Branded By The Devil's Cruel Kiss

A blinding flash of lightning tore through the New York sky.

The harsh white light illuminated the cramped, single bed in the Brooklyn apartment for a fraction of a second.

Elie Joyce shot up from the mattress.

She gasped for air, her chest heaving violently as if invisible hands were crushing her lungs. Cold sweat drenched her forehead, pasting her dark hair to her skin.

She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. Her entire body shook. The violent tremors started in her fingertips and radiated all the way to her core. The thunder cracked seconds later, a deafening boom that mirrored the trauma of that stormy night three years ago. The night her life ended.

On the chipped wooden nightstand, her phone vibrated.

The harsh, mechanical buzzing sound cut through the silence of the room. It was a jarring, unnatural noise.

Elie's fingers stiffened. Her breath hitched. She stared at the glowing screen, her hand hovering over it, paralyzed by a heavy, sinking dread in her stomach.

She forced her cold fingers to pick it up.

The text message was from Davin Schmitt. It was short.

Mr. Ewing requires your presence at the Long Island estate. Immediately.

Seeing Ebert's name on the screen made Elie's pupils constrict. Her heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer painfully against her ribs.

She closed her eyes and took a sharp breath in through her nose. She swallowed hard, forcing down the bile and absolute terror rising in her throat.

Elie threw off the thin blanket. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor.

She walked into the tiny, windowless bathroom. She turned the rusted faucet. Freezing tap water poured out. She cupped her hands, collected the icy water, and splashed it directly onto her pale face.

She looked up at the cracked mirror. Her face was entirely devoid of color. Her lips were trembling.

Elie bit down hard on her lower lip. She bit down until the sharp, metallic taste of blood flooded her tongue. The physical pain grounded her.

She turned and walked to her narrow closet. She pulled out a faded grey sweater and a pair of worn-out denim jeans. The fabric felt rough against her cold skin.

She grabbed a black umbrella and her keys from the hook by the door.

Elie pushed open the peeling wooden door of her apartment and stepped into the dimly lit, flickering hallway.

She walked quickly down the narrow stairwell. Her short, heeled boots hit the concrete steps with a dull, heavy thud.

She pushed open the heavy iron door at the bottom of the building. A violent gust of wind, carrying freezing rain, slammed into her face.

She forced the umbrella open and stepped out into the flooded streets of Brooklyn. The rain was torrential. She raised her hand, trying to flag down a cab.

Three yellow taxis flew past her. Their empty lights were on, but they didn't stop. They splashed freezing, filthy puddle water all over her legs. Her jeans were instantly soaked through, clinging heavily to her calves.

A fourth taxi finally screeched to a halt in front of her. Elie collapsed the umbrella and slid into the back seat.

"The Ewing Estate. Long Island," she told the driver. Her voice held a slight, uncontrollable tremor.

The bright, chaotic neon lights of Manhattan blurred past the rain-streaked window. Soon, the city lights faded, replaced by the dark, dense, and oppressive woods of the Long Island wealth enclaves.

The taxi stopped abruptly in front of massive, black wrought-iron gates.

"Private property, lady. I can't go in," the driver said, looking back at her.

Elie handed him the cash. She pushed the door open and stepped back out into the pouring rain, opening her umbrella.

She walked up to the intercom mounted on the stone pillar. She pressed the cold metal button. A heavy, mechanical grinding sound echoed through the storm as the massive gates slowly slid open.

Elie walked onto the long, unlit gravel driveway. The shadows of the ancient trees twisted and stretched in the lightning, looking like monstrous figures waiting to grab her.

Suddenly, a massive figure in a yellow raincoat stepped out from behind a wooden tool shed.

He blocked her path completely.

It was Cletus Pogue, the estate gardener. He held a pair of large, heavy pruning shears in his thick hands. A malicious, mocking smile twisted his face.

Cletus took a heavy step forward, invading her space.

"Look what the rain washed up," Cletus spat, his voice loud over the storm. "You shameless parasite. You monster. You actually have the nerve to show your face here."

Elie's fingers gripped the handle of her umbrella so tightly her knuckles turned stark white.

She did not take a single step back. She kept her spine completely straight.

She slowly raised her head. She looked Cletus dead in the eyes. Her gaze was completely empty. It was a dead, freezing void, devoid of any human emotion.

"Get out of my way," she said. Her voice was flat, carrying no warmth, no fear.

Cletus froze. The absolute deadness in her eyes shocked him for a fraction of a second. His body instinctively shifted to the side.

Elie didn't look at him again. She walked straight past him.

She walked toward the heavy, double oak doors of the main house, where the cold light spilled out from the windows.