Hello and welcome! Thank you so much for taking the time to read this work.
This story is a first draft effort at a tale I've had percolating for quite some time. While I will be avoiding egregious plot holes and giving it a pass for spelling/grammar errors, I do apologize for any mistakes you may find. Daggers, Dames and Demons is currently being uploaded every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
I reserve all creative rights to this piece. Recirculation of this work under another name will not be permitted.
Cover Art was done by the lovely JV arts. Feel free to reach out to me for contact details if you're interested in buying from this artist!
CONTENT WARNING: Fantasy Violence, Gore, Sexual Content, and Sexual Assault (implied)
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[https://i.postimg.cc/zBmgrkt9/The-Ritual.png]
Chapter 1: The Ritual
Do you think people are mad when they get kidnapped because stupid people might kill them?
I have no idea. Maybe it’s just me. Before being shoved face-first into the trunk of a car, I never really considered it. I’ve listened to my share of true crime podcasts — not my strangest hobby by far, I assure you - and I never wondered if it was a let down to any of the victims when they realized they were about to die because of an idiot. An idiot with a god complex and incredibly poor impulse control.
Anyway. I’m trying to kick the taillight out and it isn’t working.
It would be easier if my ankles weren’t bound together. Or my hands. Or, frankly, if I didn’t have a dirty rag shoved in my mouth, which I’m fairly sure is the remnants of one of the three stooges’ gym socks. I probably shouldn’t be using that to refer to them - Larry, Curly and Moe deserve better — but goddamn if the shoe doesn’t fit.
Let’s not give them any credit here. The only reason they succeeded was because I’m barely over five feet tall and my idea of a bicep curl involves dumbbells that dream of being five pounds. These assholes really wandered onto a college campus, saw a scrawny brunette hustling out of the science building, and went yeah. That one. Get her. It’s just so goddamn cliché.
I’m pretty sure I broke Curly’s nose, though. I hope they include that in the obituary after I die. Lydia never lit up a room or anything, but man could she throw a punch.
I’m still kicking the taillight. I’m not exactly sure why. I’ve been in this musty old trunk for at least an hour now, and whatever civilization might have saved me is loooooong gone. Capital, Iowa is known for two things: being a college town, and being empty when class is not in session. I, coincidentally, am also known for two things: being too broke to afford a state school, and making up for it by trying to polish a trash curriculum with sheer determination and way too much overtime.
The taillight budges slightly. I think. It’s dark as hell in here and I can’t see shit. My core is burning something fierce and reminding me of all those times I should have been doing crunches but didn’t. “Well suck it up, buttercup, it’s go time,” I mutter. Except the sock in my mouth makes it come out as ‘welluckupitgotem.’
Whatever. I know what I’m saying. This pep talk is all for me anyway.
I kick again. I feel the thunk up through my ankles to my knees. Another budge. I’m sure of it this time. Just a few more and I’ll have kicked it free…
Something scratches at the back of my mind. I stop, holding my breath, holding my pose with my knees bunched up near my chest. The car has come to a stop. The low vibration of the engine has ceased, no longer humming against my spine.
When Moe opens the trunk, I’m in a perfect position to kick him square in the face with both feet. Which, of course, is exactly what I do.
I connect with solid satisfaction. He stumbles backwards in alarm, letting out a half-shout-half-grunt that only furthers said satisfaction. With a roll, I toss myself to the street and let out an ear-shattering scream. Even with the gag in my mouth, the sound is all blood and curdle. My thigh connects with rocks — gravel, really, meaning the road is unpaved — and I find myself staring at an unlit stretch of forest. I turn my head. Larry is coming towards me, his face set in a determined scowl. There’s nothing but empty forest behind him, too.
“Fuck!” I say, but really it’s ‘Uck!’
Now I’m being censored by a sock. Fantastic.
Larry reaches me before Moe recovers. Actually, come to think of it, Moe isn’t moving. As I’m hefted into the air and tossed unceremoniously over a shoulder, Curly — his nose still bent at an awkward angle - comes around the side of the car. He nudges his fallen accomplice with the tip of his foot.
