The Sinners of Saint Amos: The Full 3-book Boxset

by Logan Fox

Because it wasn’t just kissing.

  They tried to get my pants off. And that shit triggered me worse than anything I’d experienced since we’d escaped the basement.

  I snapped.

  Lisa was the youngest.

  She was so beautiful. Long blond hair, bright blue eyes.

  I was just trying to keep her back, all of them. I shoved her too hard, and she took a tumble.

  Ha. Took a tumble.

  She slammed into a glass coffee table, face first. She almost lost an eye. I didn’t see her again after that, but I have no doubt the accident disfigured her.

  So much blood.

  And then the screaming began.

  I had to keep them quiet.

  I know what happens when kids scream. Adults don’t like it.

  Kids are meant to be seen, not heard.

  I grabbed two of them, put my hands over their mouths. The third was unconscious on the floor. I don’t even know how that had happened. If I’d done something.

  Still don’t.

  And that’s how they found us. My foster parents.

  Me with an undone fly, their daughters half-unclothed, and I’m holding two of them tight so they can’t scream anymore.

  Blood.

  Limp bodies.

  The mother passed out.

  Henry—my foster dad—was holding a gun. At first, I thought they’d just arrived. I couldn’t understand why he’d carry a gun around with him.

  But later, when the red haze receded and memories came flooding back, I realized they’d been there long enough to see what was happening and then Henry went to get his gun.

  Because I was lost.

  Out of my own body.

  I didn’t hear them begging with me to let their daughters go.

  I just saw the gun. And then I tackled Henry to the ground. I pressed the gun to his head and pulled the trigger, but thank fuck the safety was on so nothing happened.

  And I kept pulling that trigger until the police came and arrested me.

  Zachary got everything sorted out, of course. Since no one actually died, and he’d offered to pay for Lisa’s plastic surgery—and then some—the charges were eventually dropped.

  “I’m sure,” I tell Cass.

  “Looks empty anyway,” Apollo says. “Maybe we’re too late.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, and then all flinch at the faint pop of gunfire.

  “Shooting range,” Zach says.

  Me, Cass, and Apollo nod.

  And as if that’s the signal, we file out of the car and head for the house.

  “Is that…” Cass points.

  I nod my head. “A grave.”

  “Is there a…”

  “We’ll have to check later,” I tell him. “Keep moving.”

  We’re at the back of the property, headed for the patio doors. It’s the first set of doors we found, and one of the sliding glass panels is standing open.

  It’s too quiet.

  Surely there would be something. Voices, a radio playing, a television set. Unless, like Apollo said, we’re too late.

  Or this is a dead end.

  Who’s to say they even own this property anymore?

  But the neatly dug grave out back gives me a shred of hope. We’re too far away to see if it’s empty or not, but there’ll be plenty of time for that once we’ve gone through the house.

  I hear a faint noise. Cass holds up a hand. We stop to listen, but hear nothing.

  Could have been Zach and Apollo, going through the front.

  But then I hear it again.

  It’s faint, but it’s undeniably a gunshot. Me and Cass frown at each other, but we don’t dare say anything.

  “Shooting range,” Cass murmurs.

  I nod.

  We keep moving.

  Through an entertainment area. Down a hall. I see a shape, and tap Cass on the shoulder, pointing.

  It resolves into Zachary, stalking down the other side of the passage like a cop in an action movie. We glance at each other, and then he nods and looks up.

  Downstairs cleared.

  Cass and I are closest, so we go up the stairs first. As soon as we turn to head down the hall, I hear a sound again.

  A panicked sob. A choked breath. Fabric and clothes rustling urgently.

  My heart’s in my fucking throat, but Cass puts up his hand like he knows all I want to do is bolt forward.

  I guess he also recognized the voice making those sounds.

  Trinity.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Trinity

  The pain is so intense, I can’t even scream. It’s as if the bullet knocked every atom of air from my lungs. I drag in a horrible groaning gasp and slide to the floor.

