The Eighth

by Wytovich, Stephanie

  Booze doesn’t count.

  “The hell it doesn’t,” she said out loud.

  Rhea wiggled her legs under the covers and set the cup in her lap. Her eyes were heavy but the thought of nightmares kept her awake. Insomnia can be a real bitch, but it was nonetheless a safety net to the subconscious thoughts running wild in her head.

  Rhea considered calling Caden, then thought better of it. There were a million conversations she wanted to have with him, each one more daunting than the next. She wasn’t sure if she was afraid to talk to him, or afraid of what he might say back to her.

  Sooner or later, she’d have to face her demons.

  But tonight was not the night.

  Chapter 22

  Paimon smiled through blood and broken bones as he watched Rhea in her bed. With no memory of the night before, she seemed so innocent. A virtue she wore well despite the pain etched onto her face. It would take time for his blood to fully mesh with hers; a binding was never quick. There would be pain and suffering. But the results would be magnificent … as long as she lived.

  The room of his holding cell closed in around him, distracting Paimon from the comfort of Rhea’s thoughts. The dirt floor smelled of urine and feces, and the walls were thick with mold. The design of the cell mirrored a monk’s prayer room, except there was no furniture and nowhere to burn. Paimon sat in a corner, his knees up against his chest as he rocked back and forth. He hoped Rhea could sleep tonight, that one of them could find peace.

  But her eyes.

  They were cold. Not the warm, chestnut brown he’d looked into the night that they mated. She was different now. Older. Wiser. The effect of his blood had aged her, but it didn’t take away her grace. Rhea was still his Marissa, reincarnate. And with her womb full of child, the parallel between her and his wife was impeccable. Yet Rhea didn’t know how beautiful she was. How beautiful they both were. Her and the boy inside her.

  Paimon coughed, spit up blood.

  Screams of the starving and tortured echoed down the hallway. He couldn’t tell how many other people were locked down there with him. Three, maybe four other men? The walls dripped with condensation as if they were crying along with their prisoners. Paimon tried to ignore the men’s pleas, their appeals for forgiveness. Arazel was right. Begging was pathetic. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the sound of their broken voices.

  With his blood running through her veins, he turned back into Rhea’s surroundings, everything more vivid now that their bodies worked in sync. He’d give anything to be with her one last time. To put his hand on her stomach and feel their child move within her. He ached for her, both in his heart and between his legs. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Not again.

  And how was it supposed to end? said the voice.

  “I-I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore,” he said.

  You know exactly what you need to know.

  The air was thick and moist. It hurt to breathe. His ribs—at least one or two—were still broken, and the stiffness in his jaw worried him. It usually didn’t take this long for him to heal. He straightened his back against the wall and heard it crack. The pop in his bones felt good, but his muscles wept.

  “I know death. And I know what it means to betray the Devil. There’s no going back.”

  Then don’t go back. Move forward.

  Sweat licked Paimon’s back.

  “How?”

  Renounce him.

  “The Devil? I could never. He’s my father.”

  A father that betrayed you.

  Paimon thought back to the moment he first saw Rhea, naked and sprawled on the bed in front of him. Notan offering, but a trap. One that the Devil knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.

  “I can’t,” said Paimon, hanging his head in shame. Part of him felt this was what he deserved for betraying his master. That death was the only true punishment for what he’d done. But the other part, the hidden part, boiled at the onset of rage at Lucifer’s distrust of him. After all they’d been through, every collection, every death, every feeding, he had the audacity to tempt him. To trick him. And for what? Amusement?

  As we can only serve the willing, we cannot help you.

  “No one can.”

  A whistle rang through the walls, soft and lyrical. A lullaby. The melody settled in his ears and filled him up.

  You’re wrong, said the voice. We can.

  Now the melody sounded familiar. Like something he’d heard in a dream. His eyelids grew heavy as the room began to fade. A blackness crept upon him, embracing him with open arms. Paimon started to drift. His last thoughts were of Rhea.

