Three Trials

by Kristy Cunning

  His jaw grinds more, and my smile only grows.

  “Like an actual command instead of a gently worded request,” I ramble.

  Still, he says nothing, just narrows his eyes on me.

  “Dance for me,” I say with the same authoritative tone.

  He immediately springs into action, and music weirdly starts playing inside the room as Lamar river dances and curses.

  “This is humiliating and degrading,” he growls.

  “Then stop doing it,” I say with an even bigger grin.

  He and the music stop at once.

  “Next time I ask a question, maybe you should just answer it before I make you do it,” I say as I move closer.

  He gives me a hurt look. “You always admired it when I looked out for you and never made it your duty to remind me of my place as the others did. Well, the way they did before you became my friend, and I became your only friend who wasn’t a lover or family.”

  I move to pick up my journal that fell from Gage’s hand before the siphoning. I open it and peer down before staring at my hand.

  Just the right thought has the tip of my finger opening up and a drop of blood spills out onto the pages.

  My breath goes out shakily, because I have no idea how I knew how to do that.

  My eyes flit down to the journal, expecting it to be in English, but it’s not. Weirdly enough.

  “What language is this?” I ask.

  He peers over, studying it. “Romanian,” he says with a sad smile, then starts reading the words to me in translation. “War is the one who will always side with you first, because he thinks like you the most. However, don’t mistake that for him being weak or sweet. He’ll punish you for that. Regardless, his constant championing will keep you from feeling so outnumbered,” he reads aloud to me, frowning. “It’s almost like you wrote this to yourself.”

  My lips tense, and my back stiffens. Why would I be writing to myself unless I expected to die?

  “The next line is in Egyptian,” he tells me. “Old Egyptian,” he goes on, gesturing to the hieroglyphics. “Death is his opposite, in that he will push you to the last morsel of your sanity by forcing you to listen to all the facts. Without him, you’re too rash.”

  He points to the next line.

  “This is Russian, and I’m rusty, so bear with me,” he says, then starts reading. “Conquest will never do as you expect. He’s also your best warrior when you need him most. He’ll fight at your back even when he wants to throttle you. You need him to be that unpredictable variable.”

  He flicks his gaze to me, but doesn’t bother telling me what the next language is before he starts reading.

  “Famine will be your most solid advisor, but he’ll likely side with Death more than you, simply because he likes to annoy you the most. He’s secretly the most viciously protective of the five of you.”

  The next words that appear look like gibberish.

  “This is your own made-up language for your personal notes. If you wrote this to yourself, then you had no clue your memories would be gone when you returned.”

  “But I thought I was going to die before I wrote this, and I clearly planned on coming back,” I say quietly.

  “Which is certainly news to me,” he says as he clears his throat. “I thought you were gone forever. But then again, you were always paranoid, so it’s possible this was just a precautionary measure.”

  “If I thought I’d have my memories, why write this at all?”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe you planned for the absence of memories, but didn’t expect to lose your knowledge. You coveted your knowledge.”

  Now I know a lot about the nineties, movies, current events…and not much else. Lovely.

  I close the journal and look at him. “How do I find my father? Answer me this time.”

  It’s a command that he follows with sad, kicked-puppy eyes. “You simply stay whole as you walk. Your blood will guide you to whatever location you wish to see.”

  He sounds…pitiful. I pat his shoulder.

  “If I can command people, I’m sure Lucifer can too. How are rebellions even possible?”

  “Commanding the loyal isn’t hard. It’s commanding the disloyal that proves tedious,” he bites out, still miffed.

  “You forget I don’t feel guilt, so you can stop trying to make me feel guilty for not trusting you or for questioning your motives,” I say with a bittersweet smile.

  Turning, I walk out, moving down the hallway in whole form. The hallways change before me, shifting and moving, and creating a new passage I wouldn’t have seen as a phantom.

  That makes this trickier. Phantom keeps me safer.

  “Guilt is actually a second-generation purity, one of the very few adopted from the impurities,” he calls to my back, surprising me enough to turn around.

  Usually I drift down a random path, and leave jaws unhinged as I strut away in peace.

  “It belongs in neither, and should the scales ever tip back into purer times, it will be passed about again,” he says as he moves closer, another of my journals in his hand.

  “Guilt is considered a purity for the time, because of the good it does. It forces one to heed their conscious. The guilt forces them to repent, to love unconditionally, to be there for someone who needs them, and to protect. Guilt has been accused of affecting free will on multiple occasions, and it remains one of the biggest debates today. But there’s no way to truly eradicate guilt, so they have to balance things.”

