Night made for the perfect cover, the perfect shadow, for Carrie Moore. The Westfield High prom queen was still graced with blood and soot and her ruined pink silk dress dragged along the ground, tearing at rocks and asphalt as she walked home. The blood that echoed on her pale skin had barely dried during the long walk home; the warm air devouring her whole, but tears still slipped down her cheeks, slowly and delicately. Guilt, shame, and grief weighed down on the girl like stone, crushing her. She had done so many terrible things tonight, evil and unspeakable things, but the night wasn't yet over. It wasn't even nearly close to daybreak.
No moon hung in the night sky, no lighthouse to guide her home, expect the shadows that walked side-by-side with the teenage girl wearing glory and chaos like a bride's veil. Or perhaps it was a widow's veil. Carrie knew she was forsaken, truly and surely, and it ached her heart that pulsed at a slow yet surprisingly calm tempo.
"You had a beautiful night," a voice called out into the darkness. It was a voice Carrie knew well, knew almost more than her own voice. It was a voice that belonged to the sweetest of her dreams, and also the wicked ones too with rushing blood, swollen lips and flesh against flesh. The dreams that made her rub her thighs together under her soft sheets, that left an aching need curling in her body that she desperately wanted to satisfy with twitching fingers.
Carrie couldn't stop the scoff that slipped past her lips that were red with blood. "Beautiful is the wrong word, Michael." Terrible. Horrendous. Evil. Monstrous. All those words were more suited to the prom of the century. She turned her glossy eyes towards Michael Langdon, leaning against the chain-link fence. He had been waiting for her all night.
"Nonsense, Carrietta. It was a night made for a goddess," he said, kicking off the fence to join her in the middle of the one-way street that separated their two houses.
Carrie just shook her head, fresh tears welling in her eyes. The death and destruction that she had caused flashed in her mind. Blood and fire, broken bones and gruelling screams. And she saw Ava Gold with eyes blinking awake after death. "A goddess promised to hell maybe," she whispered out, aware of how frightful she must look decorated in blood and ash and doom.
"Do you know the tale of Persephone?" Michael asked as a warm midnight breeze tangled through his golden hair. Even wrapped up in shadows he looked like an angel. It had been Ben Harmon who had taught Michael about Greek mythology, and of course, the tale of Persophone and Hades had stuck with the young boy with a mind for darkness and passion so haunting it was beautiful and tragic.
Carrie nodded glumly, trying to clean away the tears and the blood that dirtied her skin. "She was a maiden that was stolen by Hades and forced to become the queen of the underworld, of hell."
Michael shook his head. "Stolen? No, she went willingly. With each pomegranate seed, she grew hungrier, till she was starving for something this world could never give her, for something not even her godly mother or father could give her." Michael moved into Carrie's personal space, quick and lethal and his hellish heart reached for her as his eyes glittered with a wickedness of the purest nature—a true nature that belonged to a lion or a wolf. "She wanted blood and ash, wanted glory and chaos. She wanted darkness, wanted a prince of darkness that would fill her whole with everything she had ever desired." Michael's words were measured and heavy and completely knowing. His eyes captured Carrie and her heart leapt inside her ribcage. He lifted one hand, brushing it against her bloodied cheek tenderly, not seeing how horrible she looked covered in pig's blood and grey ash, but seeing how beautiful she looked, how divine she looked and not just on the outside but the inside too. For he saw her as a powerful maiden in Puritan attire with a heavy and layered black dress with a delicate white collar and cuffs. He saw her as a rageful teenage girl in a bloodied pink silk dress standing on a battlefield of her own doing. And he saw her as a goddess with womanly curves in shades of purple and Victorian lace with candlelight flickering against the shadows of the earth in a bunker with stale air. "So, she asked for it all with steel and ice. She asked for her dark prince and bled for him too." Michael's hand dropped to her side and lifted her hand carefully, his fingering tracing soft patterns into her skin. "And with her blood staining an altar, her dark prince kneeled before her, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her skin, crowning her forevermore as the queen of the underworld, his queen." Carrie shivered at the story, her heart pounding like a drum.
"Michael," she sighed out and it sounded like a holy prayer. His incredible heat seeped into her skin, soaked into her blood cells and she forgot about the fact that she was now a serial killer prom queen with growing power she didn't fully understand and a thing for blood. For nothing else mattered. Nothing but Michael Langdon and his stormy eyes that glistered with darkness and lust and sadness and anger and power that all matched Carrie Moore down to a simple speck. "I want..."