  ‡‡‡

  A plate of food lay turned over beneath the slot in the door. A tri-colored slop of brown, red and black mixed with the floor’s grime. Paimon turned his head from the pungent smell of rot.

  “It about time you woke up,” said a voice from the shadows.

  Paimon rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around. The room was small. Barely large enough for him, let alone another person. He reached out but grabbed emptiness. Where are you? His body felt heavy and when he tried to stand, found that one of his legs were asleep.

  “Easy now. I wouldn’t get up too fast if I were you,” said the voice.

  Arazel.

  A hint of cinnamon wafted past him.

  Paimon sighed. His chest stung, but not from shattered bones. Pain peppered his breath with stale vomit and the tang of of iron. “How long have I been out?”

  “About a week,” Arazel said as she looked into a neighboring cell.

  “That long?”

  “Yes. I’ve been watching you, making sure you didn’t die.”

  Paimon ran his hand along his mouth, reliving the impact of her fist. Sweet sin, did that woman have a right hook, and there was no doubt that she’d been waiting for a moment like that to present itself for some time. All she needed was for someone to give her permission, and once the Devil had done that, it was lights out. “Why would you care if I died or not?”

  Arazel materialized at his door. Red fingernails wove between the iron bars. Her blood-red eyes glowed in the darkness.

  “I didn’t know he would do this,” she said, a tinge of hurt in her voice.

  “Liar.”

  “I swear. Yes, I was angry with you, but I didn’t think he’d… I didn’t think—”

  “No. You didn’t,” said Paimon. He turned away. Though he had no one to blame but himself for his actions, he took comfort in her sadness. Misery loves its company.

  Arazel dropped her voice to a whisper. Her scarlet lips trembling as the words left her mouth. “He’s preparing for the ceremony. We don’t have much time. Days at most.”

  “Then leave me to my prayers. I wish to make peace with my sins.”

  “But what of your female?”

  Paimon swallowed his shock.

  “Excuse me?”

  Arazel nodded. Her crimson hair blanketed her face. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and for the first time, Paimon noticed the marks on her neck. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from them. Only one level of demon wore those marks, and they were an insult as much as they were a privilege. No. A blood slave? She couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. That would put her at risk for binding, and if she ended up bound to the Devil….

  “It’s true,” she said. Her eyes avoided him.

  “Lucifer?”

  “Yes.”

  Paimon forced himself to stand and went to the door. He took her hands in his. “When did this happen?”

  A quiet sob broke through her voice. “A few months ago. I was leading the troops back to the feeding ground after we’d swept the desert for bodies. He took me then.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek, but she remained a picture of strength.

  “Oh, Arazel.”

  “I’ve accepted my role, and my vein is his when he calls for it.”

  “But the memories. You see his, don’t you? How do you handle it?” />
  “How do you handle yours? Everyone has their demons, Paimon. Including me. You burn yours away. I bury mine the only way I know how.”

  Through lust.

  “I can’t burn in here,” he said.

  “No. These cells were designed for their inhabitants to suffer. And the Devil rarely listens to the prayers whispered inside these walls.”

  A violent scream filled the air.

  Arazel squeezed his hands. “Look. We don’t have much time. Take this.” She slipped two crumbled pieces of parchment into his hand. Paimon let his fingers rest on hers—seeking contact, comfort—but she pulled her hand away. “Read them carefully and do exactly what they say. I’ll be here tomorrow at dawn. Be ready.”

  She brought his hands to her lips and kissed them. A door slammed and she jumped. “Tomorrow,” she said. And then she was gone.

  Paimon shrank back into his corner. His mind ran in circles as he tried to process everything that had just happened. Rhea’s still alive. Arazel’s a blood slave. His world began to unravel. There was only one reason the Devil would take a blood slave: he’s dying. Which puts the throne at risk. But who would be foolish enough to challenge the maker of Hell?