  “I think I’ve finally found someone more random than me,” I tell him honestly.

  Now I know what it’s like to be this side of someone who is spewing nonsense.

  “But you’re a being with no conscience and no guilt,” he goes on, undeterred as he patiently moves toward me, finally stopping just a few feet away.

  “You spent years searching for four boys, exactly four, who could love you and never envy the other. Four boys who could construct a bond like no other since. You searched until you found it, because unlike all the other children, you have patience. You selfishly shirked all your responsibilities until you found them, also, because you knew the world needed them and you wanted them to be yours. And you’re the only one who could have created them as they are.”

  My brow furrows, because I’m not sure why he’s kissing my ass and insulting me at once.

  “You’re a selfish being designed to be so. You selfishly demand things of life as though you’re entitled to them. You selfishly break the laws of balance and reason with yourself that you can tweak things to even the scales, despite the fact no one else is allowed to do this without a death sentence.” He grins as he says that, though I have no idea why.

  “Because you selfishly know that they really can’t kill you because of all the balance you provide. So you do as you please with no regards for empty consequences,” he goes on.

  “That sounds very reasonable if I’m not actually upsetting the precious balance,” I feel the need to point out. “But someone did kill me. Likely the Devil.”

  He grins so broadly, as though this is familiar for him. Me pointing out the logic after him browbeating their version of the story at me.

  “Indeed it is. Which is why they—the ones who take offense—never pretend to notice. I have no idea how you did this without upsetting the balance. It defies every law imaginable, and it worries me of how your fate came to be for this to have even worked. But you were always smart and selfishly selfless. You’re Lucifer’s favorite.”

  He’s really trying to force this daddy’s girl thing.

  “I don’t know whether to thank you or slap you,” I tell him, genuinely perplexed by the plan of action I need to take before I sneak away from his randomness. It could be catching.

  “You had no conscience, no empathy, and no guilt, but you had reason. You didn’t have greed, so your reasoning capabilities kept you from exerting your excess amount of power without justifiable provocation.”

  “So I won�
�t go boom because I’m pissed?” I ask, sincerely interested in this.

  It’s not easy to make me mad, I’ve learned. I’m more amused by things or terrified. Not so much of an angry person. Jealous? Hell yes. Angry? Not usually.

  But still…

  His grin spreads again. “Certainly not. My point to all of this is the fact that you loved so hard, you did the impossible.”

  He steps closer, pushing my journal into my hand, but holding onto it even as I grip it. His eyes stay fixed on mine as he speaks.

  “You’re selfishly selfless. Which means there’s a reason you started all this. And you prepared to find the boys, but expected to have your memories, or at the very least, your vast amount of knowledge. In those journals, I’m sure you’ll find whatever you need. I’ll help when you let me. I miss feeling that love like only you could provide,” he says, the last part coming out a little quietly.

  He releases the journal and takes a step back.

  “That is why I will earn my way back into your life. That magnitude of love only comes from you. Despite what everyone says, that is why you are your father’s favorite. Because how could you not be?”

  He clears his throat and takes a step back as my eyes water for no apparent reason.

  “Kill your father if you must, Paca. But you’re making a grave mistake if you succeed.”

  He starts walking off, and I dart out to get in front of him.

  “The earth was scorching under my touch. Was it because I was so far away from them, or was it because their bond was shaky.”

  “Shaky?” he inquires, sounding confused.

  “They weren’t together, and they’ve apparently fought a lot since my latest death. I was in severe physical pain, and—”

  “You’re The Apocalypse. Topside, when your balance suffers, so does your control over your very strong, destructive nature. If their bond was severely hurting, then yes, you’d be likely to suffer the repercussions, and the world would pay the price.”

  Great. So I can go kaboom by accident, after all. He’s a big fat lying liar.

  That’d be a shitty thing to do—destroy the world by accident just because I’m imbalanced. Humans are a lot easier to kill than hell monsters, I’ve noticed.

  “Can you tell me how to figure out my language?” I go on, not sharing my inner musings with him.

  “The only one who thinks like you is you, Paca. Whatever it is you wanted yourself to know, you’ll figure it out. Just try to do it in time.”

  He pats my cheek and walks away.

  In time for what?

  “I currently hate being touched by anyone who isn’t them,” I call to his back.

  “I know,” he says without turning around.