"I know," he finished her thought. And it was true, he knew what she wanted, knew from the second he had seen her that golden afternoon weeks ago. He knew what harboured in her heart, what dwelled in her blood and knew what truly wanted to claw its way out from her soul, what wanted to wake up from an ancient slumber. And Michael wanted it too, wanted Carrietta Tabitha Moore, and dangerously needed her.
Without thinking and only feeling, Carrie stepped forward on her heels, pressing her bloodied lips to Michael's. With their last kiss, the world had slowed down in perfect bliss, but this time the dark world around them sped up in frantic passion. Michael wasted no time with snaking his around Carrie's body, pulling her flush against his body. While both teenagers didn't really know what they were doing, they acted on a deep instinct that knew what to do, knew what felt good and right.
Carrie parted her lips, allowing Michael entrance and his tongue danced against hers, and the taste of blood ignited both of them, urged them into a delirious frenzy. Carrie bit down onto Michael's bottom lip and she was rewarded with a primal moan as his arms tightened around her, his fingers pressing into her skin. She carded her fingers through his golden locks, pulling a little at the stands as Michael explored her mouth, pushing his knee between her thighs, which gave her something grind against. Heat pooled in her stomach and a primal need curled in her stomach, wanting more and wanting a sweet release. She never wanted to part from Michael and his wonderful heat that could burn her skin at any moment, but it would be worth it. She believed Michael Langdon would always be worth it, no matter the cost or the risk.
None of them wanted to break the kiss, but Carrie's lungs needed the air. Her lips were swollen and tingling with sensation and her body was screaming for more, screaming for Michael. But he knew this night wasn't over for Carrie, not yet, and he was just a distraction to the girl who needed to do one more thing tonight that marked her second birth, marked the beginning of her dark crowning. He drew his body away from hers and instantly felt cold without her and already missed the taste of her. He licked his lips free of blood as his eyes flickered to the Moore house; a window blinked with light. "Your mother is waiting up for you."
Carrie brushed her fingers over her hot flesh as her heart continued to pulse for Michael and everything he could offer her, but she felt a little deflated that he had ended the kiss. She sighed and this one didn't sound like a prayer. She glanced back at her house and the window shining with light. "I should go," she said before turning back to Michael. "Can I see you tomorrow?"
Michael knew he would be seeing Carrie Moore much sooner than that, but he nodded. "Of course, Carrietta." He smiled, bright eyes shadowed with knowledge. If his Dark Lord was correct, he would see the young witch before the sun rose over the city of angels.
—
The house was quiet and shadowed. Carrie's heels echoed out as she tapped her way down the hallway. The house felt still but static, like the air before a storm hit. And as Carrie rounded the corner into the lounge room, she was faced with the reality of her terrible yet beautiful night. Can something be both terrible yet beautiful, she wondered. And the answer was leaning against a chain-link fence, waiting again for the inevitable.
"Mama?" Carrie called out into the silent house.
Margaret Moore was standing in the middle of the lounge room, her arms behind her back. She looked stoic but still lovely in a floral sundress and cream kitten heels, a string of pearls around her throat instead of her golden cross. Carrie hadn't seen those glossy pearls in years. They'd been a gift from Ralph Moore years and years ago and Margaret hardly wore them and left them to collect dust in an old shoebox. In reality, Margaret only wore the pearls when she wanted to remember Ralph, when she wanted to remember how much she hated him now. That hatred spurred her on, she needed the strength of hate right now.
"What have you done, girl?" Margaret asked, her voice wasn't curious but flat.
Carrie broke under her mother's strong gaze that tore through her with knives. Michael Langdon could make her forgot the events of prom, but Magaret brought them all back with mighty judgment. Carrie was positive the Lord would strike her down for her sins that literally marked her skin. "I—I'm sorry, Mama. I couldn't help it!" Her voice was throaty and heavy with a new wave of tears that threatened to wash away the blood stuck on her cheeks.
"I know, dear child," Margaret shared, crossing the lounge room suddenly. There was empathy in her voice, right beside the sadness. And then Margaret did the unthinkable—she embraced her daughter in a hug. "Sinners can't help but sin." Margaret's body warmth couldn't compare to Michael's but Carrie surrendered to it, sobbing into her mother's arms, not even seeing the gleaming steak knife gripped in Margaret's hand.
"Do you think I can be forgiven?" the teenage girl cried, seeking comfort from the mother who had always been so cold to her before.