  The parchments rubbed against his palm. He unfolded them. They were fine, fragile and he moved slow so he didn’t rip them. Reading over her words, the lead pit in his stomach began to take shape again.

  No.

  Arazel’s words stunned him.

  Paimon folded one piece of parchment and shoved it into his mouth. The ink bled onto his tongue and slid in a bitter stream down his throat. He swallowed the parchment and moved to his knees, tucking away the other note in his pants pocket. Whether or not his prayers would be answered, Paimon bowed his head. He would need all the strength of sin to pull this off. They both would.

  He began to pray.

  “Bless me my sins….”

  There was much to do.

  Chapter 23

  Rhea heaved into the bucket. Her throat was burned raw from the constant acidic waste. The last heave had carried a decent amount of blood, too. She’d been vomiting on and off for about two weeks, and when she wasn’t, nausea bred within her like the plague. Her diet consisted mostly of toast and water, and if she felt especially daring, she’d slip in a saltine. Her fever rose and fell with the day and night, and constipation built in her, leaving her swollen.

  Kris walked into the bedroom with a batch of fresh linens and towels that smelled like lavender. She set them down on the dresser and looked at Rhea, looking half-dead in her bed. Worry spread across her face.

  “You can’t stay like this forever. You need help.”

  “I’m not going to a doctor.”

  “A doctor’? Frankly, I don’t know how you’re still alive. We need to get you to the hospital.”

  “I’m fine, Kris. It’s probably just something I ate.” Rhea had dismissed the hangover theory about three days in. Part of her wondered whether some of this was due to a spell of alcohol withdrawal. The last time she saw Casler, they’d danced around the idea of rehab, but Rhea thought it was ridiculous. She could stop anytime she wanted. Like now. She wasn’t the one with the problem. Caden was.

  Sweat wet her brow. Her face felt on fire, and she imagined her cheeks were flushed crimson despite the rest of her looking pale as a ghost. Even her hands seemed withered and frail. She feared that she’d fold in on herself. Disappear completely.

  “Look, I’m putting my foot down here. We’re going to the hospital.”

  Rhea wiped her mouth.

  “You can’t make me.”

  “And you’re too weak to fight me,” said Kris.

  Prideful. Both of them.

  Rhea watched the room around her turn violet.

  Rhea stared at Kris. The world buzzed around her, vibrating with thoughts. Her surroundings blurred and she saw indigo. Wrath. A voice that wasn’t hers slid from her mouth like crushed velvet. Rage spread within her, filling her up. She began to shake. “I hate you.”

  “Really? You hate me?” said Kris. “How mature.”

  Drool slid down Rhea’s chin and her mouth bubbled with spit. Rhea’s eyes rolled back in her head, as if trying to look at the monster within. What’s happening to me? She tried to reach out for her sister—I didn’t mean it! That wasn’t me!—but her neck twitched and she lost control of her body, her arms and legs as rigid as a board. What she assumed was a seizure took her fast, her body jack-hammering underneath the sheets, and the last thing she heard was Kris screaming.

  ‡‡‡

  Rhea struggled to come back. Hands were on her chest, pushing on her lungs. “Switch me,” said a voice. Lips pressed against hers. Air shoved its way down her throat. “She’s still not breathing!”

  She heard the crackle of a Velcro patch coming undone and the steady beep of a machine. Men were pulling at her shirt, their hands cold and clamy. Why is Kris letting them touch me like this? Something sticky was placed on her chest, right above her breasts.

  “Ready.”

  “Administering shock,” said the robotic voice of the machine.

  Shock?

  A volt of electricity jolted through her chest like lighting on a warm, summer night. Her body reached into the air, chest first, and then slammed back down on the gurney. “Again,” said the man.

  “Administering shock.”

  No. Not again.

  Electricity flew from her brain to her eyes and Rhea jolted upright, her mouth open wide in a silent scream. When she hit the gurney, she gasped for breath.

