Lure

one

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The breaths rattle through her like bullets. She flinches every time a new one hits. It's a new kind of terror, the realization that she truly cannot control the turmoil within her, that she simply has to live through it until it is over. It doesn't matter that she has curled into the tiniest ball in the back of her closet, tightening her muscles until she swears she can feel her flesh ripping. Nothing helps; nothing changes the imminence of her doom, crashing down from up above.

"Please," she whispers, speaking to no one. Her call goes unanswered.

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It is only ten minutes later that Sophie finds herself floating downstairs like a ghost, a renewed version of herself. She wears a harsh plastic exterior, taking each step with a kind of elegance other girls her age would kill to have. Only Sophie can hear the pounding of her heartbeat, like a ticking clock beneath her ribcage.

She makes the rounds through the ground floor of the mansion, which is already swept up in preparations for tonight. White tablecloths lie across each table, golden plates laden with food covering their surfaces. A heavy floral scent permeates the air. Sophie wants to be sick. This is exactly like it always does in the beginnings of her nightmares, before the walls explode with bloodshed.

Still, it is not quite a party yet. Everywhere Sophie looks, there is a tired-looking person hanging lights or bringing in food or dusting the shelves. She knows where these people come from, that they are not being compensated for the work they do. They have wronged the Church; it is now their duty to repay their disbelief with labor. And so they move, with heavy steps, skin graying, faces sallow with regret.

Their exhaustion is dizzying.

One man pauses beside her, and she steps back without consciously meaning to. He is only a bit older than her mother, yet his appearance is decrepit, body crumbling at the seams. On his wrist is the name Marcella Myers, faded to gray. Sophie counts in her head how many years it must be since this man's own eighteenth: definitely enough time for his skin cells to replace themselves once or twice, not that she can be sure.

It's amazing how long those words last.

"Where do you want the cake, Miss?" Though his words themselves are polite, he spits them out, voice gruff and edged with frustration.

Thank God her mother isn't hearing this.

Her eyes flicker to the floor—amazing, how polished it is. Like glass. "No," she says softly. "Sorry."

The man leans closer. "What was that?" His eyes aren't quite so kind. Repeat, they command.

"I don't know," she mumbles, trying to speak loud enough not to be drowned out by the hum of preparation around her. "You'd have to ask my mother. Ask Caterina."

Before the man can reply, someone links an arm through Sophie's from behind. Her heart starts, but when she spins around, she sees that it's only Julie. Julie is already dressed in her powder blue gown, and her straw hair is flattened, face decked with makeup. By her side is Dominic, sharply dressed in a black tuxedo. He winks at her, offering a tiny smile, and her stomach twists.

She remembers Julie's eighteenth quite clearly. She was fourteen years old and spent the night getting drunk for the first time with a few kids from Julie's youth group. For once, no one seemed to care. All eyes were on Julie, and when Dominic's name formed on her wrist, their mother cried. It took all night for the Church workers they obtained to seek out Dominic online, but they did it.