"No." The words hit Carrie like a bullet, but that wasn't the worst of it. Margaret arced the knife and brought it down across Carrie's back. The metal sliced into her skin, conjuring up blood. Carrie skidded back in shock and pain that echoed throughout her body. The pain was sharp, cutting deep and Carrie stumbled on her heels. Tears leaked down her cheeks involuntarily as she looked to her mother with a million questions.
"Mama...?" she pleaded. Margaret launched herself at her daughter, knocking them both over onto the floor of the lounge room. A scream ripped past Carrie's lips and fear tangled around her bones. She couldn't understand why her mother would do this; try to kill her.
Margaret's grip on the steak knife tightened as she aimed it at her daughter's throat. Carrie struggled against her mother's weight but Margaret pinned her down firmly and rather easily. The edge of the knife bit into the thin flesh at Carrie's throat.
"The Devil keeps coming back, and we have to keep killing him!" Margaret hissed, holding the knife steady despite it being sleek with blood, her daughter's blood.
"Please, Mama!" Carrie begged, eyes awash in tears. "Please, you don't have to do this!"
"Yes, I do. This is God's plan," she announced with such conviction that it hurt more than the knife sinking into Carrie's throat.
And while it might have been God's plan, it wasn't the Devil's plan. And while this battle may have been bigger than a mother and a child, it was fought between them now and both were inclined to fight back tonight. Carrie's blood soaked into the carpet and the knife was finding it's way deeper and deeper into Carrie's neck, and she truly felt fear licking at her soul.
But Carrietta Tabitha Moore was a survivor, she had always been a survivor, even when it didn't appear so. Carrie focused her eyes on the knife, and her blood boiled with rageful power, and it slowly parted from her throat, all to Margaret's surprise. The woman fought against the knife, trying to push it back down, trying to slice her daughter's throat open, but she was failing. The knife swung backwards, gliding through the air before sinking into Margaret's chest rapidly, right through her cold, beating heart.
A horrid gasp escaped Carrie's open mouth as Margaret tumbled backwards on her knees, the steak knife sticking out of her chest. Blood sunk into the material of her floral sundress and the woman gurgled blood that filled her mouth, leaking down the sides of her face like tiny red rivers.
"MAMA!" Carrie shrieked, scattering to her mother's limp side. Sobs fell and fell, drowning the household with pain and sorrow. But the walls remained silent, watching as death found the shadows. "NO! PLEASE!" She pleaded with a voice that was cracked and broken. An ocean of tears did wash away the blood staining Carrie's cheeks as the girl tried to bring her mother back from the shadowed valley with a kiss to the forehead, just like she had done with Ava Gold. But nothing. No life transferred from Carrie to her dead mother. Not this time. Carrie leaned over her mother's body, hands kneading at the sundress and the flesh that was already beginning to cool.
And her heart exploded, power ripping from her soul and out into the world. The walls shuddered and the neatly stacked bricks and smooth timber splintered. The glass in the windows shattered, scarring the warm air with shards. The tiles in the kitchen popped up and the roof bowed inwards as gravity vanished. The Moore household was collapsing in of itself as power rippled out from the teenage prom queen that had lost so much tonight and ruined even more.
She had murdered her mother and most of her school and the tears wouldn't stop flowing and the power wouldn't stop growing, expanding. The wires teeming with electricity in the walls snapped, sending out sparks that caught the curtains, sending them alight. Dust and debris fell, clouding the air that smelled of heat and blood. Carrie was destroying the house in her anguish, and it was all just blowback from the power that she harboured in the darkest parts of her soul. She knew the house would crush her and leave her whole life in ruin, but Carrie knew she deserved that. God was coming to punish her for her sins and crimes and she was ready to take it all along with hellfire. Maybe she would finally find peace in death.
Carrie's tears mixed with her mother's blood, her head laying on her mother's stomach, like she was trying to find comfort with a corpse. And her power was finally subsiding; a wave rushing back out to sea, back to home. Yet the house was still going to crumble like a house of cards. Nothing would be left and maybe that would be a good thing. Her bones were tired, her soul was tired and her eyes didn't want to stay open. Blackness dotted her vision as unconsciousness called for her with sweet promises. The teenage girl just barely managed to lift her head off her mother's stomach to spot a dark stranger strolling through the cloud of dust and ash, moving with confidence and grace.
The world went black as Michael Langdon lifted Carrie Moore into his arms and carried her out of the collapsing house, his goddess safe and sleeping in his arms. This night that was written in the stars with tainted blood was at an end, but hell wasn't yet on earth.