  “There we go,” said the man. “Welcome back.”

  Rhea tried to open her eyes but they were heavy with exhaustion. The world around her flitted in and out as she fought the voice in her head that tried to lure her back into the darkness. Stay awake. Just focus on the sound. The gurney wheels creaked as they pushed through doors and the shuffle of footsteps made Rhea question how many people were with her.

  “Kris?” said Rhea, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Right here. I’m right here.”

  Hands were on her again, pushing underneath her back and lifting her up. She landed on a bed with cardboard blankets and a too stiff pillow. She eased her eyes open but the white of the room hurt her eyes. It was a big mostly empty room, and aside from her bed and the small table next to it, there was nothing but an IV machine, an ajar door that lead to a tiny bathroom, and a single, fluorescent light above her that cracked and sputtered as if it was ready to explode. A curtain was half-pulled around her bed, but Rhea still saw the outlines of the people behind it. They were talking fast, and sounded concerned. The buzz in her head made it sound as if they were speaking in tongues.

  You’re all talking too fast, too LOUD! I can’t understand anything you’re saying!

  The smell of Lysol and bleach hung in the air, and there was another smell, one that she couldn’t quite place. It was something foul, something that smelled like burning. Rhea looked above her and saw a crucifix hanging above the bed. Strange. Is that even allowed in here? From her position on the bed, the crucifix was upside down and the Christ figure nailed to it looked angry. His frown dripped off his face and his eyes refused to make contact with hers, and when Rhea reached to touch it, her arm started to shake.

  “What happened?”

  Kris sat down next to Rhea on the bed and took her shaking hand in her own.

  “They’re not sure. They want to run some tests. Keep you overnight for observation.”

  The thought of staying in the hospital all night didn’t sit well with Rhea. She didn’t like the feel of this place and the smell! How were the others even breathing?

  Only those close to Hell themselves can smell death, a voice said.

  Rhea’s muscles clenched as she pushed back against the headboard. She’d heard that voice before. But where? A doctor appeared at her bedside and shined a bright light into her eyes. She could feel everything: her pupils constricting, the rays of light bouncing off her
skin, the rubber touch of latex gloves against her cheek. She could even feel the concern of doctor checking her over. But there were no colors, no auras. In this room, there was only white.

  “Response is good,” said the doctor.

  Someone scribbled something down on paper and the grinding sound of lead was almost too much to bear. “Please, stop that,” said Rhea.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re too loud.”

  She laid her head back down on the cinder block pillow and tried to place the voice in her head. It was smooth, like velvet and cream. Feminine. Seductive yet repellant. It sent chills down her arms and filled her chest—and other areas—with heat. Rhea moaned. Where do I know you from? Where have I felt you before? The heat moved up her body and set small fires on her skin. Rhea came alive with warmth and spread her legs. Her hand trailed gently down her stomach, in between her thighs and then….

  More writing.

  Capillaries broke and filled Rhea’s eyes with red as the whole room turned crimson.

  “I said fucking stop it!”

  The doctor jumped back and stared at her in shock. His pencil hit the floor, causing Rhea to scream. She kicked and punched at the air, her skin now a deep, purplish red. Veins rose to the surface of her arms, seemingly wanting to pop right out of her skin. It took four nurses to restrain her and even then, one was left with a bloody nose.

  A group of aides entered the room and took over the scene. The doctor stood speechless. Kris picked up his pencil. “I’m really sorry about that. She’s normally not like this,” said Kris. She swallowed hard and looked over at Rhea.

  “Don’t look at me, cunt. This is your fault!”

  Kris I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.

  The doctor turned to Kris, accepting the pencil and her apology.

  “It’s fine. Don’t-don’t worry about it,” he said. His gaze trailed off to the side.” Has your sister done anything out of the ordinary lately? Anything that would cause such a stark change in her behavior?”