“Holy shit,” Curly says. His voice is fluting and nasal. “I think the bitch actually knocked him out.”
I let out a cackle. It definitely sounds unhinged, but I don’t care. Now is the time to be unhinged.
“Toss him in the car and leave him there,” Larry replies. He adjusts his grip on me. I can hear him gritting his teeth. “Just lock the door. We don’t need him for this. Lucas will have everything taken care of.”
Lucas. It’s the first time I’ve actually heard them refer to someone by name. There’s a fourth person involved with this, then. Ringleader, maybe? I log the name away. If I make it out of this alive, I’m taking every ounce of information I get straight to the police. I’m nailing these motherfuckers to the wall.
And if you don’t make it out alive?
The thought sends a shiver through me. I do my best to drown it. That kind of thinking leads to panic, leads to deer-in-the-headlights helplessness. Even if I do die, I’m going out kicking and scratching. I want these idiots’ DNA lodged underneath my nails.
After Moe is taken care of, we’re walking into the forest. Or rather, Larry is walking, and I’m swaying against his sweaty back. He smells like cheap cologne and rank body odor. There’s only one flashlight between the two of them apparently, because Curly is glaring at me as he follows behind, occasionally tripping over a tree root since the only light is currently in Larry’s hand. Every time I see him stumble I feel a little vindictive thrill.
Stay mad, I think. Stay mad, stay mad, stay mad. Don’t get scared.
I know I’m scared. I’m terrified. I’m a goddamn cornered rabbit, ignoring a fox by trying to be cheeky. But it’s working, so I’m going to keep at it as long as it does.
Stay sharp. Chin up. Stomp your feet and bare your teeth.
It’s cold outside. I didn’t bother to grab my jacket when I went out to the lab — I had a pass that let me park right next to the building, courtesy of being a microbiology tutor. It’s just on the cusp of autumn, bright during the day but a balmy forty-five after the sun goes down. A breeze ripples through the trees, and I shiver again. The deeper we walk, the darker it gets. There weren’t any lights on the street, but at least I had the moon. Now all the stars are winking out one by one, eaten by the canopy above my head.
I don’t know how long we walk. I just know that when we get wherever we’re going Larry drops me to the ground without bothering to crouch. I land on my shoulder, wrenching it hard enough that a jolt of pain runs down my back. Still, between the jostling and the movements of my jaw, I’ve managed to work the gag free. I spit, dropping it off my chin and down to my chest.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“You’re gonna regret this, motherfucker.”
He blinks, staring down at me with a strange vacancy on his face.
“People will realize I’m missing and the cops’ll be shoving a fist up your ass by tomorrow afternoon.”
No reply. He continues staring at me, saying nothing. Curly walks up behind him, his eyes fixed on something beyond me. Their silence is more frightening than if they’d cursed at me. I feel a frisson of uncertainty move through me. Then, oh so slowly, I roll around to look.
We’re in a clearing. Clouds must have moved in, because I can’t see a hint of stars, even this far from civilization. Still, what small light there is outlines a rectangular shape connected to the ground — like a table of some sort — and a figure standing behind it. Tall. Loomingly tall, a good bit over six feet. I can’t make out his features — and it’s definitely a he, judging by the look of his shoulders — but I can tell the figure is watching me. Staring at me.
I wait for my eyes to adjust, trying to make out more. But for some reason all I can get is the hazy gray shape of him, of the thing he’s standing behind. I squint, trying to focus —
Light flares, white-hot and intense. I squint, turning my face away. Then I jerk my head back again, forcing myself to look, to take in every detail.
The first thing I notice, of course, is that the table is an altar.
The stone itself is old. It’s clear because of the way water and wind have weathered the surface. There are divots here and there, but nothing to compromise its integrity. No mortar was used — not that I can tell — but each and every stone is wedged so neatly together, cut so perfectly, that gravity is enough to keep it stable. The slab over the arch that serves as the legs is wide and thick enough for a person to lay on. I can see brown stains along the sides, and I tell myself it’s dirt. I tell myself it’s dirt to keep from acknowledging that it’s blood.
