by Elena Monroe
Don’t drink the Kool-Aid… It tastes like cult vibes…
Elena Monroe
© 2020 by Elena Monroe. All rights reserved.
No portion of this book, except for brief review, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without the written consent and permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, dialogues, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether living or dead, businesses, locales, or events other than those specifically cited are unintentional and purely coincidental or are used for the purpose of illustration only.
The publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors, omissions, or contrary interpretation of the subject matter herein. The author and publisher assume no responsibility or liability whatsoever on the behalf of any purchaser or reader of these materials. The publisher and author do not have any control over and do not assume any responsibility for third party websites or their content.
First edition.
Cover Design: Maria with Steamy Reads
Editor/Formatting: Sarajoy Bonebright
Proofreader: Liz Argote
Photographer: ???
Cover Model: AJ Jarrad
To the ones who see the light in people
when others demand a flashlight.
George –
You are the real MVP. You let me get lost in this world,
but not so lost you can’t pull me back to you.
Mac –
Seriously, these books don’t get fleshed out without our office time. I’m glad I could convert you to loving more than just our Circle. Onward and upwards. One day, you’ll get your dream and Netflix will make it a show.
Amber –
The best HYPE girl EVER. I literally lean on you so much for support, beta reading, PA stuff, reading my GoodRead reviews so I don’t have to, being social on FB when I slack… SO MUCH. I can’t function and finish books without your help, girl.
Liz –
You have been with me since Wattpad. Girl, how did we get here?! You got into the school of your dreams, painting during COVID, and all around killing it. We’ve come SO damn far, and I can’t wait to see where we keep going.
Sarajoy –
You are my crutch, girl. I need you to keep walking.
DON’T EVER LEAVE ME.
Give Me Books Promotions –
You guys seriously keep me organized and accountable for my time. You give me the gift of smooth releases, and I could not be more thankful.
Maria at Steamy Reads –
MAGIC. PURE VOODOO MAGIC. You make my visions come to life with these covers, girl.
Ash –
Girl. Just take my bleeding heart. Without the images, the visual aspect, I probably wouldn’t convince people to read my words so easily. This works so well because it’s not all business but born out of voice messages, love of romance and OCD. Real friendship.
Rule Breakers –
I write for you guys.
All day.
Every day.
All of my stories belong to you.
PROLOGUE: GRIMM
CHAPTER 1: GRIMM
CHAPTER 2: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 3: GRIMM
CHAPTER 4: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 5: GRIMM
CHAPTER 6: GRIMM
CHAPTER 7: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 8: GRIMM
CHAPTER 9: GRIMM
CHAPTER 10: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 11: GRIMM
CHAPTER 12: GRIMM
CHAPTER 13: GRIMM
CHAPTER 14: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 15: GRIMM
CHAPTER 16: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 17: GRIMM
CHAPTER 18: GRIMM
CHAPTER 19: BOWEN
CHAPTER 20: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 21: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 22: GRIMM
CHAPTER 23: GRIMM
CHAPTER 24: GRIMM
CHAPTER 25: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 26: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 27: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 28: ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 29: GRIMM
CHAPTER 30: GRIMM
CHAPTER 31: (MONSTER): GRIMM
CHAPTER 32: GRIMM
CHAPTER 33: (BALL): GRIMM
CHAPTER 34: KHAOS
CHAPTER 35: (ASSAULT): ABIGAIL
CHAPTER 36: GRIMM
CHAPTER 37: GRIMM
CHAPTER 38: ABIGAIL
EPILOGUE: ABIGAIL
Dove Cameron - “Remember Me (ft. BIA)”
Jack Harlow - “Hey Big Head”
Chris Brown - “No Guidance (ft. Drake)”
Marshmello & Halsey - “Be Kind”
Kap Slap - “If We Were Alone”
Harry Styles - “Watermelon Sugar”
Lady Gaga - “Rain on Me”
MarMar Oso - “Let Me Love You”
Honors - “Storm”
These children that come at you with
knives – they are your children.
You
them.
I didn’t teach them.
I just tried to help them
- Charles Manson
The seals have been revealed and God’s judgment on the earth is in. The Clave is here to deliver the news.
ABIGAIL
LA wasn’t home… just home for now.
Transplanted here to model, I learned Hollywood isn’t where dreams survive the harsh reality of millions all sharing that same dream.
Executive assistant is who I am now.
Slave.
Hollywood’s darling took a liking to me. One not easily ignored when they give you a taste of the high life.
I was supposed to give up hope and give in to LA’s bad reputation, but I had rules.
Well, just one: Read the rules before you break them.
