Page 58 of Desecrated Saints
“Tell me about it. You miss me?”
Travis punches him in the shoulder. “This place ain’t the same without ya. Are these friends of yours, or do I need to set my boys on them?”
Phoenix circles his arm around my waist. “They’re with me. Listen, Trav. We’re in trouble and need somewhere to lay low for a bit.”
“You got it, Nix. Anything for you.”
Whistling to the nearby kids, Travis rattles off his orders. The group converges around us, concealing us from sight. We head off down the street, bathed in dawn light. Travis falls into step beside Phoenix, his pierced face lit with a grin.
“Charlie’s gonna freak when she hears you’re back, bro.”
Phoenix tenses. “Perhaps hold off on telling her. It should be me.”
“Nah. She’ll be over the moon. She’s missed her brother. It’s good to have ya back, Nix. Too fuckin' good.”
“It’s only temporary, until we’re out of trouble.”
“I never got a chance to thank you for—”
“Don’t mention it,” Phoenix interrupts. “It’s in the past.”
Approaching a run-down house with bass music rattling the bricks, Travis gestures for us to enter. Inside, the stench of smoke and acid burns my throat. Marijuana plants bake under heat lamps, while giant vats of chemicals lay abandoned. Looks like they’re cooking meth.
“Classy,” Hudson comments.
Travis frowns at him before clearing his throat. “There are some spare rooms upstairs. I’ll track down some clean clothes. You all look rough as hell.”
“Do you have a shower?” I cringe at the sight of myself.
He gives me a slow, perusing look. “For you? Sure thing, sugar. My room’s free if you wanna help yourself. Need a hand with all that blood?”
“Want me to break your legs?” Hudson casually leans against a stained wall. “Or your neck, perhaps? I really have no preference. Loser’s choice.”
Travis raises his hands. “No trouble here, mate.”
Phoenix tugs me to his side and kisses my cheek. Travis looks even more intrigued, glancing between us all. Before he can ask questions I don’t have the answers to, I leave the guys to their bickering and testosterone. I’ve had more than enough of people’s bullshit for one day.
Up the sagging staircase, there’s a sea of discarded drug paraphernalia. More marijuana plants fill several of the bedrooms, leaving an earthy stench in the air. Sweat drips down my neck from the industrial setup. Thick electrical cables feed into lights and heaters.
I locate Travis’s room by the writing that’s burned on the door by a cigarette. His space is pretty disgusting. Piles of unwashed clothes and empty liquor bottles litter the threadbare carpet. By some miracle, his en-suite bathroom is permissible, beyond the used condoms and knock-off aftershave bottles.
There’s no lock, so I take my knife into the shower with me after stripping off clothing that reeks of death. The water is barely warm, but it feels amazing against my bruised body. I brace my hands against the cracked tiles and let my gritty eyes slide shut.
I’m suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that kept us running across the city has deserted me. As the events of the night run through my mind, a whisper creeps in, emboldened by violence and bloodthirst.
How many people have you killed now, Brooke?
You’ve become everything you hate.
Vic would be so proud of you.
“Vic is gone,” I recite, clutching my knife tight.
As you should be too.
This is just the beginning.
Blackwood is calling your name.