  Dick.

  Chapter 17

  I spin around and quickly move through the corridors, trying to ignore the ruthless and completely obnoxious heartbeat pounding in my chest. I’m about to have to be really good at acting.

  And even better at manipulating.

  Manipulation isn’t an impurity of mine, so I’m on my own with outwitting the Devil. Just awesome.

  Or die. I could always die.

  I’m starting to think this was a terrible idea.

  Why do I think I can stick it to the Devil, exactly? Am I that arrogant with my vanity?

  I start to turn around and abandon my mission until I’m more prepared, when I see a picture. It’s the Gemini Twins divided into two segments of the same image.

  A dark twinkle rests in their eyes as they both smirk like they ate their teacher’s head or something. A shotgun on either hip, they stand proudly.

  I read the plaque underneath, even though I should be leaving.

  William “Devil Anse” Hatfield and Randolph “Ole Ran’I” McCoy

  Casualties – minor

  Historical effect—still the most legendary blood feud to-date

  Unbelievable.

  This is like the Devil’s version of hanging his children’s accomplishments on the fridge.

  I move on, not paying attention to all the rest of the freaky hall of fame paintings. I do notice there aren’t any up of me, yet I’ve clearly led some wall-worthy lives.

  After all, Lamar said I was Cleo-fucking-patra.

  Changing course again, I end up turning and moving down the hall in the other direction, walking briskly with determined strides. Not destroying the world by accident takes precedent over pretty much everything else.

  And I can’t help but wonder if maybe my death wasn’t to prevent such a thing. Why did my paintings come down? Why can’t my name be uttered in hell? What if I’m the bad guy? It’d clearly make sense.

  We can’t keep searching for answers in a home that doesn’t have them, when all the answers are in hell. No matter how much we prepare, we don’t have enough information to ever truly be ready for what happens next.

  Time to stop procrastinating and delaying the inevitable.

  The wall in front of me suddenly vanishes, unlike last time when I came through here with Lamar.

  There’s a room I don’t know in front of me. A huge, ornate bedroom with a large bed even bigger than the one the boys built for me at home.

  I whirl around, trying to take in my surroundings and wondering how I just ended up in here, but I stop as a cold sweat breaks out over me.

  Leaning against the wall like he’s been expecting me all day is none other than Lucifer himself.

  He’s smirking at me, a dark, lethal look to his gaze.

  “Hello, Paca. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Silence of the Lambs flashes through my mind. Along with Darth Vader. It’s a scary combo.

  “That’s not creepy at all,” I mutter under my breath.

  Clearing my throat, I stare at him like I’m not terrified. What a fearless fool I was to think this would be no big deal.

  I’ve stood before him in the past without pissing myself. However, he’s a hell of a lot more intimidating when I’m in whole form.

  “I came here to kill you,” I tell him, smiling darkly as I begin the ruse of pretending I’m really The Apocalypse.

  “Oh?” he drawls, his lips curving out in a smile, as though that pleases him in some twisted way.

  Lunatic.

  Or maybe he’s just that unafraid of me, which means I likely can’t kill him. Damn it.

  “But, thanks to last night’s movie night, I’ve just decided to take a different route,” I tell him, glancing down at my nails like they’re fascinating, while secretly watching him with a wary peripheral.

  “And what, dear daughter, might that be?”

  He’s still smirking when I look up.

  With a steady voice and a creepy smile of my own, I answer, “I came to make a deal with the Devil.”

  End of book 2

  Book 3 is finished, and it won’t be too far behind! Keep going for a note from the author and the places where you can keep up with updates from the Dark Side Series. <3

  From the author:

  Well, I really hope the answers you’ve gotten so far are what you were hoping for, if you figured it out early. Or I hope it was a good surprise if not.

  Two books left in the series, with Two Kingdoms up next. Yes, the books are titled like a countdown. Felt theatrical and dramatic, just like Paca, the anti-heroine whose head I love to visit.

  Plenty of places to get updates available, but my facebook groups are usually the first to know things since I hang out in those a lot. <3

  Where to find me:

  My Facebook

  Private Book Club (Very adult group. No drama. No judgment. And no one outside of the group can see what you like, post, or comment on.)

  My Teaser/Book Group (Only I can post here, and it notifies you when I do as long as you have your settings set correctly.)

  My Instagram (@cmowensauthor)

  My Twitter (@cmowensauthor)

  www.cmowensbooks.com

  Cunning, Three Trials