by Lana Sky
Without another word, he storms out, slamming the sliding door of the room behind him.
“Ignore him,” Espi says quietly, but for the first time, there isn’t any hostility in his tone when he refers to his brother. “I offered him a spot to crash, too,” he admits, watching the space Lucifer left with an unreadable expression. “He turned me down. Something tells me that he’ll change his mind, though...”
Deep down, I know that if he did, it would only be to keep an eye on Espi. His absence made one thing clear: the devil himself wanted nothing to do with me.
“It’s one of the premier musical conservatories in the country,” Espi explains, gesturing to the brochure in front of me. “Basically...this place is heaven on earth. You can look, Pyro Girl, but I bet you won’t find a better school.”
I shift beside him on the couch and peer closer at the glossy cover. The bold font spanning the front of it supports his claim. The faculty contains some of the greatest minds in the classical arts, with a division even devoted solely to the cello.
“The auditions should be a piece of cake,” Espi claims as he turns the page to a breathtaking photo spread of a lush green campus. “I’ll help you through it. As for tuition, they offer financial aid, and if you need more help I can help cover the rest of it...”
I don’t interrupt him to ask just how he’ll get the money or why he cares. I nod. I smile. I watch him enthusiastically flip through the rest of the brochure, and I try my best to seem as excited as he is. Hopeful. Content.
It’s an act that I’ve performed expertly for the past three months. Poor Espi still hasn’t seen through it—but the cold, nearly identical gaze watching me from across the room isn’t as oblivious.
“I’m so excited,” I say, forcing a grin. “I guess this means I’ll have to practice more now. I can’t wait...” When my voice finally trails off, I doubt that I’ve convinced anyone else in this room of that but Espi. It’s a bitter victory. Grinning widely, he’s the epitome of optimism, and I feel even worse for letting him down.
“Well, I think I’m gonna call it a night,” he says, rising to his feet, though he makes sure to slip the pamphlet onto my lap with a wink. “We’ll go over the application stuff tomorrow, all right?”
“All right.” I watch him head for the stairs. Without seeming to realize it, he starts to fiddle with his right hand, and my worn smile slips. The black glove he wears contains prosthetic replacements for his thumb, index finger, and pinky, but after only a month he hasn’t regained much use of the limb yet. I know he’s frustrated by the lack of progress, though he does his best to pretend otherwise. The disability hasn’t hampered his art, at least. “I can still wield a spray can with my left hand. Score one for being ambidextrous, eh Pyro?”
“You know, Pyro,” he calls back, “we might even be able to score a tour this week if we...” Following my gaze, Espi frowns and tucks his hand behind his back. I’ve been staring for too long. Seconds later, he’s already mounted the staircase before I can even choke out an apology. “Night,” he calls from the top of them.
“Night,” I say in return, but my voice alone isn’t enough to drown out his weary sigh. The house is so small the faintest sound carries. Sandwiched between two others, it sits on a small street in a suburb about an hour outside of the city. The location is near where Espi plans to start school next semester, so I assume that’s why he chose it—though I’m not sure how he manages to pay for it. Money from Arno?
Maybe. But I don’t dare ask.
Dante’s old friend isn’t mentioned much anymore—becoming one of the many topics that are tread over eggshells lately. Vinny is another. He may live inside my head, but I still can’t voice his name out loud.
It’s much easier to pretend—like I do now. Bad things only dwell in the city. The shadows don’t exist if you don’t acknowledge them. Some nights, I almost succeed in fooling myself...
If only the devil was as easy to ignore.
His eyes follow me when I stand and cross the small living room, skirting the simple furniture that came with the listing: a couch, an armchair, and a coffee table. The moment I mount the stairs I know he’s right on my heels. Like always, he waits until I crest the top of the staircase where he watches me enter the room at the end that I’ve claimed as my own. When I wrestle the door shut behind me, I don’t hear any more footsteps—he’ll remain in that spot all night, keeping watch.
