Mask of Poison (Fall of Under Book 1) by Kathryn Kingsley (great novels to read txt) 📕

“To the altar. If I’m going to bleed all over the carpet, I want to do it somewhere more impressive than the middle of the stupid floor.” He wheezed.

As she started to walk, he pulled back. “Wait! Wait-wait-wait. Wine—” He waggled a finger at the bottle on the pew. “Wine-wine-wine.”

With a small laugh, she stretched out to grasp the bottle and handed it to him. He held it as she helped him toward the altar. She didn’t care if he got blood on her. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Once they reached the stairs of the altar, he pulled away from her to sit down carefully on the steps. He stretched out and groaned. “Oh, my recently-revived spine.” He arched, and she heard a vicious pop. She winced sympathetically.

The man pulled the mask from his face and put it aside before taking a swig from the bottle. She glanced away again.

“Oh, stop that. I don’t give a fuck if you see my face. I don’t even think I have all of it to show off, anyway.” He sighed. “Stupid goddamn masks. An idiot’s tradition. I always hated them. They don’t do a damn bit of good when it comes down to it. Do you know how hard it is to take someone’s marks off their face? It isn’t. We’re just all being fucking polite.”

Curiosity got the better of her. The light was a little brighter at the altar, and she could take in more of him. He was covered in more of those stained, bloody, crisscrossing bandages. But they weren’t doing a very good job of slowing the blood that oozed from gaping, open wounds. She swore she could see bone in some places. She knelt next to him.

He looked at her.

She couldn’t make out much detail on his face…only that it was, in fact, mostly missing. The skin of his cheek was gone. She could see the muscle and tendon beneath. Part of his lip was nothing but a raw, bleeding gash.

Claw marks ran down his left cheek. Three in total, as if a bear truly had mauled him. Pale yellow eyes watched her.

Tears stung her own eyes, and she didn’t stop them from rolling down her cheeks. She reached out to him but hesitated. She didn’t know where to even begin. “By the gods…who did this to you?”

“They did.” He jerked his head toward the altar.

“What can I do to help you?”

“Um…” He looked down at himself and snickered. “Get a stapler?” At her confused noise, he laughed. “Sorry. Sorry. Oh! I know. Go behind the altar. There are some extra linens there. Would you mind fetching them for me? I think it hurts a little less when I have bandages on…”

“Of course.” She got up. Sure enough, at the back of the altar were a few small shelves, upon which sat some folded white cotton linen. She picked up the stack and sat back down next to the bleeding man. “I’m sure they won’t mind.”

“Don’t care if they do.”

She began to cut it into strips with her knife, before moving closer to him. She started at his wrist and began to bandage up his arm.

“I didn’t mean you needed to do it. But…thank you.”

“I’m a medic. Let me help.” She began working on his chest, where most of the open wounds were. “As little as I can. I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

“The wine, the bandages, and the company are more than I could ask for.” He hissed as she pressed a strip of cloth into the wrong spot. “Ow.”

“Sorry—sorry.”

“Don’t feel bad. Only most of this blood is mine, anyway.”

“What?” She pulled back from him.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I told you I wanted revenge. Didn’t I?” He looked off for a second. “I swore I did. Maybe I didn’t. Most of my mind is missing, so anything’s possible, I guess.”

“I—”

“And I said I wasn’t going to hurt you. That part I remember.” A flash of white teeth in the darkness revealed that he was the owner of sharp, pointed fangs.

She moved to stand, and suddenly that trembling, seemingly weak hand of his snapped around her wrist. Now, it felt like iron. He pulled her down to him, and she squeaked as she lost her balance. She fell to the stairs, and before she could react, he was on top of her. He straddled her legs, and with one hand pressed to the stairs beside her head, and the other still grabbing her wrist, he loomed over her in the darkness.

“Ah—ah. No. You stay. I’m enjoying our conversation.”

She couldn’t see his face anymore. Just the shadowy outline with the barest glint of bloodstained, blond hair that fell around his face in thick tendrils. “I—I’m sorry—I don’t—”

“Sssh. Oh. I can hear your heart pounding, Ember. It’s going off like a drum. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. Like a little bird.” He hummed. “You could be my little dove, Ember…would you like that?”

She reached for the knife in her belt. Before he could react, she slammed it through his stomach.

“Ow.” He sat up and looked down at the knife. When she tried to push him off her, he twisted a hand in her hair and pressed it to the stairs. “No. No. Stay. We’ll work this out.” He grabbed the handle of the blade with his other hand and slid it back out of his stomach with a low growl. “That stings, though. Please don’t do that again.” Liquid, dark as pitch, oozed from the blade like molasses. It was far too thick to be normal. He hurled the knife into the darkness of the cathedral, and it clattered against the stone somewhere in the distance.

“Please—don’t—”

“Ssh.” He leaned back down over her, settling his weight against her body. She struggled, but she was trapped. “No, little dove. It’s all right. I won’t kill you. I won’t hurt you.” He caught her chin in his free hand and tilted her head