  I reach up, but I can’t bear to touch the hole in my chest. Instead, my fingers shake in the air a few inches away.

  Somehow, through the violent buzzing in my ears, I hear Nick chuckle.

  Then I’m flying up, the pain intensifying as Nick twists the grip he has on the front of my blood-stained dress. “Hurts, don’t it?” he says. “Should be thanking me on your hands and fucking knees, Missy, ’cos now you won’t feel anything else.”

  He drags me to the bed. Tosses me on the mattress. I let out a low wail as I hit the firm surface, as that jolt sends a stabbing agony through me.

  Liar.

  The bullet hit me just below my right shoulder, but my entire torso feels like it’s on fire. I can’t move that arm, and my body is as limp as a rag doll.

  Nick climbs onto me, pushes the muzzle of the gun so hard into my temple that I’m facing away from him, to a window.

  The muzzle bites into my flesh, the cold metal spreading through me. Then he rips my dress up to my hips allowing the brisk air to caress my bare skin.

  A wave of dizziness hits me. It feels like I’m on a boat, and the waves are tossing me around. Then like I’m drowning. Except I think I am, because when I try to breathe, there’s shit in the way.

  I cough. Retch.

  Thick, warm liquid spills from my mouth.

  The air smells like copper.

  Am I dying? The pain is so immense, it’s impossible to comprehend. I’m aware that I’m writhing with it, that he’s fighting my limbs so he can wrench open my legs, but that’s all distant and possibly happening to someone else now.

  Or to my dying body.

  Which is fine, because I’m not really there anymore.

  I’m floating to the window. Heading for the bright afternoon sun beckoning me through the glass.

  Not scared of falling anymore.

  Because I’m weightless now.

  I can just float away.

  Up into the clouds.

  And then the pain is back, a spear through my chest. I suck in a ragged breath, and turn my head.

  Nick has his hand on my chest. He’s leaning his weight on the bullet wound, grinning at me.

  I reach up, numb fingers trying to pry his hand off my chest.

  But then his body is between my legs, holding them open. And he’s looking down.

  There’s still something cold touching my face, but it’s different now. I use my good hand, my left hand, to feel alongside my head.

  It touches cool metal.

  The gun.

  Pain, but not in my chest anymore. Down there. Down where he’s looking.

  Let him look at my cunt, I don’t care.

  Because then he’s not looking up. He’s not seeing me fumble with the gun. Trying to pick it up.

  He shifts, his hand digging harder into my torn flesh. I cry out, and he groans as if the sound gets him hard.

  But I don’t care, because now I’m holding the gun.

  Pointing it.

  It shakes.

  Oh God, how it shakes.

  It weighs thirty million tons.

  I pull the trigger.

  Where I expect him to go flying backward, he instead collapses on top of me. I cry out at the agony when his head slams into my chest. I try and pu
sh him off me, but I’ve only got one working arm and he’s still wedged between my legs.

  I let out a wail of frustrated agony, but thank God I’m taking a breath when I hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

  It takes everything I have to lift the gun again. I sling my arm over Nick’s back, gritting my teeth through the pain as I try and aim it at the door.

  It’s too quiet out there.

  Is it Jess? She said she’d leave—how long was Nick busy with me for? And if she’s gone, then who’s coming up the stairs?

  The impostor.

  He’s back.

  I curl my finger around the trigger and blink sweat and blood out of my eyes.

  The gun steadies.

  Someone yanks at the handle. They rattle the door. Then a shot goes off.

  Pop!

  There’s a thump, and the door gives in, handle distorted by the bullet.

  A silhouette darkens the doorway.

  I squeeze the trigger.

  The clap of the gun is deafening. It falls from my hand onto the floor. The figure in the doorway leans to the side, and then slowly topples to the ground.

  I killed him.

  I killed my father!