I’ll have no choice but to wait him out. Feeling my way through the darkness, I find the small bed tucked underneath the one window and perch myself on the edge of the mattress. My only other belongings are a secondhand cello propped against the corner, beside a duffle bag of clothing Espi found for me, and a pink mirror he hung on the wall to make this room “more girly.” From my position, I can just make out my reflection in the moonlight, though I barely recognize the person staring back. Her hair is shorter than it has ever been, barely ghosting her shoulders. There’s a scar on her chin and a healing patch of flesh over her right ear. At first glance, she could almost pass for human if it wasn’t for her eyes. They’re too dark. Lifeless.
Her soul has fallen way too far to be of use to anyone now. All she can do now is wait. It feels like an eternity before the house finally quiets. Espi’s snoring trickles down the hallway, and I use the sound as cover when I creep over to the duffle and tug on the zipper. There isn’t much inside. Just a few sweaters and a couple pairs of jeans, but I take the time to fold each garment before carefully packing them back away. It’s not long after midnight when I hear someone lumber into the bathroom, and I crack my bedroom door to find the devil has finally left his post.
I don’t stop to feel sorry for myself as I throw my bag over one shoulder and cross the threshold. I’ve overstayed my welcome in hell. Even the devil himself seems tired of watching me burn. All I have to do is make it to the damn door. One foot in front of the other...
“Going somewhere?” A heavy hand falls over my shoulder, throwing me off balance. My foot slips and I have to catch myself against the wall but the resounding thud echoes like a gunshot. Holding my breath, I look over at Espi’s room. Seconds tick by, but his door doesn’t budge...
Thank God.
With my heart still racing, I recall the question. Going somewhere? “Yes.” I take two more steps forward, shrugging off the imposing figure who crept up behind me. I can see the top of the stairs now...
But one shove from behind and I go flying toward them. The scream building in my throat doesn’t even have the chance to leave it before I find myself hauled down the steps after an imposing figure. Dragging me near the cusp of the kitchen, Lucifer comes to a stop, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. The shadows bathe him. In the light coming in through the sliding glass door overlooking the backyard, I swear I see them flicker...like wings. I blink, and they disappear, but the fire in his gaze doesn’t diminish one damn bit.
“Going somewhere?” he repeats, now that we’re out of earshot of Espi.
“I didn’t want to wake him up,” I whisper, explaining away some of the stealth.
But not all of it.
“So, you just sneak out,” he says, almost matter-of-factly. Birds fly. Daniela Manzano runs away when his back is turned.
After three months of apathy, the venom in his tone is a slap. It’s reassurance; he really does hate me.
“I...I didn’t want to hurt him. Espi,” I admit while shrugging the arm that sports the duffle to keep it from sliding off. “He’s looking at schools for me, and he’s so excited and...”
“You’ve been stringing him along this whole time,” the devil surmises.
“I...” I’ve uttered so many lies to myself these past few months, they should just roll off my tongue, but it seems impossible to lie to him. “It doesn’t matter,” I stammer, glancing over at the front door. “You guys are better off if I leave—”
“Just cut the shit,” Lucifer commands, yanking on my arm. “This is about one fucking thing. You still th
ink about him.”
I turn away again but not quickly enough to hide the guilt I know crosses my face. The nightmares don’t come every night, but when they do, I wake up screaming. Of course, he heard me through the paper-thin walls.
“Yes,” I choke out. “I still think about him...” Something about Lucifer’s frown makes me add, “I did kill him, after all.”
That woman...she didn’t sound like me, but Lucifer doesn’t seem puzzled by the boast. “You did,” he says carefully. “Having second thoughts?”
“No, he deserved to die,” I say so fiercely my teeth chatter and we both turn to eye the stairs in case Espi appears at the top of them. Seconds pass in silence, and his door never opens. “I don’t regret it,” I say softly, returning my gaze to the man beside me. “I don’t.”
“Oh really?” A smile tugs on his mouth. One of those dangerous, semi-snarls that he wore while facing off against Mack. It’s the mark of a wolf who already has his prey cornered before they even know it. “Then tell me something—” he jerks his chin to the door. “Why sneak out in the middle of the goddamn night?”
“I...just. I. You... It’s not like you even want me here,” I toss back.
