by Lana Sky
He is a cold, dark shell of a man. Humanity is a mask he wears to keep the mere mortals around him from panicking at the sight of the evil smoldering within his skin. His eyes are predators hunting beneath a jungle of dark hair. His mouth is a cage—he rarely says anything he doesn’t mean. An unusual display of restraint and of freedom. So many people are forced to parrot whatever lies they pretend to believe in order to earn money or stay alive. His brutal honesty is as rare as it is dangerous.
I belong to no one.
“I’m here,” I say, rising to my feet when his eyes begin to stalk the corners, his body tensing. I raise my hands, revealing that I don’t have the knife. It’s still on the floor, and he makes sure by spotting it there, beside the wall. Then he rips open the bag and places his offering on the counter between us.
I blink, my nose twitching to register the exotic, spicy scent of gaeng daeng and shrimp pad thai. I don’t let myself register the fact that he obeyed my request. I snatch up a plastic set of silverware instead. Verbal thank-yous are for humans, so I show my gratitude by stabbing at a piece of food and choking it down.
It’s good. I’m leaning over the counter before I can help it, shoveling more into my mouth. Hot, spicy, fragrant, messy. Sauce and loose noodles coat my chin, but I don’t bother to wipe them away. Vinny wouldn’t approve, and every bite tastes even sweeter knowing that.
Lucifer watches me, however. I know it’s rude that I don’t stop to offer him any, but I can’t seem to regain control of my body until the last greasy morsel goes down my throat and all traces of it have been licked from my fingers.
The dangerous silence that falls between us doesn’t require anything to fill it. It’s almost better if we maintain the lethal tension that determines the boundary of captor and captive. I have every intention of playing my role—I do. Until I look up. Questions cloud the devil’s gaze before he can hide them. They distort the blue of his eyes. He almost looks human.
“We lived near a Thai restaurant when I was growing up,” I say, allowing my plastic fork to fall on the countertop. “My parents got food from there at least once a week. My father said that it reminded him of the food back home, but I think he was joking.” My throat aches. Talking about the past hurts worse than reliving my hell with Vinny. Some wounds are too deep to risk prodding. I’m bleeding out words, and I just can’t stop.
“We came from São Paulo when I was eight. My mother got a job at a factory, and my father worked construction and cleaned for a contractor at night. I went to school in the city, but I knew very little English, and the kids liked to tease the strange Brazilian girl.” I laugh at the memory, though the treatment had stung at the time. Back then, the world of Daniela Manzano had only consisted of two dolls with cornflower hair—Maria and Isabelli—a small apartment in the slums of downtown, her Mãe Ana, her Pai Daniel, and a younger Irmão Christoph. She had liked the color blue and loved reading books from her father’s lap, hearing him translate the words in his native Português. The world had been smaller, then. Simpler. Happier.
“I didn’t have a lot of friends,” I admit, compelled to keep telling my sordid tale, even though he doesn’t want to hear it; he stoically eyes the wall behind my head. “Then one day...I met a boy. His family members were immigrants too. He was older than me, but his English was better. I think he took pity on me, at first... He would walk me home. Help me with my pronunciation. We’d play games in the street until my father had to come and drag me inside...”
Lucifer listens in silence. I don’t know if he’s already guessed the identity of the new character introduced in the story when I finally reveal it. “His name was Vincent. His family had come over from Italy, but he didn’t like to talk about it. America was his home now. He liked green. He liked to read. He loved classical music.” It’s a simple list that I used to repeat to myself before my soul became numb to his violence. Back when I’d wanted to believe that boy was still there, lurking somewhere within the monster’s skin. “When he was fourteen, his mother was murdered buying groceries. A man working for some local gang had tried to rob the place. He used her as a hostage and killed her when things got out of hand. I think...I think all the good in him died that day.” I wrinkle my nose at the memory, trying to pinpoint the exact moment the boy—my dearest friend—became a stranger. “He tracked down the gangsters on some stupid plan for revenge, and they broke his legs in five places with baseball bats. He still has a limp,” I add, my voice falling flat. “After that, a man by the name of Antoni Capella found him in the streets and took him under his wing. He was from Italy too and had mob connections in the city.” To hear Vinny tell it, the man was a god, a more admirable father than the one he left behind grieving with a bottle of whiskey in the ghetto. “After that...”