Two LED globes have been perched on iron pegs at each end of the altar - the source of the light. They look obscene on that ancient altar. Sacrilegious. With the light, I can see that someone has carved a crooked upside-down cross into the stonework. It’s fresh and new and completely absurd. The looming man has a hood drawn up over his head, but I can see his face now. He’s handsome. Absurdly handsome. Crawled-off-a-magazine-cover good-looking. Chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, hazel eyes. I stare at him. He stares back.
“This is your sacrifice, then?” he asks, his voice low and smooth. “The virgin?”
Handsomeness gone. Poof. Just like that. In spite of myself I think, what a waste.
“Yes,” Curly says behind me. “This is her. The virgin sacrifi—”
I laugh.
My laughter is loud and sharp and so unexpected that Curly stops talking. The walking Abercrombie advertisement watches me, a look of confusion on his face. Not confusion, actually. He looks pissed. I’m killing his ambiance.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I’m sorry, I just. I can’t. I just can’t.” I squint at the LED lights again. “Are those flickering? Like. Like you brought special effects?”
The handsome man purses his lips. I’m guessing this one is Lucas. He stares at me with searing hatred. I notice one of his hands is perched on a book — an old book, from the looks of it. The leather cover is flaking and the pages are yellowed.
“Tonight,” Lucas begins, “Tonight, we will bring forth a great power. A great power that will inhabit your vessel, pure and clean, untainted by-”
“First of all, gross. Secondly, sorry honey, that ship sailed a long time ago. I am distinctly impure and unclean.”
The air somehow gets uncomfortable. I can hear Larry off to my left somewhere, shuffling back and forth awkwardly on his feet. Lucas blinks at me owlishly. Curly asks, voice quiet: “…Soooo. Does that. Does that put a wrench in things? Shouuuuuld we go and find…”
Lucas is frantically flipping through the pages of the book. I wince in spite of the situation. It looks so old. That thing needs to be in a hermetically sealed container, handled with latex gloves.
“Maybe the demon is okay with non-organic food,” I say dryly.
Lucas stiffens. I shouldn’t piss him off, but I can’t help myself. I’m scared, and I’m mad that I’m scared, so I’m mostly mad. “Or maybe this is purely a Shirley temple kind of a thing, you know? Strawberry daiquiri, hold the rum.”
“The body of the victim shall be a temple,” Lucas begins, reading from the book, his voice getting dramatic again.
I snort. “Of Dionysus, maybe.”
He looks up, his eyes flaring rage, and for just a moment I feel a flicker of uncertainty. “Gag her,” he snarls.
I feel one of the two remaining stooges grab my shoulders and wrench me backwards. I hit the ground hard again, shoulder singing with renewed pain, my hands twisted behind my back. Larry glares at me as he tightens the gag so it bites painfully into the already raw corners of my mouth. My eyes sting with tears, but even through all of that, I feel something beneath me, against my fingertips. Something sharp. A stone, digging into my palm almost hard enough to cut.
I scrabble, managing to grab it before I’m hauled back to a sitting position, hiding it between my bound hands against the small of my back.
If I can stab him — stab Lucas, even get some of his blood spattered in with mine, maybe they can pick up some of it. Some forensic scientist will have an aha! moment. ‘The murder was a tragedy,’ the headlines would say, ‘but Lydia Grace fought like hell.’
I feel the tears begin trickling down my cheeks. My bravado is fraying along the edges. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die like this. For nothing.
“…We will move forward,” Lucas drones, “Bring forth the sacrifice,” I’m lifted again, roughly, as he picks up the book and holds it reverently in his hands. I’m set down atop the altar with a dull thud. My shoulder screams again, a tingle running through my fingertips, and I almost drop the stone. Almost. I hold on through sheer force of will, feel it digging into my spine.
“Hic colligimus offerre hoc vas pro aeterno famulo,” Lucas begins. Latin, I think. Of course it’s Latin. I wonder if that’s even the language in the book, or if he just went on Google to find a translator. He certainly can’t pronounce it right. His emphasis is in all the wrong places. I’m not fluent, but I had to learn some of it because all the genus and subspecies are still in Latin. Streptococcus pyogenes is much more navigable with a basic understanding of the dead tongue.
