“It’s not about us.”
Paimon looked at her, confused. Then what’s it about?
Her eyes were struggling to stay open. She coughed again, and there was more blood. He couldn’t stop to wipe her mouth; the blood dripped down her chin and onto her neck, painting a crimson line into her cleavage.
“There are things in the forest, people who I used to know. They won’t be kind to us.”
Each step took more effort than the last. Arazel shifted in his arms. Her face disguised panic well. He could hear the fear in voice, but there wasn’t a trace of dread anywhere in her eyes. Such strength. He wished he could cope with agony as well as she did.
“And how—”
His foot sank into a soft patch of earth that grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him down, dragging him back to the river. With one arm holding Azazel, Paimon clawed and tore at the ground with his free hand, trying to find anything to anchor them, but he was no match for the attacker whose face still hide beneath the waves.
“Paimon! What—”
The water rushed them fast in an attempt to drown them, the river, a now bigger threat than the circle that awaited them.
Paimon fought the rushing water as it filled his mouth and lungs, but he couldn’t hold onto Arazel, not with the river’s tendrils wrapping around his hands and feet pulling him down deeper and deeper…
His body, unable to fight, floated away as the water climbed his chest. It pushed down on him with the weight of ten men as it held him captive in its watery prison. No! His ears clogged from the pressure as bacteria slithered into his mouth. Arazel’s hair fanned out in a burst of red as the water carried her away from him.
“Let us in and we’ll save her,” the voice said. “Or else the souls who live in this river will eat well tonight.”
The hands of the river tightened their grasp around Paimon’s throat. His mind grew hazy and the more he clutched at his neck, the harder the hands squeezed.
Unconsciousness began to kiss his cheek, his lips, his eyes.
“You won’t make it without her, you know. You need her, and you need us.”
Paimon choked as he gulped down the murky water, swallowing the blackout as it spread throughout his body. Disease clung to the roof of his mouth. Infection dove down his throat. Water stung his eyes and burned them like the fire that raged in the sky. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t, and that made everything worse.
Arazel laid her life down for me, was willing to offer her body so I wouldn’t hurt. It’s not fair for me to let her go like this. She deserves better.
“Say it, Paimon,” said the voice. “Say yes to sin.”
He tried to speak but the river forced him mute. With no way to talk, the crushing hurt of his failure overtook him. I’m sorry, Arazel, Rhea. I tried. I tried to be better for you both. The light in his mind faded and the voices quieted. Noting but silence surrounded him.
You won’t win, Lucifer. I won’t let you. Not for this.
‡‡‡
The Seven watched Paimon give in to the darkness and submit to his pain. Their black cloaks remained dry even as they stood on top of the water. Each step they took brought ice, leaving behind a trail of frozen footsteps as they moved closer to their victim. The water cracked and shook like half-frozen ice cubes loose in their tray.
“Does that count as submission?” said Sloth.
“It was close enough for me,” said Lust. “I’d take him.”
Greed laughed. “Of course you would.”
Lust shot him an evil look.
“He did promise war in his final words,” said Wrath.
“But his arrogance prevented him from accepting our offer,” said Pride.
The hands that held Paimon in place—the souls of those who took their lives by drowning—lessened as Gluttony approached them. “He’s close though. He just needs something bigger to wet his appetite.” He turned back to his brothers and sisters. “Envy, why don’t you go ahead and talk to our friends in the forest. Let them know who’s coming their way.”
Envy smiled, her face flushed green with joy.
“Brilliant plan, brother,” she said. “By the time they’re done with him, he’ll be coming to us.”
Chapter 31
Rhea slid down the wall and onto the floor, reeling from the Devil’s words last words: “No one denies me.” She drew her knees to her chest and hugged herself, taking refuge in the position she curled her body into. She spat a glob of blood onto the floor and wiped spittle from her mouth. What is happening to me? She placed her hands on her stomach. Am I really pregnant? Rhea lifted the hospital gown and inspected her stomach. There were bruises from her navel down, the skin colored purple, green and yellow. Her once flat stomach bulged and there was a set of horseshoe prints right above her pelvis.
Rhea put her head between her legs.
Just breathe.
In the corner of the room the desk lamp flickered, catching her eye. Static popped and fizzed and the glow of the bulb grew bright with fluorescent energy. A steady hum moved through the room and seemed to settle in her head. Its vibrations built until the light exploded in a shatter of sparks and hot glass.
Rhea covered her face, protecting herself from the debris. Glass shards scattered onto the floor. They seemed to whisper to her, to pick them up and use them, to rub them against her skin and feel the rush of the cut. I wonder what it would feel like. She grabbed a piece and held it close to her face. The tip was sharp and it nicked her thumb as she caressed the edge. Memories of her mother flashed in her mind and she saw the marks on her mother’s arms, the scars on her legs. She remembered watching her mom clutch the razor so hard that she dug deep enough to hit bone. Kris called the cops that night, and her mother never set foot in their house again.
