All became quiet, still.
Seven sins, seven siblings…
Paimon dropped the stick and fell back against the tree. He slid down the trunk in mindless fear, not paying any attention to the way the bark raked against his flesh and caught on his spine like wooden fishhooks.
“No. It can’t be. There’s no way.”
His mind raced as he played the odds out in his head. It was possible—certainly not probable—but he supposed it could be true.
“No. There’s no way.”
Paimon sat there—legs curled Indian-style like a toddler—as he tried to talk himself out of what he’d seen. Probably just animals. Yeah, definitely just animals. After all, as far as he was concerned, he might have hallucinated the whole thing. And even if he hadn’t, there were hundreds of explanations for a pair of glowing eyes in the forest.
But seven in a row? All staring at you after you just happened to lose your assignment?
With years spent of working in people’s heads, it was hard for Paimon to remember that a conscience actually existed. Treacherous things, really. Unfortunately, his conscience was making a rather good argument at the moment.
Paimon shifted in his skin. Why are you here? What do you want from me? He had no business with them, nor would he ever. Paimon was as loyal to the Devil now as he was the day he crawled out of the flames and met his savior. Still, he couldn’t shake the seed of worry that had settled in his chest.
The Seven were supposed to be trapped in The Void.
Unable to escape unless called upon.
And as he’d done nothing to christen their services, there was no reason why they should be watching him.
That’s what made him nervous.
Chapter 7
Rhea paced at the bottom of Caden’s driveway. Her hands rested on the back of her head, the gun cold and hard against the nape of her neck. She couldn’t remember anything. She had no idea how she’d got there, where her car was, what she was supposed to do.
All she knew was anger.
She wanted to feel something, anything other than the hurt that filled her body. Poison pumped through her heart. Venom leaked out her eyes. Rhea walked the road to his house, gripping the gun tighter with each step she took.
Rhea drew in a breath of courage and tasted the wet pre-morning dew air. In another hour or so, the sun would be upon her. The idea of another morning—if she made it that long—seemed unbearable. Rhea flipped open the keypad latch on the garage door and punched in the password. One-Zero-Three-Seven-Six. Bingo. The doors moved and she was in.
The smell of gasoline and rubber hit her hard. Rhea scrunched up her nose and tiptoed around Caden’s father’s truck, running her hand across its bed. How many times had she sat back there during vacations? Drive-ins? Caden’s dirt bike lay partially propped up in the corner next to a mess of tools and empty beer cans.
When she entered the house, a wave of comfort washed over her. She knew this place maybe better than she knew her own home. Even in the dark, she recognized where to step to avoid the creaks and moans of the wooden floor. When she and Caden were teenagers, the two of them would stay out until the small hours of the morning and sneak in through the back window, stealing kisses as they fumbled down the hall and into each other’s arms.
The memory made her smile.
Caden wasn’t always horrible. In fact, in the beginning she thought he had been her savior. Rhea didn’t have many blessings in life, but Caden filled her heart with a joy that she’d never experienced until she looked in his eyes. Love felt like too weak of a word to describe the bond between them. They were inseparable, two halves to a whole that were lucky enough to have found each other so early in life.
That’s what made it hard.
She never thought he would hurt her, but the first time his fists connected with her face, she didn’t know what to do other than pretend it wasn’t happening. The violence hurt. It left bruises in places the eye couldn’t see. But betrayal was different. He could abuse her body, but she wouldn’t stand for him abusing her heart.
An empty fifth of Black Velvet sat on the countertop, the cap nowhere in sight. Rhea picked up the bottle and shook her head. Caden only got violent when he drank, which lately, was more often than not. She’d started drinking with him—it was easier to make excuses then—but even drunk she couldn’t let her guard down.
Bruises didn’t lie.
Neither did broken bones.
Rhea rubbed her wrist. The cast had been removed a few weeks ago, but the area was still tender, much like the memory behind it.
She walked through the living room, glancing at old pictures of the two of them on the mantel. She turned the frames around—the ghosts in the pictures already haunting her—but what she wanted to do was throw them against the wall and watch the glass litter the ground Caden’s fake happiness made her sick. For a second, even she believed the people in the pictures were in love.
Rhea turned the corner to go up the stairs, but her boot slid on something wet. The scent of copper filled the air, and when she looked down, all she saw was blood. It dripped down the hardwood steps and pooled at her feet. Where is it coming from? Then a lot more blood started to fall, in rivers, in streams, and it sloshed down the steps in a baptism of red. It was up to her ankles now, and try as she might, Rhea couldn’t wade through it. She couldn’t move at all.
The world around her started to spin. Her head pounded as if she’d been clubbed from behind, and when she put her hand to her throbbing skull, it came away red.
“Such anger, such lust,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Women like you are meant to be worshipped, adored. Men should lay down their lives for you, not the other way around. Now, show them what they’ve done. Kill them, Rhea. Kill them all.”
High off the smell of blood, Rhea’s body lightened, hollowed out as if she weighed less than air. The scents of pennies and old age filled her head with visions of malice and sin as Rhea drank up the words of the stranger. The woman’s voice, soft as silk, entered her, and everything Rhea knew about herself changed.