He’s saying something about an offering. About a servant. About a vessel.
I like none of it. Despite myself, I continue to cry silently.
“Pro facilis transistus, pro fidelitate,” Lucas continues, “pro aeterno servitio tibi hanc formam damus.”
They’re trading me for a service of some kind. They think they’re offering me up to some demonic genie in exchange for three wishes. My heart begins to race faster in my chest. My eyes rove wildly in their sockets. Larry and Curly are standing off to the side, watching with a bovine kind of focus — blank and thoughtless. I think I can see something moving in the trees - leaves rustle. It’s large. A deer, maybe? Strange that it would come so close to people. I can’t make out its shape.
The stooges don’t react. I don’t think they notice.
“Exite!” Logan bellows. “Ad nos in fidelitate et in servitio, usque ad finem nostri mortalis!”
The LEDs above and below me seem to brighten for a moment. Time slows to a crawl as adrenaline courses through me in a final, last-ditch effort to give me what I need to survive. Go! My brain is screaming. Run! Fight! Flee!
I see Lucas’s hand descend towards his waist. See a hilt there, the hilt of a dagger, all shiny and brand-new like a prop out of a bad horror movie. Now, I think. Do it now, do it now, do it now!
I lurch. Lucas jolts in surprise, but I’m faster. My head knocks with his, hard, my brow meeting his nose. I hear a sickening crunch, then a shout of pain. I twist even as there’s the faint shk of metal against a sheath. I feel the stone in my hands impact with his ribs, thumping and then sliding into skin. I don’t know how deep. It wasn’t that long. I feel slickness - a hint of blood - and then pain explodes in my own back, just beneath my right shoulder blade. It radiates from that point and knocks the wind out of me. I topple forward, rolling off of the the altar. I can’t breathe. I don’t know how deeply he stabbed me. The world whirls around me in a dizzying blur. Curly and Larry are staring, gape-mouthed, halfway between grabbing at me and moving to Lucas.
Lucas. His hands are braced against the altar. There’s blood running down his nose and over his lip, dripping onto the surface. More blood spatters the stone from his ribs. I can see the rock is lodged there. A movement from him dislodges it, clunking onto the stone. He stares down, his eyes widening. “No,” he breathes. “…No. No no no.” I realize, blearily, that he’s not holding the dagger. It must still be in me. My breath is rattling. One of my lungs must be punctured.
“Not me!” Lucas is shrieking. He’s not even hurt that badly. Pussy, I think. Or maybe I said it. I’m not entirely sure. I’m starting to feel numb. “Not me! Not me! HER! Take HER! Take—”
The LEDs blink out, and the scene plunges into darkness.
I hear something. Snapping sounds, like twigs beneath feet. Someone fleeing into or stepping out of the forest. Muffled shouts, voices saying words I can’t understand. I don’t move. I can’t tell if the darkness at the corners of my vision is because I’m losing consciousness, or a consequence of the night. Lucas’s form is an amorphous gray mass again, but he’s standing straight all of a sudden. Too straight. Ram-rod straight. For just a moment, I swear I can see an odd light in his eyes, two bright points in the night, black over red like a solar eclipse. I’m dying, I think. My brain is giving me one last trip before I go, a little DMT to make it easier.
“Ahhhh,” Lucas says. “Now this is interesting.” His voice sounds different. Lilting. “Well, it seems you are the winner this evening, Lydia Grace. Tell me, how might I be of service?”
The clouds above him part. The moon shines on a bright white smile that splits his face.
I can’t think straight. I can’t make sense of what’s happened. I hear my own voice as if I’m listening from far away, disembodied, hating how desperate it sounds. “Please,” I wheeze around the rag in my mouth. “Please help me.”
For just a moment, I think I see his face soften. Then he’s in front of me, crouching down. Did I black out? Miss him walking towards me? There’s warmth against the side of my face, and I realize he’s touching me, cradling my cheek in his palm. I’m in too much pain to jerk away. Too weak to shove him. So I lay there, my eyes fluttering, desperate to stay awake.
“Hush now,” he says gently. “It’s alright, my dear. I’ll take it from here.”
And then the darkness does come, oblivion chasing the pain away.