Page 121 of Death is Familiar

Mark each face, telling one from the other.

For there can be only one virgin mother.

Sacrifice must be made by those they love most.

Life to create life, for key to become host.

When Three was tired, she favored the part about betting:

From the fruits of their labor, we’ll be in command.

Wardens and Seal, cast demons from this land.

Choose your victor, and drink to good health.

Ring in the new age, to fortune, to wealth!

I almost preferred the Muffin Man nursery rhyme. Almost.

Don’t get me wrong, the songs were useful, at first, when I could put the pieces together about the prophecy, and the implications of my role within it. From what I gathered, I was one of three born on January second, expected to be the key to Solomon’s Seal. Each of our faces were marked, with our respective numbers, to identify us. But only one of us could fill the role, so people began placing bets on which one of us would it would be.

For better or worse, my initial assessment comparing us to cattle had been wrong—we were more like racehorses.

Racehorses who required sacrifice.

Fuck.

I paced my cell, trying and failing to rub away the chafing of my shock collar as I processed the role Lawrence was forced to play. How Mads made Lawrence kill himself. Manipulated him. Drugged him. Made him forget himself. All because he was the person I’d loved most.

Just so there was a chance the rest of the prophecy would come true.

My anger reared its magnificent, ugly, head.

I didn’t care what Solomon’s Seal had planned for me, or the ridiculous notions that my passenger might “cast demons from this land”—whatever that meant. When I got out, I’d tear the Seal apart, brick by brick with my bare hands if I had to, until it all came crumbling down.

†

“Stop it! You’re going to hurt yourself!” As usual, Three gripped the bars between our cages, worry etched in every facet of her face.

It had become somewhat of a routine. Every three meals, or so, I’d attempt to remove my shock collar, and every time Three would overreact.

“Motherfucker!” I shouted as the lightning burned through the back of my neck and traced its route down my arms.

For the record, being shocked sucked, and no, it didn’t get any easier. The pain only became familiar.

Three stomped her foot. “I hate it when you do that, Two! You need to stop it!”

Sucking in one steadying breath after another, I glared from my spot on the mattress. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Another breath. “And, for the thousandth time, my name is Delilah.”

“No, it’s not.”

“A person’s name is not a number.”

“Mine is. And so is yours.” Lovely, she was feeling stubborn today.

“I’m not going to keep arguing about this with you, it doesn’t get us anywhere.”

“You pulling on the shock collar doesn’t get you anywhere, but you still do it.” She had a point, but that wasn’t going to stop me from trying.