The Eighth

by Wytovich, Stephanie

  In another place, another time, he would have done his best to ensure that her soul ended up in Hell, but as he arrived too late to claim it, the decision was not his to make.

  “Take her body and the one outside to the feeding ground. Their souls have passed but the meat is fresh. That should hold him over for a while until I get there to explain.”

  Hieronymus nodded and motioned to the horde to collect the boy’s corpse outside. “Mark the boy and I’ll take care of the girl. We arrive as one, we leave as one.” Hieronymus moved toward Rhea and slid his arm underneath her, picking her up. Paimon’s hand was on his throat before he could scream.

  “Not her.”

  Memories flashed through his head, and Paimon saw only red. He was back in the heat of the moment, standing in the doorway as his wife bedded another man. He saw her mouth shaped in orgasm, heard her moans penetrate the room. Rage built inside of him, coating him in wrath.

  “How dare you touch her,” he said.

  The horde, glued to the scene, stood in fear as they watched.

  The groundling tried to speak, but his words were stopped by Paimon’s hands. His legs kicked out in panic as he gasped for air, but there was no assuaging the beast. Paimon squeezed the imp’s throat and smiled as Hieronymus yelped in pain.

  “She is mine.”

  Hieronymus’s eyes dilated. They blossomed like spring flowers as Paimon tightened his grasp, his mind still fixated on the groundling’s nerve to touch the girl. When Hieronymus went limp, Paimon shucked the body to the floor and turned his head. A stream of black mist swept the room. His corpse disintegrated on impact.

  Rhea’s body, lightly showered with the imp’s remains, lay in the corner challenging anyone else to touch her. The horde scattered away from her, swaddled in panic from the death of their brother.

  “What are you waiting for? I said take the bodies and leave.” Paimon’s hands shook and he hid them behind his back in embarrassment. What kind of collector can’t handle his kills? He sat next to Rhea and ran his fingers along the outline of her cheek.

  I’ve missed you, missed you so much. How have I lived all these years, all these deaths, without you?

  “My lord? Can you hear me?”

  Paimon set his infatuations aside and came back to the moment.

  “What? What do you need?”

  “Is she safe, my liege?” asked one of the imps as he pointed to Jayme.

  “Yes,” said Paimon. “Take her and I’ll meet you at the feeding ground within the hour. And be sure to check the parents’ bedroom before you leave. I think some maintenance is in order there.”

  The demons did a sweep of the house, drinking in the spilt blood and raw energy. They canvassed the rooms as they drained dried blood from the carpets and absorbed spatter from walls. The bodies were cleaned and suspended in the air—floating limp and lifeless—as the groundlings fixed the details of the house: slanted picture frames, dirt footprints in the kitchen, blood-stained sheets. Once the house had been purified and returned to a sense of normalcy, they left without a word.

  And then Paimon was finally alone with Rhea.

  Chapter 11

  Dawn snuck in through the windows like a ticking clock counting down the minutes until a full sunrise. Paimon slipped out of his jeans and shoes and tossed them to one side. He could barely restrain himself. She was too beautiful, and he’d waited too long.

  He climbed on the bed and straddled his bride. Her skin, still cold from death, warmed beneath his weight as he grabbed her hips and pulled her toward him.

  His fingers trailed the outlines of her breasts, lifting them up like two silver moons as he kissed her neck. Paimon slid her underwear off. She was bare, smooth against his hand. Patience, patience. Sweat sluiced his back and his calves tightened as he tried to resist. The urge to have her became almost overwhelming.

  Paimon closed his eyes and took a moment to collect himself. He counted his breaths and prayed. Bless me my sins and the sins to which I am bound to make. He only had one chance to do this, and if he failed, he would lose her forever. Paimon closed his eyes and howled as his fingers broke. His bones shifted and grew into claws with yellowed nails that were sharp as knives, his skin stretched taught with pain. He bit his lip and ripped out the flesh surrounding his ankles until his feet were bloodied and red. The wounds were deep, raw. Then high off the adrenaline, Paimon held out both his wrists and bit into his veins.