She wasn’t scared.
No. Not anymore.
She was excited.
Her heartbeat quickened and raw energy pulsed throughout her veins, ripped her muscles and turned her stiff as a board. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, but her rage answered for her.
“I knew you were the one,” the voice said. “I could taste your desire. Your need to submit to me.” The woman paused for a moment and then said, “You’ll be perfect for him.”
Rhea’s neck snapped back, her jaw open and wide. The voice swam down her throat and filled her up with hunger, with power. Everywhere she looked, she saw red. It bled down the walls, consumed the floorboards, hung thick in the air. Red, the color of lust, the color of Caden and Jayme when they touched. She couldn’t look at it any longer and so the woman removed her sight, rolled her eyes to the back of Rhea’s head like a child playing with marbles. Then, she took her skin. The color climbed inside Rhea’s body and settled there, careful to make herself comfortable.
“Now, sweetie, let’s use this body for what it was made to do.”
‡‡‡
Rhea—who wasn’t really Rhea at all—stood upright in her new skin and moved around in the body for what felt like the first time. She examined her curves, cupped her full, size-B breasts, and licked at the sexual energy that bred on the tip of her lips. I wonder. Her hands disappeared in between her legs—she could tell she was wet even through her jeans—and was met with the heat of arousal.
She was hot, ripe.
And this time, she didn’t feel guilty about what her body wanted her to do.
A childish giggle escaped her mouth, and she ran up the steps, swinging her hips as she learned the natural rhythm her body moved to.
The hallway wasn’t long, but Rhea took her time with it. She wanted to remember everything because after tonight, this house would be a tomb. She ran her hands against the wall
s and committed each touch to memory; every rip in the wallpaper, every scuff on the picture frames. Her senses blared with each smell and sound, and when she reached the bedroom door, she didn’t hesitate to open it. The perfume of impending death was too strong to deny.
Caden’s parents were passed out, both lost somewhere in the depths of a liquor coma. Rays of moonlight shone in through the window, drawing streaks of silver across their faces. Their auras vibrated blue, the color of sloth. When they weren’t sleeping off the booze, they were napping through life. Their sin wore heavy on their chests, suffocating them, raping them like an incubus refusing to move.
Inside the room now, Rhea had a better view. Caden’s mom, Sharon, was naked on top of the sheets, one leg hanging off the bed in surrender. Her husband, Doug, wore a distinct erection below the blankets and drool hung off his chin, swinging each time he snored.
Rhea poked him in the shoulder, but he didn’t move. The whiskey held him under, and unless Jack Daniels himself came to jostle him awake, she doubted he would stir.
Despite the burning adrenaline coursing through her body, the gun remained cold against Rhea’s back. She reached behind and pulled it from her waistband. She traced her fingers down the barrel, giggling again.
“You’re partly to blame for this, you know,” she said. “Parents teach their kids everything. It’s all about morals, really. Something this family doesn’t know a damn thing about.”
From the corner of her eye, the world began to illuminate. Through the window, two distinct and evenly placed balls of light floated her way.
No one but Caden lived this far out in the country, and the drunken sway of headlights was an easy indicator that her boyfriend was on his way home.
She could only hope Jayme was with him.
Now where was I?
Rhea removed the safety and held the gun out in front of her. Her hands didn’t shake even though the gun was heavier than she remembered, and not a single tear wet her cheeks.
Their bodies stirred in sleep and Rhea went cold. Ice squeezed her heart, freezing what little remained of her ability to love. Chilled by the tongue of wrath, her anger devoured any forgiveness she had left to give.
Inside she screamed, but on the outside, her mouth slid into an impish grin. Her emotions were paused, and without having to worry about her feelings getting in the way, Rhea could act without regret.
She turned the gun on Caden’s father and shot him point blank in the head. For creating a vessel of pain. Then to his mother, whose startled eyes met hers, Rhea got up close and personal. For bearing a monster. Black blood streamed down their faces, drenching their eyelids in a delicate crimson shadow. Rhea dipped her finger in Sharon’s blood. It was still hot and it looked like chocolate. Rhea drew a line from the tip of her own lips down to her chin and snuck a peek at her reflection in the mirror. Blood truly did make the perfect shade of lipstick.
She smiled, savoring her work, and as much as she wanted to stay with them—to savor the exact moment their souls passed over their lips—she knew she had to go.
Rhea left the room, closing the door behind her.
Now for Act Two.
The crank of the garage door sounded inside the house. Rhea didn’t have much time if she wanted to surprise Caden. She crept across the hall and into his room. The blinds were shut, covering the room in a sheet of black.
Perfect.
She slid through the darkness with a practiced ease and made a quick adjustment to the bed. Rhea lifted the mattress and placed the gun in the bottom right corner. After smoothing out the sheets, she shoved the mattress back into place and walked over to the closet. It was a walk-in with wooden doors, furnished with slits that climbed from top to bottom.
“Hidden from sight, and front-row seats? Sweet sin, you know I love to watch.”
