Jegudiel (Deadly Virtues 2)

“No,” the priest whispered. Diel released the hem, the material falling back to the waist of his pants. “You’ll burn in hell,” the priest spat, his ideology and beliefs rising to the surface even when faced with the deadliest of killers—a killer they’d had a hand in creating. “You and the ones who came before. The ones with the hoods.”

Diel hadn’t a fucking clue who he was talking about. And he didn’t care—his monster was done with staring at this piece of shit on the ground. This fucked-up priest was the start of the spree, the kill the monster always toyed with the most, before the blood led them into an uncontrolled frenzy and any morsel of rational thought fled their brains.

“Jegudiel.” The priest dropped his eyes to Diel’s scarred and ruined neck. “You’re Jegudiel—”

Diel jumped from midway up the stairs. His feet landed on the priest’s already broken ankle, crushing it to dust. The priest screamed so loud Diel felt it shudder through his body like an earthquake, his cock hardening at the blessed sound, the high-pitched wail swelling his balls to the point of aching. Diel reached into his waistband and pulled out the long knives. The beast inside him struck the priest, the craving for blood overriding any other need, slicing along hamstrings, his Achilles, his groin. When the priest screamed again, the tongue was next. With every stab of the knife into the priest, Diel lost himself to the red mist of murder, the haze of screams, the rainstorm of blood, and the heady sound of skin and muscles tearing.

The monster rejoiced. It bathed in the sounds of horror and pain. It led and controlled Diel’s every lethal movement until they were a perfectly in-sync, sadistic, fucked-up partnership—the very thing the collar tried to stop.

Diel stabbed and stabbed until the monster drew back, satisfied with this kill and already yearning for the next. Diel pocketed his knives and took off out of the house, not even a backward glance for the mangled priest lying in a bloodied, unrecognizable heap on the wooden floor. As Diel burst from the home, the cold air surrounded him like a cloak. His feet pounded the pavement toward the next Brethren house. His breath came out in steady white puffs of smoke as the monster pushed them to run faster, to move quicker, to get to the next priest sooner.

Diel arrived at the next house—smaller than the last, but just as secluded. He burst through the doors, any element of surprise lost in a surge of adrenaline. Diel raced for the stairs and charged into the bedroom. The monster snarled, briefly releasing Diel from its possession as it found yet another priest bound to the bed, gag in his mouth. The monster gnarred in fury.

Someone was getting to them first. But they weren’t killing them.

Why weren’t they fucking killing them?

Diel looked down. He and his monster caught sight of the red collar of the Brethren around the priest’s neck, and they attacked. They murdered and slashed and ran. Over and over again, over four homes, and with every house, the monster grew more and more savage, ripping the priests apart, pissed that someone had been there before them. Every motherfucking house. All the priests were tied. All were gagged, and all wore the red “H” on their heads, written in the blood from their own split lips. The monster didn’t like its prey being fucked with. It wanted the chase, the hunt, not a motherfucking sacrificial offering.

Diel licked his lips as he sprinted to the last house. His heart beat a frantic rhythm. The monster was on edge and ready to destroy whoever was toying with them, daring to fucking touch their kills first.

Diel knew something was different the minute he reached the back door. The handle was still warm under his palm. His eyes narrowed on the hallway from his place beyond the door, and he heard a sound from upstairs. He smiled, his teeth aching as the cold wind lashed against them.

He was going to get more than the priest in this house.

Diel slid into the hallway, stealth his ally as he moved to the base of the stairs. He closed his eyes and listened. He heard a creak from the basement. Snapping his eyes open, he whipped his head in that direction. He moved his feet to take a step, when a pained cry came from the bedroom upstairs, followed by a voice hissing, “Shut the fuck up.” A voice that didn’t belong to the priest.

Diel licked his lips, tasting the blood from his previous kills. He was covered in blood; it had seeped into every piece of clothing he wore. Diel began climbing the stairs, his blood pumping fast through his muscles, preparing them to strike. He heard the voice again. Some part of him vaguely registered that there was something unexpected about its timbre, but the red mist was too strong for any further thought.