  Blood streamed down his arm and dripped onto Rhea’s navel. A homage to the stigmata, Paimon became a damned Christ ready to give himself to the cross. He leaned in and kissed her, staining her lips red. Come back to me. Be with me. He bit into Rhea’s wrists and ankles and joined their wounds together. Blood seeped from his cuts into hers and bound them as one.

  Paimon devoured her death and bled his essence into her body. She would live a half-life, one where she could walk in the light of the sun but feel at peace with the shadows. Through her, Paimon would live again, and she would be eternally grateful for his gift, thankful and eager to repay him. And I will be all but too happy to take whatever it is you give me. He looked into her eyes and smiled as the light began reanimating the gold flecks within them. The soft flutter of a pulse worked against his wrists, and the slight rise of her chest moved touched his own.

  “Yes, yes. Come back to me,” he said.

  Her body jolted awake

  Rhea’s mouth opened in a scream, her voice catching the air like hooks on flesh. Nails raked against Paimon’s back and he growled as she broke skin. Blood trickled down his shoulders in crimson threads as she dug into him, pulling his chest closer to hers.

  Paimon moaned.

  She pulled his mouth toward hers and sucked at his energy, draining it out of him with a hunger he’d never seen. Thin wisps of gray streamed out of his mouth like spider webs and Rhea took them down her throat, her mouth shaped in orgasm. She parted her legs, and Paimon accepted the invitation. He could almost feel the warmth radiating off her sex as he pushed his wounds against hers, eager for a faster transfusion, desperate for her full awakening.

  Rhea placed her lips on his and kissed him, deep and full of passion. Paimon traced the outline of her mouth with his tongue as he found his way inside her. She was warm, tight with virginity, and he made sure to go easy until it was her movements that lead him.

  Rhea dripped wet with want as she received him. Her legs twitched in reanimation, and her eyes darted back and forth under her eyelids as if confined to a fantasy. No, my love. This is real. This is no dream. Paimon devoured all that she was, his body moving to the sound of her screams. Rhea writhed on the sheets, a wounded ballerina coated in blood, and when they came together, their bodies collapsed in sin: his in gluttonous lust, hers in lustful gluttony.

  Paimon lay next to her, his legs shaking and slicked with sweat and blood. He could feel Rhea inside of him, her blood electric and moving amongst his own. They were one and the same, a life within a life, and this time, they would remain together.

  They’d be a family again.

  The three of them: him, her, and the seed he planted in her womb.

  Paimon spit in his hand, his saliva a healing salve that closed the bleeding gaps on his wrists and ankles. He turned to Rhea and kissed her arms, wrists and shoulders, made love to her with his mouth. He buried his head in between her legs and tongued at her sex, moving down her thighs and legs until he closed the cuts on her ankles.

  In that moment, straddling the lines between life and death, she was the most beautiful. Her body fought to come back to him. It jerked and convulsed, threw itself across the sheets. He pictured her mind running through fields of memories.

  When she reached out for him, he almost cried.

  Paimon took her in his arms and held her tight. Their bodies were like two halves of a whole as they came together in an embrace. Light and dark. Sin and virtue.

  “I’ll never let anything happen to you again, Marissa,” he said.

  Rhea’s
eyes eased open and she looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. She coughed at first and a line of spittle crawled down her chin.

  “Go ahead, my sweet. What is it? What are you trying to say?”

  A sharp rasp slid out her mouth. Her words were barely a whisper, and Paimon had to put his ear to her mouth to understand her.

  “Wh-o is Ma-ris-sa?” she said.

  ‡‡‡

  Paimon thought back to the last time he carried her to bed two centuries ago. It was during winter and they had run out of wood for the fire. Marissa must have told him a dozen times to check the shed and make sure they were prepared for the night, but he kept finding other needs to attend to. The gap in the fence. The busted wheel on the wheelbarrow. By the time he remembered the wood, night had cast its shadow over their home and it was too late.

