Damnable Grace (Hades Hangmen 5)

I leaned into Meister to stop myself from falling, his huge body propping me up when I became lost to a sudden wave of weakness. When the world eventually came back into focus, I took in what was before me. The town, one unlike anything I had ever seen before, with its shacks of all shapes and sizes scattered around the dusty ground. Signs sat above the buildings: “Saloon,” “Jail,” “Dentist,” “Barber” and many more. I had no idea what many of these titles meant, or if these buildings operated as they were named.

A light breeze blew the dirt up into the air, swishing the sand around my feet. It blew the strange flags that hung from the buildings, the material flapping gently.

It was quiet, only a few men walking around the barren town. Many of them looked similar to Meister—they wore the same harsh black tattoos on their skin, had similar shorn haircuts. The coloring was the same; they wore similar clothes.

And they all stared at me.

Meister stiffened when one male passed and cast me a leering smile. He stepped forward, using his massive frame as a weapon of intimidation. “Get the fuck on before I break your motherfucking neck, cunt!” he snarled, sending the other male running into the large building whose sign read “Saloon”.

Meister wrenched me forward. I could tell by his aggressive hold that he was greatly displeased.

I stifled a moan as his hand bruised the skin on my arm. I did not know where we were going. I was simply grateful to be outside. We had barely taken a few steps when a loud shout and the sound of a gun shattered the silence.

My head snapped to the right, to the building where the noise had come from. Meister ground on his heel, his grip tightening.

“Fuck,” he spat when a man came barreling through the building’s door.

“Meister!” the man called. “Problem!”

Meister’s lip curled, and he gave a low growl of annoyance. He hauled me back toward the door of the shack he kept me in. My heart plummeted; I was to be locked away once again.

I gulped in as much air as I could, pathetically trying to savor its freshness and the velvet touch of the breeze as it lapped over my face. Another shot fired, and the call for Meister came again, even louder this time.

Meister groaned in frustration and slammed me back against the wall of the shack. The air was ripped from my lungs by the impact. Before I even had a chance to recover, Meister’s firm grip was caging my face, and his blue eyes bored into mine. “Stay here. Don’t even dare move until I get back.”

“Yes . . . sir,” I managed to reply.

Meister crushed his cruel mouth against my lips. He did not want to kiss; he simply wanted to ravage my mouth. He pulled back and darted across the dirt to the building which housed the trouble. The sign above the door read “Dentist”.

I slumped against the fragile wooden wall and cleared the water from my eyes. As if my body could do nothing but obey his command, I remained rigid and unmoving.

In the quiet, I allowed my eyes to scan the area. My head ached, and my mouth was dry. But worse, my arm itched, and my veins had already begun to swell with the need for Meister’s potion.

And I was tired. I was so, so tired . . .

Movement from across the dirt path grabbed my attention, and my head snapped up as I caught sight of a man hurrying from one of the buildings, dragging someone behind him.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to see more clearly. My eyes were getting so blurry, tiredness beginning to take hold . . . and then everything snapped into focus.

A blond-haired young woman. A white dress, the exact same design as the one I wore. Shocked at the very fact that I was not the only female in this place, I took a step forward. Just as I did, the woman pulled back from the man, fighting to get free.

She slipped from his grip, and as she did she turned, giving me a glimpse of her face. The recognition hit me like a blow to the head. I felt the blood drain from my cheeks, my limbs growing weak as I fought to remain upright.

No . . . no, no, no, no . . .

I rubbed my eyes, trying to see her better. I prayed that I was mistaken. I prayed . . . I shook my head, convincing myself I was wrong.

But I knew that face.

I loved that face . . .

Horror, devastation and a gamut of every sorrowful feeling swept through me like a hurricane as the male grabbed the girl by her hair and slapped her across the face. The girl swayed on her feet, then, unable to do anything else, she was dragged in the male’s wake toward a large barn-type building.

A girl.

Because she was a young girl.

No more than . . . I racked my brain, trying to remember, trying to clear this ever-present fog from my brain and grab on to some facts, some truths that had existed before Meister had burned them all away with his potion and his pain.

Fourteen . . . I thought as my eyes widened and my heart beat an impossible rhythm. My hands shook as I recalled the girl’s face to my mind, connected the memories to the present. Her long blond hair, her slim body, her dark-brown eyes . . .

“Sapphira?” I whispered, a red-hot slice of pain cutting though my stomach. Was it her? No . . . it could not be. She was safe in a faraway place.

He had told me she was safe.

She had been sent from New Zion. She had not drunk the poison . . . she had been safe, survived the mass death . . .

Devastating pain slashed through my head as I thought of her face again. The fear and panic as she pulled from the man. Her bruised lips, her split skin. No, it cannot be.

My focus spun and my vision swam. I could not think. I needed the potion to think. I needed what only Meister could give me.

But then a piercing, feminine scream came from the building to my left. Without thought, my legs propelled me forward.

I ran. I ran as hard and as fast as I could, stones from the rough, loose ground slipping into my sa

ndals and slicing my skin. My legs were weak as I pushed myself toward the building, but that did not matter when another scream followed—this one was softer, as though the screamer was being hurt. My Sapphira being hurt . . .

“Sapphira!” I choked out, almost inaudibly. Panic infused my every cell, rushing to erupt into the well of sadness building in the pit of my stomach. I reached the wooden door of the barn structure and pressed my hand against the dark-stained wood. The pulse in my neck beat so fiercely that it was the only sound I could hear . . .

. . . until I pushed through the door, and everything stopped—time, sense . . . life.

My body was motionless as I stared around the room. Bile and vomit crawled up my throat at the putrid smell clogging the air.

Girl after girl, mostly young and slim, lay still in row after row of narrow beds separated by flimsy curtains. I ran past a brunette, then a blonde, searching their gaunt faces. Their eyes were either closed or dazed—they were lost to the potion, their arms just as marked and bruised as my own.

And then I stilled. My lips trembled. I knew these females. Mary . . . Eve . . . Bilhah . . . Martha . . .

Martha!

They were from The Order. These girls, some as young as fourteen, were females from New Zion.

My people.

And . . .

A moan came from the far corner. “Sapphira,” I said, each syllable filling me with dread. I was not imagining things. I saw her face, her beautiful, angelic face.

This was not the potion playing tricks with my mind.

Not this time.

Sapphira was here when he had told me she was safe. I did not understand. My heavy mind would not let me process it. And the male from outside was pinning her down, one hand digging his fingernails into the flesh of her arm as he parted her legs with his legs. His other hand wrapped around her neck, choking her, cutting off air. Then suddenly, I saw her slim, fragile body go limp. A clear bag hung on a metal pole beside her . . . and the potion inside was dripping into the vein of her arm.

Sapphira . . . my Sapphira . . .

I lunged. I threw my body at the man pressing Sapphira down. I hit at his arms and used my long nails to scratch at his skin.