  Tears spring into my eyes, blurring my vision. I let out a choking sob and try to shift Nick off me. He won’t budge, but then the bundle by the door starts moving.

  A hand appears on the carpet. Thin. Delicate. Speckled with blood.

  Jess.

  I shot her.

  But I didn’t kill her.

  “No, fuck,” I whisper. My movements become urgent, but I still can’t shift the fucking dead body off me.

  A second hand joins the first. Jess drags the top half of her body into the room. She looks dazed—eyes wide and unfocused, lips slack—but as soon as she spots me on the bed, her eyes narrow.

  Other than her hands, I can’t see any more blood. But it’s as if the bottom half of her body doesn’t work anymore, because she doesn’t stand, or crawl…she just keeps dragging herself over the floor.

  I stick my hand in Nick’s hoody pouch. Cigarettes, gum, a wallet. Useless shit.

  I swallow hard, steel myself, and reach down.

  My hand brushes smooth skin.

  Lower.

  I recoil when I touch his ass. If I could lift my head, I’d be able to see better, but there’s a terrible lameness spreading through me.

  The dizziness is back. It comes in waves, each higher than the last.

  It would be so easy just to let one of those waves take me away. To let it consume me.

  Because it promises no more pain. No more leaden terror.

  Jess grabs onto the side of the bed. How did she get here so quickly? Or did I actually pass out for a second?

  I reach down again, pushing away my disgust and horror at touching Nick’s dead skin.

  He must have pushed his pants down to his fucking knees, because I can’t feel them. Even if he had anything useful in them, they’re too far out of reach.

  Jess grabs my right hand, tugs. Despite the dead body lying on top of me, she still shifts my arm enough to send a spike of pain through me. I sob, my breath catching. I wriggle furiously, even hoping that her grip might pull me out from under Nick.

  She’s grimacing at me, but her face is whiter than the walls. “F’kn ’tch,” she says through her teeth. “F’kn kill you.”

  Metal drags over the fabric. She lifts Nick’s gun, aims it point-blank at my face.

  I don’t even have time to close my eyes.

  This bang isn’t as loud as the first, but maybe that’s because I’m already dying. I also expected this bullet to feel like the first. Like a blazing-hot punch, then a poker being shoved through my flesh.

  But I just see red.

  The side of my face is hot, then warm, then cold. And very wet.

  I blink.

  The world turns pink.

  I blink again.

  Jess slides to the floor.

  Shapes move, too fast for me to make out. A weight is lifted. I hear voices, a yell.

  Someone looms over me. My eyes are squeezed closed from the pain, so I don’t know who.

  For some reason, I’m sure it’s Nick. That he’s somehow still alive, and he’s about to climb on me again. To finish what he started.

  “No,” I manage, slurring the word. “No.”

  Another wave of dizziness comes. The biggest yet. My face tingles furiously, my fingers ice-cold and numb.

  I try to fight it, but I can’t. It’s too big, too powerful.

  It lifts me up, so I’m flying, and then I come down the other side. But I just keep sinking and sinking.

  And sinking.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Cass

  When I step inside the upstairs bedroom, my mind balks at what I see. So while I’m still pointing my gun, I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to be shooting at.

  Shock makes my brain slow as fuck as I try to work through it.

  There’s a thick trail of blood leading from the passage outside into the bedroom.

  A kid’s bedroom.

  The one from the video. Even still has the same furniture, except some of it’s been moved around and the paint is faded.

  The blood leads to a woman propped up all awkward against the side of the bed like she’s attempting an advanced yoga pose.

  She’s a suspect. Definitely.

  Then there’s the big dude on the bed. But he’s taking a little nap. Fuck knows why he decided to take his dick out first, but I’m sure my brain will get to that in just a sec.

  Then I see her.

  My little Trinity.

  And then the gun pointed at her beautiful face. My finger squeezes the trigger without bothering to get me up to speed first.

  Trinity recoils when the woman’s head goes splat inches from her face.