Chapter 8
The sound of gunfire rang through the air, two quick shots in succession, and then the night was clouded in silence. Paimon hung his head in shame. Not only did Rhea manage to sneak past him and take another’s life, but she’d took her own without him being there. The soul only needs a few seconds to pass over; by the time he reached her, he knew there would be nothing left to collect.
The assignment was over.
He’d failed.
Paimon collected his pride and started walking away. Shame worked its way into his chest, building walls of conflict as humiliation flooded his head. Damn it. What was he going to tell him? That he went out with the intent to claim the girl’s soul but then lost her to who he thought was their biggest enemy? Just like that? Sorry father, got a bit distracted up there, and oh, by the way, The Seven are watching me and I think they took the girl. The Devil would kill him just for mentioning their names. It was blasphemous. But what else would explain why he got shut out of her mind? Something or someone else was out there fighting for her soul, and Paimon didn’t like not knowing what or who that was. Especially because whatever locked him out was much stronger than him.
Frozen leaves and twigs snapped under the weight of his steps. It was asinine to think he could go back empty-handed, but as foolish to think taking another soul would make amends for his failure. The Devil had marked Rhea for a reason, and without her soul in his hands, the punishment would be severe.
The Pit.
Paimon had seen what happened to others when they missed quota. The Devil, firm in his silence, would motion to his servants with a wave of his hand, and the groundlings—the lowest class of demons, who’d been snitches and rats in their previous lives—would take the guilty party to the gathering hall. The hollow echo of church bells would call to the horde and they never failed to run like wolves to see which unfortunate member would be offered up to the blade.
It was customary for the guilty to present themselves on stage while the Devil, cloaked in a robe of skin sheared from the makers of the seven deadly sins, read the allegations aloud. He would then personally walk the guilty party to the edge of The Pit, a large circular hole cut out in the stone floor, made from the rocks thrown at whores who committed adultery. At the edge, he would bless them with his hands and bestow a kiss to their forehead. At this point, a groundling would blindfold the victim and then the Devil himself would push the sacrifice into the hole.
No one knew what was down there, and those who survived never spoke of it. Unlike the others, it was a private circle of Hell, one not even Virgil knew about. The only thing they all knew for sure was that once you were down there, the spirit of the person you used to be was devoured. In its place developed a sickness. A sallow disease that bred and swallowed nightmares. Stories said The Pit was a survivalist’s game. If you lost, it was to be considered a blessing, because if you won, your existence gave new definition to what it truly meant to be damned.
Paimon shuddered at the thought of being sentenced. One time after a rally, he’d stood next to the edge of the circle and looked down into the darkness. It was the deepest black he’d ever seen, and the depth of what it represented made it all the more sinister.
It was then that the Devil grabbed his shoulder and turned him around so that his back was to The Pit. The fear in his eyes must have been immense because the Devil laughed.
“You have nothing to fear from me, my son,” he said. “Relax.”
Staring, Paimon searched his face for signs of deceit. The Devil’s smile was a mouth full of daggers, white as snow and slick as freshly spilled oil. When Paimon was a child, his parents used to warn him about making deals with the lesser beings. Religious fanatics they were, always praying and seeking forgiveness. No sex, no food, no happiness. Paimon starved, physically and sexually for years until he was able to break free from their games. And once he did, there was no holding him back. Deprived for so long, boundaries didn’t exist and Paimon took everything and everyone whenever he pleased. Ma and Pa used to scorn him, tell him ‘whatever happiness you get in the beginning will only make your misery that much more in the end.’ Yet here he stood, face to
face with Lucifer, feeling more alive than ever did before. So what did that say about dear old Mom and Dad, who he knew now burned in the circles? Burned for wrath, burned for lust. Should have slept with the Devil, Mum. Would have done you better than that sleazy old Miller.
They were pathetic.
And that’s why they suffered and he wandered free.
Well, almost.
“Paimon, walk with me?” the Devil said, extending his hand.
The two of them moved through the gathering hall, hand in hand. It was hard for Paimon to let himself be touched. Since Marissa, he never touched another person, at least not like that. There was an intimacy to holding hands that made him feel vulnerable, exposed. Sure, there were moments when he’d indulge during work, but possession was sometimes part of the process. If the females were reluctant to surrender control and subject to sin, Paimon was required by Collection Law to take them and fill their bodies and minds with wrath and sorrow. What was the saying? Possession is nine tenths of the law? It didn’t matter if he led them to sin. What mattered was that the sin was being done in their bodies, by their hands.
For the others, this aspect of the job was a blessing, but for someone who spent their mortal life abusing a woman’s body, the act of love or sexual prowess became trite. It meant nothing. Lust became a sin that no longer affected him, and without being bound by the temptations of the flesh, Paimon lived his death as pure as his contract would allow him to.
“I have big plans for you, my son,” said the Devil. “Plans that you can’t even begin to fathom. The underworld is full of unspeakable possibilities, and I need someone by my side who is willing to take the risk and help me make them a reality.”
“What do you ask of me, my lord?”
“I need you to bring me souls.”
“But the collectors and I already—”
The Eighth Page 4