I trail off. There is a whole new chapter of the story to tell, but I’m too exhausted to turn the page. I stare down at the empty food containers instead. I suffer Lucifer’s careful, silent scrutiny and I pretend not to notice—but it’s a much harder game to play now than before. Too many smells taint the air between us. Too many stains. Too many secrets. Too many lies.
“What about you?” I glance up at him through a wayward fringe of my hair that does little to block out the ice in his gaze. I don’t specify just what I’m prodding to learn—I’d take anything.
Or maybe I knew all along that the question would send him turning on his heel and marching down the hall, leaving me alone and in silence once again...
Lucifer storms out of the apartment again a little after dawn. I don’t lift my head from the floor to see for myself. His anger paints a blazing trail detectable through scent alone—and the sound of the door slamming shut provides another clue of his departure.
I pretend his leaving doesn’t worry me. I pretend that my first, instinctive urge isn’t to creep over to the door in order to make sure it’s locked. I pretend that even if he does turn me over to the other men, it wouldn’t matter.
I pretend, and I pretend until my sore muscles have gone numb and another sound jolts me awake again. The noise—a careful tapping—comes from the door, but I doubt Lucifer is the culprit this time, cautiously demanding entry. After four more quiet knocks the sound stops and I almost believe that whoever the unwelcomed visitor is has changed his mind and gone away.
“I know you’re in there.”
I tense at the sound of a man’s voice, but...it’s not quite as guttural as it should be. He sounds a few pitches higher than Lucifer, and his tone lacks the murderous lust of the red-haired man or one of his men. Confused, my eyes flicker over to the knife resting only a few feet away from my outstretched toes. Lucifer’s arrogance is an interesting puzzle I’m not sure I’d ever want to solve. Instead, I take advantage of the fact by easing myself upright and crawling for the blade. I move slowly, striving to make my every motion silent against the uneven flooring, but the moment my fingers brush the knife’s handle, the “visitor” knocks again.
“He’s gone,” they say, their voice low and deceptively neutral. “Open up. Unless...he has you tied up. In which case I should call the police.”
I swallow hard and drag my thumb over the edge of the blade. It’s dull, unwilling to cut even the pad of my thumb, but I press down and force it through the skin. The pain is white-hot, waking up my sleepy nerve endings and electrifying them with fear.
“I have a cell phone,” the man warns. “If you don’t answer, I’ll just have to assume that he has you incapacitated.”
Lucifer? My fingers shake, and I dig my nails into the palm of my free hand to counter the reaction. Whoever this man is, he apparently isn’t in on the intentions of the red-haired man. He’s hostile to Lucifer. Opening the door would only incite my devil’s wrath, but if this man really does call the police...Vinny would know. He would find me, and my charming fiancé would love to put on a caring show for the police officers before taking me up to that damn hotel suite and killing me slowly.
I could always take myself out of
the equation; I realize while my blood continues to speckle the surface of the blade at my fingertips. How easy would it be to hack my wrists open and bleed out before anyone could ever reach me? I consider it...
But Lucifer’s infected me. It’s no longer just enough to imagine Vinny’s reaction to my little tape. It’s not enough to estimate the extent of his rage. I want to see it. I want to feel the heat of the fire I’ve set before I die.
“That’s it. I’m calling them—”
“I’m f-fine.” I struggle to inject calm into my voice, but my sore jaw disrupts my attempts. I sound garbled. I sound tired. I sound...under duress. “I’m fine,” I repeat, making my voice louder as if volume alone can counter everything else. I stand, leaving the knife behind, though I’m not sure why.
Fear demands attention, commanding my body into action. I should be cautious. I should carefully heed the threat of Lucifer. I...that voice shouldn’t sound so familiar.