  Marissa, wrapped in a red cotton shawl, was on the couch, fighting nightmares and frostbite. She trembled in her sleep and Paimon could remember the weight of her body as he picked her up in his arms and carried her into their bedroom. She looked fragile in that moment, frozen in sleep. But even then, she fought him. Her arms lashed out at him as if she were swatting away imaginary demons, and when he laid her to rest, she awoke in a scream.

  But that was then. This time it will be different.

  After everything the two of them went through, he knew that she wasn’t pushing away nightmares. She was pushing away him. And yet it wasn’t him who bedded another person and went behind her back. Even now, the pain felt fresh and Paimon struggled to stay composed.

  He shifted Rhea’s position in his arms and made himself comfortable. She was a delicate little thing, and when he stared into her eyes, he instantly calmed. She may have looked like Marissa, but she wasn’t her. She was something better. Someone made strictly for him.

  Paimon walked out of the house and into the light. His skin steamed in the sun, and if he didn’t get back to the portal soon, he would burn.

  His clothes provided some means of protection for his body, but his face remained at constant risk as he battled the rays. The ritual drained what little energy he had left and he doubted whether or not he could materialize back to her house in one trip.

  Paimon turned his face from the morning.

  Damn it.

  There wasn’t any other way. He couldn’t guarantee either of their safety if he tried to get her home, and with the bind still fresh, to part from each other so soon would cause physical damage. She was barely breathing as is.

  Paimon couldn’t risk it.

  He would have to take her back with him.

  Back to Hell.

  Chapter 12

  The forest screeched and squawked as he carried Rhea into the clearing.

  Paimon sat at the foot of the portal, his arms still wrapped around Rhea. The air was damp, but her breathing steadied and a small ounce of color worked its way back into her face. She was starting to look healthy again—more like herself—but Paimon feared what would happen when he moved her through the circles. He’d never taken a live soul back with him before, and he didn’t exactly have permission. Or another token.

  He brushed her hair with his palm and leaned down to her lips. Asleep, she looked so innocent. Not like someone who’d murdered a house full of people. What happened to you? He couldn’t place her rage. Couldn’t find it. When he was in her head, she was consumed with misery—jealously, maybe—but not wrath. If she wanted to hurt someone, it would have been by hurting herself. So what happened to make things change?

  Rhea moaned and shook her head as if she fought some invisible monster. Sweat formed on her brow. She kicked out, her calves tense and rigid, and then her body went slack.

  “Shhhh. I’m here. I have you.”

  Her face softened at the sound of his voice. Paimon buttoned the top hole of her blouse and pulled the bed sheet tighter, swaddling her like a child. He’d been in such a rush to move out of the house that he’d forgotten to button his own pants, and his shirt hung lopsided and torn from frantic, bloodied hands.

  Balancing her in a makeshift cradle with one arm, Paimon leaned down and knocked on the ground three times. At first the earth felt quiet, dead, and Paimon feared that he had waited too long to summon the ferryman. Seconds passed like hours, and his fear bred into panic. If the call didn’t go through, they’d die here. And they’d die slow.

  Paimon set Rhea down and made sure that every last inch of her was covered with the blanket. He didn’t want to take the chance of her getting sick, or worse, but when he lifted the blanket over her porcelain face, he felt as if he were losing her all over again. As she lay there, covered head to toe in a blood-stained sheet, she resembled nothing short of a corpse.

  He turned away, his faith faltering.

  The night he killed Marissa, she looked much the same. Wrapped in a sheet, the blanket had sunk into her eyes, and while Paimon dug her grave out behind their house, she lay next to him, a haunting bride dressed in white.

  Paimon looked down at his hands. After centuries of wear and tear, they were still pink with the faded blood of his wife’s lover. While he may not have made Marissa suffer, he took his time with Jacob, shearing him from top to bottom. No one touched his wife, and he certainly wasn’t about to let Jacob die with the scent of Marissa’s sex still on his skin.