The devil’s eyes narrow. “What the fuck do I have to do with anything?”
“What?” I could laugh if the noise wouldn’t wake Espi. What did he have to do with anything? A better question was why this traitorous part of me seemed to believe he affected everything. “Because I can’t stand living here another second—” I bite off the rest of the words before they ever have the chance to leave my throat. I need to leave. I tell myself that and flex my feet against the floor. Leave. But when I shift to the right, I run into his shoulder.
“Why?” he demands while I stumble to catch my balance.
“Because...”
“Just fucking say it.” He takes a step closer—and that one motion has never seemed more dangerous. I stagger back, grasping behind me for the wall with one hand. “Because what?”
Good old obedient Lynn would say nothing. She’d bite her lip and hope her silence would appease him enough to avoid a beating. She might add another lie on top of it all for good measure. It doesn’t matter.
Broken Daniela is too tired for games. “Because of you.”
The devil doesn’t know how to process that. His eyes narrow further, and crackle with blue fire—hotter than any flames hell could contain. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? All my fault that you, what? Miss that fucking bastard?”
“I don’t know.” Numb, I stare beyond his head, watching the shadows dance across the backsplash above the sink. This house, with all its charms, has become a newer, smaller cage worse than any Vinny could ever devise.
That fucking bastard at least bathed his precious, captive bird in attention, however cruel it was. Apart from restraining me when the need arises, Dante won’t even touch me. When he does speak, it’s to bark out a few simple commands—eat, sleep, stay, go. Hell, this...this is the longest conversation we’ve had since the morning I woke up in the hospital.
It shouldn’t matter...burn, sting, throb, ache, tear me apart, roll my ruined soul in jagged glass.
The loss of one man’s heat shouldn’t fucking hurt so much. At the end of the day, the moral of this story is that the devil is harder to withdraw from than heroin. The poor princess can’t shake the craving. She can’t spend another fucking minute suffocating under the pretense that vanquishing one scary monster was enough to make her whole again.
Because it isn’t.
The sad truth was that nothing might ever be. Admitting it to myself is a knife through my soul. After five years of torment, freedom doesn’t taste as sweet as poor Lynn thought it would.
The devil doesn’t seem to realize why I blink back tears. Do I even know the reason? Without Vinny here to cherry-pick what emotions I should feel, I only have a few left to fall back on. Hatred. Loathing. Fear. All three lash out at him like a whip, and my tongue is ready to deliver the sting. “Maybe...I should have just let him kill me.”
I watch in satisfaction as the blow hits its mark. But the devil...he thrives on the violence. One step closer and he has me trapped. “Maybe I should have killed you myself,” he counters.
His heat leaches through my skin, sparking an inferno and my body doesn’t know how to interpret it. I...I can’t keep my back from arching. Or my knees from trembling. My core from throbbing...
Loathing. Lust. He splits me apart and watches on as the twisted halves of me go to war.
I’ve been forced to do things to myself at night other than smother my screams. Shameful, pathetic, twisted things. Did he hear those sounds as well, from down the hall?
Looking into his eyes, I can’t tell. Either way, he seems fixated on another dilemma.
“You think he’s alive?” There is no shred of humanity in his gaze as he shifts his stance, leaving his hands open at his sides.
“He’s dead,” I croak, watching his flexing fingers, but even I don’t believe it. His body may be ashes. Those ashes may be in a morgue—but Vinny Stacatto is very much alive. His soul still lingers...feeding off what’s left of mine.
“So, they say,” the devil agrees, “but...there are rumors.” I suspect the words are a test. A taunt. He watches my reaction but doesn’t seem satisfied when I flinch. My chest contracts, brushing his, though I don’t know if he’s closer or if I simply stopped trying to shift away. His scent fills my lungs regardless, chasing out every ounce of oxygen.
I look down at the bag dangling from my shoulder. Underneath the clothing are old newspapers, scavenged from any store that carries The City Harold. While Espi tracked down schools for me, I’d hunted down every mention of rising crime rates in the city and the names of the bastards who’d taken Vinny’s place. They were only mentioned in tiny, anonymously quoted fragments but the mantra became my bedtime prayer. Piotr Petrov. Wilhem Donahugh. Arno Mackenzie.
