Page 45 of Autumn Ritual

I shivered in anticipation of my book coming to life. This was a thousand times better than typing the words on the screen.

“‘I had to see for myself,’” I murmured, voice losing its strength as I imagined the altar with the sacrifice dripping next to the fire. That detail was thankfully missing from tonight’s roleplay.

Yeah, because I don’t know what we would do with a dead goat.

But it wasn’t like my monster to forget such a prominent part of the scene. I leaned to the side, trying to see around the tented logs. A breath caught in my throat. There was an altar. Instead of a dead animal gifted to the god of war, a pumpkin was cloven in two. But it was the honest-to-goodness sword lodged in the orange flesh that stole the air from my lungs.

He’d gotten the essence of the scene right!

Everything to play out this fantasy.

I was so happy, a tear leaked from the corner of my eye. I swiped it away, reminding myself that the heroine wasn’t a crier. She was strong and fierce, a warrior training to be one of the elite. I doubted I could wield that sword, let alone fight with it for hours on end in an epic battle.

Semantics. Pull yourself together, Raven!

Struggling to my feet, I crept across the grass to the altar and channeled my character’s energy. Raven’s white gown hadn’t been this short, and it certainly hadn’t been this see-through. But I was the author, and I was taking creative liberties with the scene research.

“‘What is this place?’” I quoted my girl.

“‘It’s sacred to the old gods,’” the voice explained from the darkness. “‘You’re trespassing.’”

“‘I’m a soldier of the crown. I belong here, same as you!’” I retorted hotly.

Shirtless, with runes painted over his body, the monster unfolded from the night. The fiendish mask from the harvest ball covered his face. The sight made me gasp. This felt real, not just some play-acting game.

“‘You want to shed your blood for the Baelith?’” the devil ground out.

I held up my wrist. “‘Let my blood seal the oath.’”

From a sheath on his belt, he pulled out that wicked eight-inch blade. The same one he’d used at Oktoberfest. The devil approached slowly, stopping a foot away from me. “‘You can never escape the blood bindings, little death.’”

Cut me, was all that I could think.

But this wasn’t an oath to the fake deity I’d created. This was me swearing myself to the living force of darkness towering beside me.

“‘Swear your oath.’”

I broke character. Stretching my arm to the blade, I whispered, “I’m yours.”

The monster growled.

I didn’t flinch as the blade descended. Instead of slicing my wrist, which fictionally would have healed due to the forbidden magic, the tip pierced the flesh under my palm. There was the smallest of stings before a bead of blood wept from the wound.

Without hesitation, he gouged his own palm. “And I am yours.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. Emotion flooded through me. This had ceased to be a dark rite and was fast turning into a mating ritual. Our hands clasped together a moment later.

“‘Baelith requires his sacrifices to bleed on the altar,’” the devil rasped, trying hard to stick to the script.

Instead of smearing the blood over the altar, I twisted and jumped to sit on it. The slain pumpkin was shoved to the edge. It was a slab of wood, not stone, but it served. “I’ll be your sacrifice.”

A strained groan left his lips. He stepped between my legs, and I parted them, eager to rewrite this part to fit our story.

The knife glinted in the moonlight as it flashed toward me. I forced my body to become stone. The lace nighty ripped in two. It fell from my shoulders, pooling over my legs.

The monster towered over me. That garish mask menaced, and the knife flashed between us.

But the devil would never hurt his angel.