  So it had to go.

  Every last piece of it.

  Paimon rubbed his hands together, but knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Some sins weren’t meant to come clean. Some were meant to be worn as reminders.

  Constant reminders.

  His memories were interrupted by a light tapping of knuckles against stone.

  Paimon put his ears to the ice-laden soil. The ground, wet against his ear, licked and French-kissed his neck. Dribbles of water slid down his collarbone as he shivered and clawed at the ground. Come on, come on! The sun began to beat into the side of his face, burning his flesh with a strong backhand. More light shone in through the trees and the canopy looked on fire. A string of vibrations coursed through the frozen floor and sent chills up his legs. His call had been answered.

  The energy was good, strong.

  Charon must be in a fine mood tonight.

  Paimon reached in his pocket for the token and set it on the ground. It was silver and as big as a fifty-cent piece, but the markings reflected the person that held it. Inscribed around the sphere were the initials of the women Paimon had killed during his time on earth. Front and back, the coin was covered. Payment came in many forms in Hell.

  The ground rumbled.

  Cracks formed in the wet soil.

  Paimon picked up Rhea and waited for the stairs to evolve. All around him, steam sprang from the broken slits in the earth and the smell of brimstone filled his nose. Home. The scent actually brought him peace. Stay anywhere long enough and I guess you begin to miss it when you leave. Ice shattered like broken glass as it dropped into the world below him, plunging into the black, still water with a splash.

  Stairs cut into the ground, uneven and misshapen. Paimon swallowed hard. These entranceways didn’t exactly come with a handrail, and when there was another person added into the mix, access became complicated. Getting down to the dock would be a balancing feat.

  Rhea shifted in his arms, her limbs constricted by the blanket she wore as a straightjacket. Paimon secured her the best he could and took a deep breath. The first step looked small, as if only one foot would be able to occupy it at a time. Starting off at a run, eh? Paimon took it fast, afraid that if he spent too much time thinking about it he’d plunge them both into the water, and swimming with those souls wasn’t something he planned on doing today.

  Halfway down, the air became warm and stale. Sweat soaked his underarms and the front of his shirt. It dripped off his brow and into his eyes, a form of torture in itself, as he couldn’t wipe his face. The steps changed in length and height, and by the time he managed to reach the bottom, Rhea’s hair was wet with perspiration, her cheeks
reddened with the Devil’s rouge.

  Paimon gasped for air, choking on the fog as he tore Rhea from her cotton cocoon. Her body, slick with sweat, slid in his arms and it took him a second to realize that she wasn’t breathing.

  Panic seized his chest.

  No. Not now. Not after everything!

  He dropped to the ground and pumped at her chest with his fists. After a few rounds, he took her mouth into his and shot a series of quick breaths down her throat.

  Come on, come on!

  Nothing.

  But he wouldn’t give up.

  Paimon worked back and forth between compression and breaths, but they made no difference. Minutes passed before a hand clamped down on his shoulder and broke him from the spell.

  “She’s not dead, but she can’t be alive down here either,” Charon said. “She’s not one of us.”

  “Then what is she?”

  “You should know. You’re the one who brought her down here! She’s human.”

  “Don’t test me, old man.”

  Charon cackled and then spat onto the ground in front of Paimon’s feet.

  “Oh lighten up, Paimon. It’s a fine day for Passover, don’t you think, collector?”

  The way Charon said Paimon’s title made him cringe. Normally, Paimon wore his identity with pride, but standing here in front of the ferryman, the original collector of souls, made him feel not only inferior, but embarrassed.

  “My apologies, Charon. But what of—”

  Paimon thought carefully about what to call Rhea. Regardless of his status with the Devil, he didn’t want anyone running around spreading rumors of an unwarranted female being brought through the gates. Collectors weren’t supposed to bring back their assignments. That was the groundlings’ job.

  “-of the Devil’s female.”

  “She’ll need payment, just like the rest of you.”

  “But I only have one token.”