They, and quite a few more had eagerly picked up where Vinny had left off... But none of them came close to the darker specter who seemed to be pulling the strings from the shadows these days. Apparently, even ghosts can rule with an iron fist.
“Yeah. I’ve heard the rumors,” I admit out loud. Do I believe them? I’m not sure.
“And?”
“And...” I lick my lips and consider the question. He seems to want more than a simple answer. “As long as any of those other men exist, Vinny still wins. Even in hell.” I can’t tell if acknowledging that sad fact hurts or not. Maybe, deep down, I’ve made peace with it. I’ve absorbed it. “Look,” I tell him, hiking the duffle higher on my shoulder. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But I...” My voice trails off, and I seize my moment of freedom by staggering out of his reach. I make it, inches from the exit before the duffle seems to fly off my arm of its own accord and hits the floor. “No. On second thought, you know what, Dante. Why do you even care if I leave?” I turn to face him, but his expression is unforgiving. Stone. “Is it because you’re worried? Do you really... trust? It all comes down to trust...and the fact that you don’t trust me.”
The devil says nothing, and I can’t seem to shut up. “You guard Espi’s door at night like I’m...I’m some kind of threat. You lurk in the shadows avoiding me and yet you don’t take your eyes off me.” And then it hits me. In the devil’s world, betrayal apparently had no distinction—he treated me the same way he treated the other monster he used to protect Espi from. “So, what are you afraid of, exactly?” I croak. “Are you afraid I’ll tell someone where you are, someone like Mack, is that it—”
“I don’t give a damn what you do,” he tells me, jerking his chin to the door. “So, get the fuck out.”
I move, but my steps take me in the wrong direction. I’m closer to him. Inches away. On top of him. As battle-worn as he is, he doesn’t expect the hand that flies out, catching him across the cheek. The resounding slap echoes throughout the room but the shock doesn’t stop me from hitting him
again. And again.
Again.
I punch, kick, slap, scratch, anything. The violence is more addictive than the heroin. Maybe this is what Vinny felt—this rage that made him rail against the world. Hitting the devil makes me feel better. For about a second.
It’s not as fun when he doesn’t fight back, though. Not even when I lash at him with both hands. I kick him, and he’s stone. I’m hurting myself more than I hurt him. Even when I dig my nails in. Even when I goad him on with the words that would have sent Vinny into a blind rage. “I hate you, you goddamn bastard. I fucking hate you—”
He slams his hand over my mouth, muffling the awful things I shout at him—for Espi, he muzzles me. But when my teeth cut his palm, he turns my own body weight against me, and I hit the tiled floor on my hands and knees, tasting blood. I try to crawl away, but one of his hands seizes the back of my neck while the other pins me down by my waist.
“Let me go,” I croak. I’m pleading. More tears blur my vision, and when I reach back, I’m not sure what part of him I clutch. His chest? No, his arm. He growls when I dig my nails in and try to push him away.
After three tries, he doesn’t move—but my body does. Disobedient, it has me lurching closer like a moth to a flame even as the words I spit at him echo with painful clarity. Still broken. Still bitter. “I hate you. I hate you. Fuck you...”
“Fuck me?” a cold voice demands as he hunches over me from behind, slamming one of his hands against the tile in front of me. “I could kill you.”
To prove it, he tightens his grip on my throat, caressing my windpipe. Crushing it. I see stars. My lungs heave for air, but death doesn’t even have the chance to touch me before he lets go.
“Coward,” I tell him.
“Bitch,” he snarls back. I gasp as something pinches my shoulder to drive in the insult. Hard. Unforgiving. Teeth? I can’t decide before his fingers find their way down the back of my pants and graze that space between my legs. When I don’t react, he slides one inside—harshly—gritting out a curse at the way I feel—already wet for him, greedily grasping at the digit. Shame and regret don’t matter at this moment. My hips jerk, driving him deeper while my nails scrape at the cold linoleum.
