking, and then looked to me. He leaned down, his breath on my cheek, and uttered something in the tongue of the chant before kissing me.
Slowly, Pedro removed his bloodied hand from my mouth.
I tried to scream, but no sound came.
All of them laughed at my horrified surprise, even Pedro.
Their leader said, “You will remember this, all of it, but you will never be able to speak of it.” And then he grinned.
He stepped back into the shadows, as did those with him. In a moment, only Pedro and I remained.
The alcohol had long ago relinquished its grip on me, replaced with horror and shame. Pedro knew, but refused to let me become a prude. He pulled out of me as he rolled off, and with his closest hand squeezed one of my breasts. “Perhaps I’ll see you again, Juvela, you are too special to let go.” Then he got up, turned around, and fetched our clothes from where they lay on the paving.
Under the silver-blue moonlight, I could see that the cultist had marked a four-sided diamond on his back. Painted in blood, it now trailed long dribbling lines from the base of his neck running all the way to his butt. He looked to me and smiled, but it wasn’t of shared joy, instead it was of selfish power.
We seemed to be alone, leaving me to wonder if I was safe. I also worried about the time; Isabella had been gone for far too long.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to go home.
I wanted Sef.
Pedro dressed himself and then helped me. He pulled me up and off the lounge, forcing me into my dress with well-practiced hands. I wondered with disgust; how many other women had he been with?
Then we stood facing each other.
I scowled at him.
Would he or his robed associates ever want to see me again? I hoped not.
This would be the end of it.
He regarded me. “Your dress looks as it should, but let me fix your hair. He fussed over me, his touch lingering, and then he wiped away tears I didn’t remember shedding.
As if nothing had happened, he asked, “How am I, orderly enough?”
Shocked and numb, I whispered, “Yes.” He actually looked magnificent, truly alive and vital, as if he’d been blessed.
He took my reluctant hand and led me along the path.
I felt stunned and confused. My guilty flesh still carried his memory, worse still a part of me revelled in it.
I’d unwittingly been part of a ritual that saw my previous silence on the redheaded boy’s kidnapping mature into the guilt of being present at his murder. I’d also shamed my family.
Voices rose from the stairs, we turned to meet them. I let go of Pedro’s hand.
It was the rest of our party.
I would try and tell them, I had to.
Pedro stepped forward to greet them.
Horseface and Heifer looked tired and bored, but I couldn’t hold their gaze.
My cousin carried the bouquet of roses. The sight of them hurt me; my perfect dream dead.
I tried to speak, to say that a boy had been killed, that forbidden magic had been worked, but my mouth would simply not move. Despite my efforts, neither my voice nor jaw would follow my command.
Pedro watched me. A sparkle in his eye told me that he knew of my plight. I could see his relief.
Isabella appeared out of the darkness behind us.
Had she been there all along?
Her face gave away nothing.
My cousin said, “It’s a good night for a rooftop stroll,
Pedro gave a throaty growl, pushing down so hard into me that I yelped. And with that deep movement my own body responded, trembling as it found its own release.
Then it was done, both he and I, and the red haired boy.
All of us finished.
I lay there with Pedro slumped on top of me, both of us wearing nothing more than sweat; his of exertion, mine of terror.
The boy still stood, held by two of the robed men. They were draining the life from his body, directing the red flow from his wound into a bowl of silver.
The robed leader wet a brush in the bowl, and then began painting something on Pedro’s back.
I shivered.
The leader finished his marking, and then looked to me. He leaned down, his breath on my cheek, and uttered something in the tongue of the chant before kissing me.
Slowly, Pedro removed his bloodied hand from my mouth.
I tried to scream, but no sound came.
All of them laughed at my horrified surprise, even Pedro.
Their leader said, “You will remember this, all of it, but you will never be able to speak of it.” And then he grinned.
He stepped back into the shadows, as did those with him. In a moment, only Pedro and I remained.
The alcohol had long ago relinquished its grip on me, replaced with horror and shame. Pedro knew, but refused to let me become a prude. He pulled out of me as he rolled off, and with his closest hand squeezed one of my breasts. “Perhaps I’ll see you again, Juvela, you are too special to let go.” Then he got up, turned around, and fetched our clothes from where they lay on the paving.
Under the silver-blue moonlight, I could see that the cultist had marked a four-sided diamond on his back. Painted in blood, it now trailed long dribbling lines from the base of his neck running all the way to his butt. He looked to me and smiled, but it wasn’t of shared joy, instead it was of selfish power.
We seemed to be alone, leaving me to wonder if I was safe. I also worried about the time; Isabella had been gone for far too long.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to go home.
I wanted Sef.
Pedro dressed himself and then helped me. He pulled me up and off the lounge, forcing me into my dress with well-practiced hands. I wondered with disgust; how many other women had he been with?
Then we stood facing each other.
I scowled at him.
Would he or his robed associates ever want to see me again? I hoped not.
This would be the end of it.
He regarded me. “Your dress looks as it should, but let me fix your hair. He fussed over me, his touch lingering, and then he wiped away tears I didn’t remember shedding.
As if nothing had happened, he asked, “How am I, orderly enough?”
Shocked and numb, I whispered, “Yes.” He actually looked magnificent, truly alive and vital, as if he’d been blessed.
He took my reluctant hand and led me along the path.
I felt stunned and confused. My guilty flesh still carried his memory, worse still a part of me revelled in it.
I’d unwittingly been part of a ritual that saw my previous silence on the redheaded boy’s kidnapping mature into the guilt of being present at his murder. I’d also shamed my family.
Voices rose from the stairs, we turned to meet them. I let go of Pedro’s hand.
It was the rest of our party.
I would try and tell them, I had to.
Pedro stepped forward to greet them.
Horseface and Heifer looked tired and bored, but I couldn’t hold their gaze.
My cousin carried the bouquet of roses. The sight of them hurt me; my perfect dream dead.
I tried to speak, to say that a boy had been killed, that forbidden magic had been worked, but my mouth would simply not move. Despite my efforts, neither my voice nor jaw would follow my command.
Pedro watched me. A sparkle in his eye told me that he knew of my plight. I could see his relief.
Isabella appeared out of the darkness behind us.
Had she been there all along?
Her face gave away nothing.
My cousin said, “It’s a good night for a rooftop stroll,
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