Bloody Throne
Some people say they can smell the weather, some say they can feel it in their bones.
When it came to Logan Ausgustine, it was both. She’d rattle your bones as the mineral scent of blood filled the air. A tornado on the horizon, bruising the sky yellow before swallowing it whole, jaw unhinged and wide open (in a laugh or a roar, one can never be too sure), until there was nothing but disaster and ruin. One could feel when she entered a room, how the air changed, becoming so cold it stitched your lips with threads of ice, biting down should you dare to part them. And there Lola would be, ready to lick the droplets from trembling lips, offering nothing but damnation — because mercy had never been a word she believed in. It was a fable, a mythical magic in one of the fairytales her mother never read her. So she was left to make up her own; stories of dark knights wielding bloodied swords like a trophy for their queen — for her. A conquerer. A champion. A G O D. That’s what she sees herself as, how she’s always seen herself, whiskey colored eyes carrying storms of legends and the spark of every last breath she crushed between iron fists.
She was named Logan by her father, Philip Augustine, who wished for a boy, an heir to his name who could embody his old-fashioned ideas of masculinity and power. She got the nickname Lola from her mother, Angelique, who hated the virility of her born name, though never had the will to argue against her husband. She dreamed of a child with poise, grace, and most of all beauty, because that was where a woman kept their rule. Logan was taught all these things; the strength that came from locking your emotions in your chest, only opening it wide enough to unleash the flames of fury and how to brush on make-up like war paint, to disguise oneself as prey when in truth they were the predator. She learned of how easily money could buy the will of another and mask any crime — how it lifted one above the pathetic masses, a savior and a destroyer. Logan had no interest in the former. She didn’t want to save anyone. She wanted to see them quiver at the sight of her, to be nothing but cracked bones in her wake; a waning heartbeat the only lullaby that could put her at peace, however short-lived.
As a child she was mostly ignored, her mother preferring to use her time spending money and not nurturing the daughter who watched her from the corner of her bedroom, remembering every stroke of the brush that turned her from aging woman to an elegant heiress. Royalty deserving of their name. Because that’s what they were: royalty — made not by name but by sheer resolve and passion. They had a history that reached back centuries, a family who stole their manor from those with bluer blood, warriors who took what they wanted and bathed in their triumph (an afterward. At least, those were the stories Logan told herself about a family whose history she heard so little about and with a diamond for a heart that assured her she was nothing short of greatness. They didn’t need a son or a daughter; they had both, a perfect concoction of all they’d dreamed of: a girl so beautiful she could mesmerize and the soul of a boy hungry for what he deserved, for dominance, and with teeth sharp enough to take it.
Her capabilities were something she found very early on and she didn’t hesitate in executing. She could watch horrific images for hours — films where hunters captured the weak and tore out their insides like a wild animal — and feel nothing but an emptiness in her gut, a need to dip her hands inside the torso of a dead man and see what he was really made of. Her first act was when she was merely five years old and her nanny had refused to give her that second helping of ice cream. Their cook had already ruined dinner and now she was being denied the one thing that could make it all better. The threat wasn’t a warning, it was a test, to see if the woman would give in to the tiniest of pushes and when she didn’t, when she told her father that Logan had thrown a fit, when Logan was sent to her room with nothing at all, she knew what had to be done. And so later that night she waited for the woman to make her rounds before pushing her down the spiral staircase, looking her straight in the eyes before slamming her palms against her chest and watching with absolute fascination as her skull bounced off glistening white marble, how halfway down a crack echoed through the hall, and how splatters of crimson stained the stone as if it were a canvas. Hers.
A work of art.
Ever since that day, Lola has looked every single one of her victims in the eye at their death and reveled in the way the light extinguished; an entire universe being absorbed by the abyss. For all the drugs she’s imbibed in, nothing ever gives her a high like that moment. Their realization. Her victory.
Her thirst only grew with age as did her skill, venom honing her tongue and making it all the more wicked. High school came and with age New York opened itself up, a giant playground with so many toys for the taking. She brandished her sexuality like a weapon (because that’s all it was good for back then), sun-kissed legs bare and taunting, leading gazes to the young woman behind them, smoking a cigarette you’d wish you could be if only to be taken between those lips. They whispered of her dangers without moving at all and yet they dared to taste — cold and metallic and nothing you dreamed of, parting as if they would finally take you in, only to laugh at your demise before licking the blood from her cracked and bruised knuckles. Subtlety never came easily to her, and soon it didn’t exist at all. She spat poison at anyone in her path, sharpened talons hooking into soft flesh the only warning before her fists became silver decorated battering rams, merciless and amaranthine, until she heard the anticipated crack buried under gurgling sobs. Expulsion and jail time didn’t exist when her father could just reach in with his golden touch, expunging all her ghastly crimes. Lola Augustine was untouchable.
And when they couldn’t be swayed, as it happened after a few years of her savage behavior, they moved on and sent her to the preparatory school where she would meet her mates. Beings whose blood was made of the same metal, who stretched their hands toward the sky to mold the stars to their liking. Makers of their own paradise. This was a new city, a new territory to overthrow, and now she had an army.
How could grades be important when the world was so open to her — a giant tray with every dessert she could imagine and then some. She strode in that first day as if they’d been waiting for her, brass studded leather vest, every finger dressed with a ring (the better to hit you with, my dear), and black stockings that would be used later in the year to choke a girl in the last stall of their bathroom. She should’ve kept her mouth shut about Lola’s shoes. She let her live, if only because a flock of girls came barging in, reminding Logan that she was in public. And when the headmaster was sure Logan had something to do with it, even when he didn’t have any proof, she knew something had to be done.
This was the first kill the eight would do together.
– — — First two if they were being technical.
Logan had rented an apartment in the city for the sole purpose of exercising her right to freedom, as she called it; complete and total immunity against all consequence. Her territory — her dreamscape. A land where her will was carried out without question or obstacles. Her calling.
He was tied up opposite his wife, Logan standing between them with a smile so wide it practically split her face in half. Never before did she have playmates — those who understood the game and were more than willing to participate. Debauchery was always so much more fun when you had company; when you had the opportunity to win.
The game was simple, the group split in two, one for each victim. They went around cutting into the bodies, one at a time, each one having to be longer and deeper than the last, and the person who delivered the dying slice was the one who had to clean up afterward. Lola, having never been all that good at controlling her impulses, sliced the headmaster’s wife’s throat open on the first round. Her veins buzzed with the need to hear him cry out, wails choked by tears and blood he was forced to endure an agonizing death, all while looking in the eyes of the woman he’d loved and failed. She relished in watching, nails painted red with the life of another, the filter of her cigarette stained with the very same. She wore it as lipstick, as thick lines under her eyes; an idol on her throne, a taker of all.
– — — And woe unto any who would try and steal it from her.
