Series: The Sacrifice Series by Natasha Knight
Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Alfred Noyes’s compound lies a little over an hour out of New Orleans. It is gated by a rickety chain link fence, which is surprising. I expected more reinforcement. But there is enough wasteland around it that the buildings themselves wouldn’t be seen by passersby. This place hums with an energy so dark, so evil, it serves as a repellent. Everything here is dead, even the earth.
A glance at my brother as I drive through the open gates tells me he feels it too.
I slow the vehicle as the tops of buildings come into view and count the scattered cars, some of which are broken down heaps. It’s the vans with their blacked-out windows that give me pause, though, and I park the car a little ways from them.
Emmanuel and I emerge from the Jaguar and take it in. We have no weapons, only our hands. If they’re armed, we may have a problem, but the place seems quiet, almost deserted. Could we be wrong about it?
As I pass the first van, I set my hand on the hood of the engine and feel its warmth.
No. We’re not wrong. Someone is here. Is it Caleb Church, though? And did he bring Willow, Bec and Raven?
A bell rings somewhere in the distance. Emmanuel and I both stop, duck between the two vans, and watch as a door opens on one of the farther buildings. The sound of an organ spills out, and a procession of men exit. The first of them carries a cross, while the second swings a censer of incense, and I pick up the familiar scent of Sunday Mass. But there’s nothing holy taking place here. Three more men follow, these three carrying long lengths of rope, all wearing cassocks tied at the waist with simple leather cords. All are barefoot with heavy rosaries hanging from their necks as if they were brothers of a monastery.
We watch as they make their way to a half-dead oak. It’s huge, and as the sun rises higher, it casts an eerie shadow over the gathering.
But it’s not the tree itself that’s eerie. It’s what the men stop to do, what they seem to be preparing for. Three ascend the raised platform and, using the ladder, sling the ropes they’re carrying—one each—over three branches. They tighten the knots, checking the strength of the nooses, as the other brothers begin chanting a prayer. The man bearing the cross sets it in its place near the platform.
Once they’re satisfied with the ropes, one sets the ladder out of sight behind the wide trunk of the tree while the other two place stools beneath each noose.
“This is fucked up,” Emmanuel says as one of the brothers who had stood watching looks around at the others uncertainly. From here I can guess him to be in his early twenties, possibly younger. He says something to the one closest to him, who shakes his head to quiet him as a door opens and a man steps out of one of the cabins. Two men follow him out. They’re so tall that they have to duck their heads, but clearly the shorter one is in charge because they flank him, waiting as another huge man steps out. This one is gripping Raven with one hand, Bec with the other.
Emmanuel sucks in a breath and I slap a hand over his arm to stop him stalking to them.
“We need to wait until we see Willow,” I say.
Raven and Bec struggle against him, with Raven putting up a stronger fight, as he leads them toward a second cabin and throws them inside as if tossing bags of garbage. He then closes the door and stands guard.
The door to the cabin they came out of is closed and left unguarded as the three approach the gathering.
“We need to get them,” Emmanuel says.
“Wait.” Where the fuck is Willow?
My gaze follows the man flanked by the others, the one giving the orders. Is this Frederik? He is disheveled, his cassock soiled, filthy from the look of it and his hair needs to be washed and brushed. His steps are hurried, almost manic, as he wipes his dirty hands on his cassock.
“Caleb,” one of the brothers says as he approaches him.
My eyes narrow. This is not Frederik. It’s Caleb Church.
“What?” Caleb barks, the two flanking Caleb clearly some sort of personal guard.
“We still have to perform the baptism. And you said we’d all have our time before the hanging.”
“Do you see anyone swinging?” Caleb asks with a sweeping gesture.
“Frederik said—”
“Frederik said,” Caleb mimics. “Frederik isn’t in charge anymore, is he?” he barks at the man before shoving him backward and climbing onto the platform. I notice that Caleb and the guards are the only ones wearing shoes. “Tonight we will hang three of Satan’s spawn—”