The Beginning of Everything by Kristen Ashley Page 0,1

when the first blade slid into her left side at her waist.

And then out, the blood swelling from the wound, rippling toward the earth.

Another, slighter whimper when the other blade slid into her right side.

And out.

The next slid precisely, nicking her heart, causing an actual gasp.

And then out.

And the next, her womb with an upward slice, and at that point, no sound at all.

The dagger was pulled out.

That was when the priest moved in his white robes toward her, his fingers wrapping lovingly around his own dagger at his gilded belt.

There was naught left of her to even turn her head and look at him, even if she still breathed. She did nothing but stare at the starry sky through the leafy trees. The pumps of blood surging from her chest slowing as that organ lost its strength were her body’s indication of its desperate desire to stay bound in this realm, even if, perhaps, she did not share this wish.

She would find peace.

He did not know that for certain, but at this point, did it really matter?

He crouched close to her glossy brown hair that was now filled with dirt and mud and twigs and leaves, tangled, even ratted in places, due to her struggles that night.

She had been a spirited one.

The Beast liked those best.

“I’m sorry, my dear. We must feed the Beast,” he murmured before he skated his blade across her windpipe, opening flesh and creating a surge of blood.

A gurgle from her lips.

Then two.

After that, the priest watched the light blink out of her lovely blue eyes.

He rose, stepped back, and commanded, “Untether her and turn her in order she drain direct.”

The four men moved as ordered.

The priest stood separate, watching, waiting.

And when it came, it was more than satisfactory.

Much more.

The rumble, the growl, the roll of the earth under their feet so powerful, it almost took him off his own.

It had not been thus a fortnight before.

Most definitely not the fortnight before that.

Decades ago, when he assumed his role as the overseer of the ritual, there was barely a rumble, and no growl.

But now, it grew strong.

And hungry.

“My lord,” one of the men called, eyes wide and on the priest.

“Not long now,” the priest announced.

“Then every week,” another of the men declared. “Centuries of the ritual. The sacrifices. So close. I can feel his strength. His hunger. Every week we shall join at this sacred place and—”

“No,” the priest denied. “Every month.”

“Month?” another man asked with incredulity. “It’s been every fortnight for two and a half centuries.”

“You’ll anger the Beast,” the impatient collaborator snapped.

“He must understand who his master is,” the priest reminded them.

“Who his masters are,” the man corrected him, and the priest narrowed his eyes.

When the Beast was his, that one would go first.

“Of course,” the priest murmured.

“Every month seems—”

“We feed it. We nurture it. We give it what it needs. We make it grow strong. It will be we who liberate it. He must learn patience. He must learn gratitude. He must learn,” he leaned toward the men, “servitude.”

The priest leaned back and moved his gaze through the four men, assessing each one.

He did linger on his favorite though, as was his wont, for there was much to linger on.

They had been chosen carefully. They had been trained accordingly. They, and those who had come before them, had lived, plotted, schemed, raped and murdered for one goal.

The goal they’d achieve while these men’s feet walked the earth.

While his feet walked the earth.

And what he saw then was that these men knew it.

The priest would have patience. They would give it to him.

For if they did, they would all be kings.

(Save one, but he’d always been bothersome.)

“We have known, as our brothers before us, and those before them, and backwards for over two hundred years what we wish,” the priest stated. “The lore is not lore. The Beast abides in the under-realm. Banished there after his last rising. He will rise again. He will be ours.” He paused for effect, something he felt he was quite good at, before declaring grandly, “And then Triton will be ours.”

There came a low “Huzzah” from his conspirators, but then again, a loud roar would not be the thing. They were deep in the forest. There was no one close.

But it wouldn’t do for their sacred site that had stayed secret for over two hundred years to be discovered at this late date.

Obviously most especially after a ritual.

“She is surely drained,” the priest noted. “Take her. Tonight,