Unwilling to abandon all my morals, the filter came off my life to see the world I was one foot in was invitation only...
GRIMM
I’m not sure I was ever really Jason.
Whoever he was, was a distant memory now.
Grimm is who I am now.
Death.
I abandoned my birth name, companionship, happiness that wasn’t shaped like Xanax… all because I was expected to be the kind of elite that pulls the strings.
Pull the strings, but follow the rules.
No distractions.
No serious relationships.
Keep what we do secret.
Born into a rite I didn’t ask for, a society of puppeteers.
An invitation I marked ‘not attending’...
GRIMMP
The Servants of Patmos was a sentence to a life I was all too excited to accept at the ripe age of thirteen. As the four pillar families, the only boys, we were obligated to attend The Servants of Patmos in the mountains far away from our comforts.
They wanted you uncomfortable so they could see what you reach for in the middle of the night, in your desperation, in your conquests.
That was the whole point of this boarding school made only for our families: to prepare us for what our lives would be as active members of the oldest society to exist: The Clave.
The Clave pulled all the strings you couldn’t see with your naked eye. The strings were clear and tied to every vital organ of this country:
Lust.
Greed.
Envy.
Sloth.
Wrath.
G
luttony.
Pride.
The Clave wasn’t just a room full of men puppeteering the world from their billion dollar offices, rather they oversaw a bunch of other organizations meant to bring order to the world.
It was all bullshit politics run by four elite families who were stripped of all options. There were no plan b’s, college, or being whatever you wanted to be. You served a great purpose, and that was it.
No one was ever clear on if we were bringing the apocalypse or stopping it from swallowing the world whole.
I didn’t give a shit either way.
I wasn’t afraid of death.
It was the living part that made me uncomfortable as hell. I would watch everyone around me move through life so certain it would all work out.
How did they know that for sure?
Bad shit happens every damn day: babies die, junkies get higher, bad people fuck over good people, murder, rape, the corruption that is America… and we just keep pushing on to the next day with a crooked fucking smile, happy to do it all over again. Living made me uncomfortable. It agonized every bone in my body.
Social awareness was another part of living I would like to avoid. Human interaction was messy at best, and the only way I liked getting my hands dirty was less verbal and more physical.
The eighteen therapists my parents hired all came to the same conclusion: I was suffering from anxiety, PTSD from childhood trauma, and most likely some bipolar in the mix.
Suffice to say I had been on a daily dose of horse pills since I was eight.
None of them stopped me from being the certain death I am today… nothing would. I was sent to Servants of Patmos to shape me to be exactly what I am today: one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
Did that mean God feared me the way he should?
ABIGAIL
Most kids play sports after school or even some kind of extracurriculars, like French Club or Debate Club.
Not me.
I thought the trauma was over when the nightmares finally stopped, but those nightmares were really just a purgatory. When I entered Hell, I knew whatever was coming next was going to try to break what was left of me.
Whatever was left of me to break.
Every day my mom dropped me off at our local church with her eyes focused ahead and her body practically shaking. She knew exactly what was happening inside those doors when our priest got me alone.
Punishment.
It was hard to swallow that my parents thought my inability to lie was working against them.
I had said too much. I was too agreeable and cooperative for their liking. Now I was paying for it.
If the priest couldn’t expel the disloyalty my parents refused to unsee now, then I could consider myself exiled from their love—even though I already felt their love snatched from my still beating heart.
Walking in the same church I attended every Sunday wasn’t hard; it was waiting in the pew for Sister Brenda to come out and show me back to the priest’s office. The 37 steps it took from the pew to his office was where all my anxiety geared up and my body tensed, knowing exactly what I was in for.
The religious way of making you compliant, making you holy enough for his love, was a painful one.
In his office is where all of God’s glory rained down on me like a storm.
His voice was like the choir singing, full but gentle. It was a hard lesson to learn that someone can look so innocent and be so deadly.
“Did you complete your memorizations?”
I could read something a thousand times and not be able to repeat one word back to you. I knew the meaning; I knew the details; but I couldn’t verbatim anything. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear when he asked me to remove my shirt tucked into my Catholic school uniform.
A sudden chill and discomfort rumbled across my body when I stood in just my small cami bra that I had to beg my mother to get me. I hadn’t grown in like the other girls in my grade, yet this was still violating.
I knew to kneel and silently pray for the strength to make it through another session. That’s all I could do: pray.
The lashes of the flagellation whip kissed my skin and left behind a stinging warmth that I couldn’t explain.
If God loved me, then why was he punishing me for being honest?
GRIMM
Anxiety was my own personal stalker.