“Oh really?” the man counters. He copies my tone, losing the cautious murmur. “Then open the door. Let me see that for myself.”
I shake my head, well aware that he can’t see the reaction. “No. I’m fine—”
“I’m not asking out of concern for you,” he says bluntly. “I need...I need to see that he hasn’t—I need to see for myself.”
Once again, I suspect that he’s referring to Lucifer. I need to see that he hasn’t...
Kidnapped a woman and held her hostage? If he’s looking to be reassured by my appearance, he’ll be sorely disappointed. My back feels sticky. I’m still wearing Lucifer’s stolen, bloodied, filthy shirt, and I felt no desire to shower or change when he left. I’m a false martyr relishing in the ashes of her destruction, but I tug on the hem and contemplate how much worse it might seem if I open the door wearing nothing at all.
“I’m waiting.” The voice holds a flicker of impatience along with a dare: he’ll call the police.
My hand reaches out, my fingertips brushing the doorknob. A million reasons to let Lucifer’s house of cards come crashing down race through my mind, each one jostling for supremacy. In the end, I force myself to undo the lock for only one reason alone—self-preservation. Any humiliation is better than being hand-delivered to Vinny in a squad car, already wearing handcuffs.
At least with the lack of a strong accent, I know this man doesn’t work for him.
“I’m fine,” I insist while I pull the door open merely a fraction of an inch. I peer through the crack, and if I’d hoped that my words alone would counter the effect of my appearance—namely the bruises on my face—I’m sorely disappointed.
The blue eyes watching me from the other side widen, but not entirely with shock, I realize. Before I can react, a hand smudged with dirt slips through the crack in the doorway and bats the door open wider. I’m forced to step back while a taller man—almost as tall as Lucifer—forces his way inside. His blue eyes are too familiar. Lucifer himself, after all? No...
He blinks, his gaze darkening with recognition at the same time I realize just who he is, and I feel the world start to crumble from underneath me. “P-Pyro Girl?”
“I want in.”
Arno glances up as I circle around him and take up a stool at his side. He’s nursing two different bottles of liquor today. Does the bastard live at this counter?
It’s only when I meet his once again bloodshot eyes that I realize that—at least for the past few nights—he probably has. Wherever he does stay, he most likely shared it with Parish.
“So, the Kitty wants to jump back into the litter box.” He pours a shot of something clear that smells like varnish and nudges it over to me. “I was wondering when you’d run with the wolves again. Frankly, shit’s been boring without you—”
“Give me a job,” I insist, rather than reminisce. “Anything. I’ll do it.”
Preferably something nasty. Something violent. Something to get me away from her.
“Eager to sharpen your claws?” Arno eyes my hands with a smirk. I bawl both into fists and don’t answer. I’m not in the mood for games. “All right, all right,” Arno sighs. He takes the glass in front of me and downs it himself. Then he sips from the second bottle and winces. “There is a small...irritation you could handle for me. There’s this bastard on South who runs a cushy little operation smuggling weed out of a bookstore. ‘Special order’ books on exotic plant life, you see.” He chuckles, but when the sound dies off, his eyes are a little clearer. His hands grip his next drink a little steadier. Nothing sobers him up like plotting the pitfall of another rival. “It’s a low-level piece of shit operation, but I want you to make a point, more or less. The man who runs it used to work for me, but lately, his judgment’s been off, and he seems to believe that he takes his orders from Stacatto now. I want you to jog his memory—but you don’t work for me, Dante. When you bring that asshole into line...make him answer to you.”
I raise an eyebrow and consider taking one of his bottles of liquor for myself. “Why?”
Arno flashes a lethal smile and brings a newly filled shot glass to his lips. “Because when that fucker Stacatto is nothing more than a memory, I’ll need a true ally to help me take back this shithole of a city.” He downs the shot and slams the empty glass onto the bar. His eyes seek mine out, and for a second he’s Arno again. “Welcome back, Kitty. Let’s see if you’ve still got that nasty bite.”
