Angora’s pulse hammered in her throat. She knew those words. Knew the way they curled around her like cold fingers. Ten years ago, she had run from the bayou, the cult that had marked her as theirs. From the rituals that demanded blood.
And now, standing in the shadow of the church, she could hear them again—the chanting, low and rhythmic, seeping through the cracked walls. The door creaked open on its own, revealing a darkness so thick it felt alive.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and something darker. Candles flickered, their light dancing over the faces of hooded figures. At the center of the room lay an open grave, fresh dirt piled beside it. And standing over it, a man with hollow eyes and a smile like a knife.
“Angora,” he said, voice slick with reverence. “You’re just in time.”
Her breath hitched. In his hands was an old revolver, its barrel gleaming in the candlelight. He held it out to her, grip firm, like an offering.
“It’s like looking down into the grave of your love,” he murmured. “Or kissing the mouth of a gun. Do you feel it? The bullet trembling in its dark nest?”
Angora’s fingers twitched. The gun was cold. Heavy. Familiar.
She had a choice. But in the bayou, choices were just another kind of trap.
The chanting grew louder. The grave yawned open.
And the gun?
It was already pressed to her temple.
