The Cult (Cult 1)

I didn’t care that it was two in the morning.

He wouldn’t be angry when I told him everything.

Together, we would find Claire—and get these motherfuckers.

I stepped outside and felt the cold air hit me in the face. My scarf kept my neck warm, but my eyes immediately smarted at the unexpected bite of the cold. I glanced up and down the street, but there were no cabs nearby, barely anyone on the road at all. With my eyes on my phone, I headed down the sidewalk, walking since his place was only a few blocks away. He lived in a nice area of Paris, so he must do really well with his construction company.

I kept my eyes focused on my phone, so I didn’t notice the person passing me. I accidentally bumped into their shoulder. “Oh shit, I’m sorry.” I stepped to the side and felt the soreness in my shoulder because I’d hit them so hard. I turned to look at the guy I’d run into.

He didn’t have a face.

He towered over me with a cattle skull on his head, covering his face completely except for his eyes. The light from the street reflected in his eyes, showing an expression devoid of all empathy.

I jumped back, and the phone slipped from my hand, landing on the concrete with a distinguishable crack. “Get the fuck away from me, you fucking freak.” My back hit the wall behind me, and I pushed off it to run.

But there were two more men walking toward me—both in skulls. They walked slowly, in no hurry whatsoever, like there was nowhere for me to go.

There were two others on the sidewalk across the street, standing there and staring. One was on each corner.

I was completely surrounded.

I did the only thing I could do—I screamed. “Help! Help!” I sprinted into the road, trying to maneuver around them, away from the sidewalks, running into the night, screaming for my life.

They moved toward me, all walking, and then I was surrounded.

Someone had to hear me. “Help! Somebody fucking help me.”

They came closer and closer, and I pulled the knife from my pocket. “Touch me and I’ll—”

An arm wrapped around my neck and immediately choked me out. All I could see was the dark color of his sleeve, but his body was muscular underneath, hard as steel. The rest of the men slowly moved in as I gasped for breath, as I was forced to my knees in the middle of the road.

My nails clawed through his sleeve and drew blood, but he didn’t react to the cuts. He maintained his hold, didn’t make a sound, and forced me farther down, making my vision blur because there was no oxygen to my brain.

The last thing I saw was the circle of cattle skulls looking down at me, dark eyes peering at me, watching me with unblinking stares. Still as statues and silent like the night, they watched me fade away.

1

Benton

I sat in the armchair in front of the fireplace, the cold night pressing up against the window that showed the rest of Paris in the distance. The fire released an occasional pop when the wood became too hot, and the sound was like a snap right next to my ear. With hooded eyes and an exhausted soul, I sat there with emptiness inside my chest, scotch my only true company, even if I wasn’t alone.

My phone rang and vibrated next to my glass. Over and over, it hummed, shifting slightly on the wood.

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t even look.

“Shouldn’t you get that?” Bleu sat in the other armchair, shifting his chin away from the fire to look at me. Until he spoke, I’d forgotten he was there. The tone of his voice conveyed everything he never explicitly expressed in words—his pity.

It rang again.

I still didn’t look at it.

Bleu kept his eyes on me, pausing in the hope that I would reach for the phone and take the call. “It could be for Claire—”

I snatched the phone and threw it hard against the large mantel over the fireplace. It thudded hard then landed on the floor, the screen cracking straight down the center, but the motherfucker continued to ring. “Cut the shit. She’s gone. She’s fucking gone, and we both know it.” I launched myself out of the armchair and walked to the fire, staring at the flames that were identical to the ones that burned in my soul. My heart, body, and soul had descended to the pits of hell. My skin had been seared, and all that was left of me were my brittle bones. My hands gripped the mantel, and I leaned forward slightly, feeling the heat burn through my shirt and jeans.

Bleu kept his mouth shut this time.

Grief lived in many different forms. In the beginning, it emerged as wet tears, as heavy sobs that racked my chest and ribs. Then it turned into hope, because nothing in this world would stop me from getting my daughter back—not even Satan himself. Then it manifested into a lot of other things, mainly potent rage.