It’s a cold, dark descent into the criminal underbelly that people like Richard Van Hallen like to pretend doesn’t exist. The shadows rejoice in my return, swallowing me whole. I’m home, amid the muck and violence and chaos that men like Arno hone for profit and, on a more basic level, simple entertainment.
Prison taught me better than anything else that a wolf is never truly at ease until it’s back hunting on the outskirts of a pack, bathed in the growls and musk of its own kind.
The man Arno sent me to see conducts business in a seedy part of the city that’s seen better days. The sidewalks have weeds growing through their cracks. Even the police don’t patrol here, preferring to skirt the outer perimeter of this forsaken shithole.
The man, a dealer by the name of Andre, sets up shop in a dilapidated storefront that calls itself a bookstore. A sign, handwritten on cardboard, proclaims: All Shakespur 50% off! When I shove open a battered metal door and step inside, I’m greeted with the telltale stench of cigarette smoke and weed.
“We’re closed,” a man snarls. He’s about half my size wearing an outdated “Welcome to 2000!” tee shirt. His hair is matted. I guess it used to be naturally curly. At one point, this man probably didn’t naturally reek of piss and body odor.
“I’ve got nothing to sell,” he tells me smugly as I pick my way through metal shelves piled high with old magazines and books that seem decades old as if picked from the remains of a library.
“I’m here to see Andre,” I say once I am close enough to his perch that he can’t run without crossing my path. My fingers flex. The room’s narrow layout is fairly open—there are no witnesses. Even for as shitty a dealer as he seems to be, the lack of protection is just plain stupid, and I intend to teach him that lesson through example.
“Who the fuck are you?” he slurs, his eyes bloodshot from sampling his own merchandise.
“I’m your new best friend,” I say, while I try to decide which part of his face I’ll bruise first. “Arno Mackenzie says hello.”
Like any good conundrum worth solving, my Lucifer apparently possesses two sides. One half is the beast I’d let crawl into my skin—a man who doesn’t seem to give a damn about anything or anyone. The other half is a figure, so similar in appearance that he could be his twin: a stranger who cared enough about the welfare of some random, waif of a woman that she had to beg him out of going to the police.
I’m just dirty, I’d lied. I haven’t showered yet; just a lazy girl lounging in. He didn’t believe me, of course. Regardless, he let me spin my tales and babble something about being “just about to take a shower,” as any non-c
aptive would. Hell, I almost believed I’d convinced him.
Then he surprised me by crossing the center of Lucifer’s lair and perching his lanky frame on the very edge of that hated couch as if he had no clue that he’d just ventured into hell. “Go ahead,” he prompts while I try to approximate just where he sits. Where the tips of some of my nails were still embedded within the upholstery? Or where I’d smothered my moans into the padding? “Go ahead,” he repeats when I don’t react. “Change. I’ll wait.”
It’s an ironic dilemma: Lucifer’s angelic twin wanted me to implicate his darker half. Give him any reason at all to...
What? My mouth twists into a frown while I try to decipher the relationship between the two men. I need to see for myself that he isn’t...
“That’s not a good idea,” I say finally, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
The artist merely shrugs. “Afraid he’ll come back?”
I flinch, caught in my own web. Afraid of Lucifer? Not really. I was merely concerned by what might happen when the wolf returned to his lair to find another creature sniffing around the carcass he kept hidden in the back room. By opening the door, it felt like I’d unknowingly tipped over a domino chain miles long. Where would the final one land?
Only God knew that.
“Take a shower,” the artist says. His voice is softer. He’s looking at my legs, trying to avoid the bruises and marks that mar everything else. “Danny. It’s...it’s Danny, right?”
I force a nod, surprised that he remembered my name.
“Then, Danny, please. If you’re here of your own ‘free will’ and all, then take a shower. Change into the fresh clothes that I’m sure you have in a suitcase somewhere.” He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Just, please. Prove to me that my brother isn’t a...freak.” The word is a fill-in for a darker insult that he can’t say. Monster.