  The woman—kinda dead looking now, especially with the hole in the back of her head—slides down and sprawls on the carpet.

  Trinity looks like she just got done auditioning for Carrie, and they made her do the scene with the bucket of pig’s blood.

  But then Rube’s in front of me, and all I see is his back as he charges the bed.

  He grabs the guy off of her and tosses him to the floor like a sack of rubbish. He goes to lift Trinity, but I manage to dart forward and catch his arm.

  I shove my pistol against his chest.

  If I could have spoken, I’d have told him to back off with his big fucking hulk hands so he doesn’t break her. But my chest’s all clogged up with panic.

  Trinity’s eyes flutter. Her blood is everywhere. But somehow, she’s still got some left. It wells out of the crater in her chest, and then disappears into the already blood-soaked fabric of her dress.

  I smooth her skirt down her legs as I study the wound.

  I’m the furthest thing from a paramedic, but Apollo and I were the fixer-uppers back in the basement. I know a hole like that can’t keep pissing out blood, or else Trinity’s going to run dry.

  The sudden high-pitched whine in my ears tries to compete with my pounding heart. And there’s more noise on top of that. But I have no time to listen to any of that. I have to keep Trinity’s blood inside.

  I slap the flat of my hand over the wound and press.

  Hard.

  Her pained groan goes through me like a fork through the heart. But I can’t let up. When it starts seeping through my fingers, I grit my teeth and I put my knee on her.

  Her whimper sounds exactly like the kind a kitten would make while I’m crushing it between my bare hands.

  “Fuck,” I whisper. “Rube, call an ambulance.”

  But he doesn’t answer.

  At first, I don’t know why. And then I hear it.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  I drag my head around.

  My eyes shut on their own.

  Christ.

  Jesus fucking Christ. That is not how you use a gun.

/>   “Rube.” I swallow down bile. “Rube!”

  Thud.

  … . . .

  Thud.

  I retch anyway. “Rube, Christ, call the fucking ambulance!”

  Rube’s knees creak as he stands. He lets out a blustery breath, sounding more animal than human. Something falls to the carpet, and I can only assume it’s the gun he was using to cave in the man’s skull.

  I’m not going to be able to sleep for a week.

  I keep my eyes closed until I’m facing Trinity again, and only then dare open them.

  I think the bleeding has stopped.

  Dear God, let the bleeding have stopped.

  But she’s passed out, and that’s not good.

  “Trin? Baby girl. Wake up.”

  “She’s been shot,” comes Rube’s voice.

  My skin goes cold. He’s not even out of breath. He sounds…

  Like he always does.

  Maybe even a touch calmer than usual.

  Shock, that’s all. He’s obviously in shock. Fuck, I’m in shock.

  But I’m keeping her blood in, and that’s all that matters.

  Rube doesn’t matter right now. What he was doing to the dead guy over there, that doesn’t matter either.

  My stomach convulses.

  Nope. Keeping my puke in.

  “I’m not sure of the address. Hold on.” I only hear Rube’s footsteps when he reaches the tiles out in the hall.

  “Apollo!”

  I jerk at his bellow.

  “What’s the address?”

  2142 Maude Street, Trinity whispers.

  My eyes fly open. But those white lips aren’t moving.

  Great. Just fucking great. Now I’m hallucinating?

  Her chest isn’t moving under my knee either.

  What’s worse? Suffocating, or bleeding out?

  But no. Our girl’s stronger than that. She can breathe with me on top of her, right?

  I brush my fingers against her cheek, smearing around the blood on her face. Shit…I can’t let the guys see her in this state. She looks like a medieval prostitute who applied her rouge by candlelight.

  I snag the hem of my shirt. Wet it with saliva. Wipe it over her skin. That works. But God, there’s a lot of blood on her face. I keep licking my shirt and wiping it off.

  Her cheek is semi-clean. I move onto her forehead.