The First Sacrament (The Demons of Stone Chapel Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: Lex Duncan
Japan. Lessens the effect the demon has.”
Brother Luke heaved a sigh. That didn't sound good. “I'm going to get in trouble for telling you this, but I overheard her doctors yesterday.”
I took a big sip of coffee. Scalded my tongue in doing so. Tears sprung up in the corners of my eyes.
“She's got a couple of months left, Beatrice,” he said. “Give or take a few days.”
I choked on my sip, spitting the coffee back into my cup.
Two months. That was it. I knew it was going to be soon, but this soon? Sixty measly days were nothing in the grand scheme of things. We had so much we wanted to do. So many plans. We were going to get out of this hell hole. Do things with our lives. She was going to draw comics and get famous and I was going to direct horror movies and win a ton of Oscars. Implausible goals, maybe, but they were goals nonetheless.
And her disease was robbing them from her. Robbing her from me.
Rosie was my best friend. My sister. I didn't want to believe that she was dying. I'd been denying it for years, because denial was easier than facing the truth. I knew there wasn't much use in it now. I knew I needed to suck it up and prepare myself. But I couldn't. Not yet.
“Beatrice?” Brother Luke said.
I blinked. “Yeah?”
“Are you all right?”
Yeah, dude, I was thrilled . I took another sip of coffee, stared down into the cup and tried to sort out what I was feeling. Sadness, grief, confusion, everything I expected to feel upon hearing the news. Underneath it all, something deeper than sadness festered inside of me. Something like rage, hot coals in my stomach.
I've never been one to curl up in a ball and cry when things got bad. In fact, I distinctly remember being royally pissed off at my parents' funeral. I hated them for what they did. Hated that they died on me, left me alone in this scary world to fend for myself. Years passed and that hatred cooled to apathy. They were dead. Whatever. I wasn't the first kid to lose her parents and I wouldn't be the last.
Rosie was different. I didn't hate her for dying. I didn't hate her for attacking me or saying those horrible things. She didn't choose to be born with Faustian Syndrome. Her mother didn't choose possession, no matter what those stupid pamphlets from that CADP lady said.
I hated the demon . I hated what it made her. I hated that it tortured her, sickened her, corrupted her. I wanted to reach inside of her and grab it by the throat, murder it like it was murdering her.
But I couldn't. That was the worst part.
“Thanks for the help, Brother Luke,” I said, putting my coffee down on the counter. Grief swelled in my chest. I wiped at my nose with my sleeve. Mother Arden hated when I did that. “I'm gonna go. Tell Rosie bye for me.”
“Beatrice,” Brother Luke’s watery eyes filled with concern. “If you need to talk to someone―”
“I’m fine.”
I didn't need to talk to anyone. What I needed to do was go back to my apartment, dig out the two hundred dollars I kept under my couch cushions in case of emergencies, go to the pawn shop, and buy a gun.
I couldn't save Rosie, that much I had to accept. But with a little bit of luck and some help from the internet, I might’ve been able to safe myself.
My mind was made up before I even left the sanatorium.
I was going hunting tonight.
***
Getting a gun in Stone Chapel was as easy as getting gas at a gas station. The guy who owned Eighth Street Pawn wasn't picky about where his money came from. I walked in, flashed my two hundred dollars (plus the change I found in my pocket), and his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.
He didn't ask questions, kept his opinions to himself. I pointed to the one I wanted―a small pistol that would surely pack enough of a punch to kill a demon―and he unlocked the glass display case and got it for me. No background check. No paperwork. No disapproving stare. He understood, gun laws be damned.
Living in this city meant living in a
Brother Luke heaved a sigh. That didn't sound good. “I'm going to get in trouble for telling you this, but I overheard her doctors yesterday.”
I took a big sip of coffee. Scalded my tongue in doing so. Tears sprung up in the corners of my eyes.
“She's got a couple of months left, Beatrice,” he said. “Give or take a few days.”
I choked on my sip, spitting the coffee back into my cup.
Two months. That was it. I knew it was going to be soon, but this soon? Sixty measly days were nothing in the grand scheme of things. We had so much we wanted to do. So many plans. We were going to get out of this hell hole. Do things with our lives. She was going to draw comics and get famous and I was going to direct horror movies and win a ton of Oscars. Implausible goals, maybe, but they were goals nonetheless.
And her disease was robbing them from her. Robbing her from me.
Rosie was my best friend. My sister. I didn't want to believe that she was dying. I'd been denying it for years, because denial was easier than facing the truth. I knew there wasn't much use in it now. I knew I needed to suck it up and prepare myself. But I couldn't. Not yet.
“Beatrice?” Brother Luke said.
I blinked. “Yeah?”
“Are you all right?”
Yeah, dude, I was thrilled . I took another sip of coffee, stared down into the cup and tried to sort out what I was feeling. Sadness, grief, confusion, everything I expected to feel upon hearing the news. Underneath it all, something deeper than sadness festered inside of me. Something like rage, hot coals in my stomach.
I've never been one to curl up in a ball and cry when things got bad. In fact, I distinctly remember being royally pissed off at my parents' funeral. I hated them for what they did. Hated that they died on me, left me alone in this scary world to fend for myself. Years passed and that hatred cooled to apathy. They were dead. Whatever. I wasn't the first kid to lose her parents and I wouldn't be the last.
Rosie was different. I didn't hate her for dying. I didn't hate her for attacking me or saying those horrible things. She didn't choose to be born with Faustian Syndrome. Her mother didn't choose possession, no matter what those stupid pamphlets from that CADP lady said.
I hated the demon . I hated what it made her. I hated that it tortured her, sickened her, corrupted her. I wanted to reach inside of her and grab it by the throat, murder it like it was murdering her.
But I couldn't. That was the worst part.
“Thanks for the help, Brother Luke,” I said, putting my coffee down on the counter. Grief swelled in my chest. I wiped at my nose with my sleeve. Mother Arden hated when I did that. “I'm gonna go. Tell Rosie bye for me.”
“Beatrice,” Brother Luke’s watery eyes filled with concern. “If you need to talk to someone―”
“I’m fine.”
I didn't need to talk to anyone. What I needed to do was go back to my apartment, dig out the two hundred dollars I kept under my couch cushions in case of emergencies, go to the pawn shop, and buy a gun.
I couldn't save Rosie, that much I had to accept. But with a little bit of luck and some help from the internet, I might’ve been able to safe myself.
My mind was made up before I even left the sanatorium.
I was going hunting tonight.
***
Getting a gun in Stone Chapel was as easy as getting gas at a gas station. The guy who owned Eighth Street Pawn wasn't picky about where his money came from. I walked in, flashed my two hundred dollars (plus the change I found in my pocket), and his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.
He didn't ask questions, kept his opinions to himself. I pointed to the one I wanted―a small pistol that would surely pack enough of a punch to kill a demon―and he unlocked the glass display case and got it for me. No background check. No paperwork. No disapproving stare. He understood, gun laws be damned.
Living in this city meant living in a
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