Black hat. Black bomber. Even complete with sunglasses or a book—anything to blend into the world and make you overlook them.
Sometimes my stalker would get so close I could feel their breath, their presence, their sole desire to capture me whole.
Sometimes I let my stalker win.
Sometimes my stalker would manage to press the cloth of chloroform to my mouth and hold it there long enough that my real world faded out.
My limp senses were being overthrown, and my body was dragged to this alternate reality where I needed to fight for survival, because giving up meant being stuck in those feelings longer.
That’s what was happening right now… on my bedroom floor in the small space between my bed, bedside table, and the wall, where I had thrashed my way to.
My breath was short and violent, trying to do all the stupid tricks all eighteen therapists of my past had ground into me.
Pick three things in the room. Actualize them. Be present here.
Phone.
Shoes.
Trash can.
I made sure my line of sight bounced between all three objects over and over again until I felt like my hands were finally sneaking out of the restraints my stalker had slapped on my wrists.
Anxiety was a bitch.
Trying to talk yourself through why some random person is stalking you is hard enough.
My hands were still shaking and my heart was still pounding against my chest, making it hard to get a good amount of air in or out.
I stood up and picked up the orange bottle on the nightstand: benzodiazepines.
High doses are equivalent to horse tranquilizers, forcing your mind and muscles to relax, even though you’re still vibrating against the leftover fear.
That’s the thing about having a stalker: There’s no rhyme or reason.
It is what it is.
Crawling back into bed, I looked at my phone for the someteenth time: 3:17 a.m.—the time of morning that’s pointless. Too early to be awake and too late to be up.
There was no way I was going back to sleep after that kind of attack. I had two options: Work out downstairs, or call one of the regular girls I fucked. Either one would keep me focused on something else.
I chose the lesser evil: working out. The way I enjoyed sex was ultimately more work than lifting was.
Death wasn't the thing I gravitated towards out of sheer coincidence. I was a fucked up kid who killed bugs just to see what it was like to watch life evaporate at my hands. I was an even more fucked-up teenager, constantly being blamed for anything dark enough to be my fault. As an adult, I was unforgiving of all the people who blamed me, punished me, sent me away knowing death would become mine.
It was more than a chip on my shoulder. More like twelve bottles of pills, therapy for life, and creating a stronger monster.
They took a reckless kid and shaped him into the perfect monster—one willing to read a text with a name and do what they wouldn't: Watch the life evaporate.
I built a gym in my house so I could stay home more and be around people less. The walls being covered in mirrors made it seem less lonely, even if I was the only one ever in there.
Shirtless in my joggers, I stared at myself, trying to see past the monstrous parts.
There was a scar across my eyebrow from when I punched Vic’s dad so hard he retaliated by hitting me with the end of his knife. The blade caught me, but only some hair was the loss, not my ego. I knew I was still bad enough to repeat the decision.
I was covered in tattoos. At this point, it was one big tattoo that covered my whole body.
My hair wa
s typical brown, short on the sides, and cut across my forehead straight when I brushed my hair, on the rare occasion. Normally my hair was pushed back messily and screamed, “I just fucked someone bent over my desk!” even if it wasn't true.
Picking up the weights, I lifted each arm slowly back and forth, feeling my focus come to a head. Stalker or not, I felt my body ease into my meds.
Finally.
“Hey, Siri, remind me to call Doc. Need to up my doses,” I said, without lifting my watch to my mouth, expecting her to just hear me.
She was the only woman who did, and she wasn’t even real. Every other woman took the polite position of running the other direction or welcoming themselves to an orgasm at my expense.
None of me was welcoming, friendly, or shouted I need a friend.
I didn’t, just to be clear.
Mommy issues (protective to a point of creepy), Daddy issues (that’s too much to unpack), and my anxiety… gang was all here—all the friends I needed.
The other four horsemen were my brothers, not actually, but it felt like it when we were all forced to go to a private school in the mountains and learn to become these kinds of monsters. No one else was going to understand that.
The Clave was knit too tightly to have anyone else outside of their ranks. Having anyone outside of our ranks meant the possibility of telling other people who we were, what we did, or why we did it.
I don’t think I could even try to explain “the good work” they thought they were doing to protect society from the bumps in the night. I could tell you exactly who and what though.
Growing up in this world, you learned names and faces to pile onto your own personal revenge killing list, if one day you managed to get out.
Normal people reveled in dreams and cast out the nightmares. All my dreams were made of nightmare shit. I wanted to burn down the building and everyone inside.
I welcomed the nightmares with open arms. The dreams were the ones that gave me cold sweats and pretended I was a good person who deserved traditional happiness.