Gainston stood silent in the doorway as she tried to climb back out of her memories.
“Rhea? What are you doing?” said Gainston. He approached her slowly, one hand outstretched. “Give me the glass.”
He turned the overhead light on, and his hand to his mouth. “Christ.” A small pool of blood sat beside Rhea.
“He-he said, he said that—”
Gainston came closer and got down on his knees. “Who said what?” He reached out a again, but she looked away.
Rhea’s voice shook as she stumbled over words. Spit bubbled in the corner of her mouth and dripped down her chin. “He said that I would bur-”
Her body seized. Rhea hit the ground hard, her body slapping the floor like a wet slab of meat.
“Shit.”
Gainston grabbed her head as convulsions continued racking her body. Rhea’s chest was elevated into the air as her skin leaked a cool sweat. “It’s ok. It’s ok. Ride it out,” Gainston said, the palms of his hands against her temples. “Fuck, somebody help me!”
Two female nurses entered the room as Gainston rolled Rhea onto her side so she didn’t swallow her tongue.
Seven pairs of eyes watched Rhea from the corner of the hospital room. Rhea tried to close her eyes, but even as they rolled back into her head, yellow eyes took their place, a steady presence inside her skull. She didn’t like the way they looked at her—through her—and the longer they stared, the more frightened she became. What do you want? What do you want from me? Rhea shook as heat licked her arms and danced on her shoulders. Her skin blackened and began to singe as if fire burned. Make it stop! Make it stop! The pain was sublime yet angry. The yellow eyes that watched her laughed.
“Don’t fear us, Rhea,” said The Seven. “We’re only here to watch.”
The convulsions began to dissipate. Rhea’s thoughts silenced. The Seven were there, huddled around her and watching, talking. They were in each other’s heads—in her head—and she couldn’t help but listen.
“…a group of them, on their way. How shall we handle it?”
“We don’t interfere.”
Their voices were different—some male, some female—but they sounded the same as if they were connected in tone,
in pitch, in accent. They were one but they were many.
“…she could die.”
“Then she dies.”
Dies?
A nurse wet Rhea’s forehead with a cold towel that steamed from the heat. “Christ, she’s on fire.” She dropped the towel and Gainston grabbed it, covering his hands in the damp cloth.
The voices in Rhea’s head died off like smoke in the wind, and paranoia hit fast. I don’t want to die. A swell of guilt rose in her chest and she knew it was time to make a decision.
“When are we moving her to psychiatrics? We can’t help her here.”
“I know,” said Gainston. “But we can’t do anything until morning. Dr. Felton said to keep her here.”
“What, so he can get a few more hours of sleep?”
Gainston sighed.
“Just keep her alive. The seizures seem to be getting worse and her eyes…”
“Like blood mixed with spilled milk,” the nurse said.
Rhea moaned.
Her throat, filled with ashes, tasted bitter against the hot black spit that trickled down her mouth. She gagged from the smell of burning, while her vision blurred red, speckled with crimson dots that danced in front of her. She tried to rub them from her eyes, but her fingertips burned.
She could hear the nurses talking about her—did they think she couldn’t? —and she wanted to grab them and wrap her hands around their necks and squeeze. Why would no one help her, help them both?
The child!
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
Everyone stopped. The nature of Rhea’s eyes and body suddenly became less interesting.
“What did you say?” said Gainston.
Rhea swallowed hard—the ashes bled and clumped together into her spit—and she tried to compose herself. Sound convincing.“I said I’m pregnant,” she said through a cough.
More black spittle trickled down the corner of her mouth.
“That’s impossible, Rhea,” Gainston said.
“It’s not though,” she said. “Look.”
Rhea started to lift up her gown to show them the horseshoe prints, but the nurses pushed her hands down to keep her from exposing herself.
“Get off me, I’m serious,” said Rhea. “I just want to show you my stomach.”
“Sweetie, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know damn well what I’m doing, you fucking cunt!”
Not again.
The baby kicked, hard.
Gainston took her hand and helped her stand up. Her legs shook with fatigue, but he caught her when she slipped. Her hands flew to her stomach as she screamed.
“What is it?”
“He’s hurting me.”
“Rhea—”
“I’m serious! You have to believe me,” she said. “Please.”
Gainston led her to the bed. “All right, all right. Here, let’s just sit down.” Rhea eased onto the bed and sank into the mattress.
Her left eye started to twitch and her muscles clenched.
The baby moved inside her, sloshing around and clawing against her uterine wall as if it were trying to get out. Rhea bit her lip and drew blood.
“Here—” said one of the nurses as she moved to help Rhea.
“No,” said Gainston to the nurses. “Let her be. She can do it herself.”
Rhea pulled up her gown and looked down at her bruised and dimpled flesh. Her stomach held an ugly growth, a fullness she wasn’t used too. The stains of broken capillaries littered her skin and dried blood painted the inside of her thighs. Tears wet her eyes.
“I don’t know when it started, but it hurts so bad.”
Gainston’s brows furrowed and from the slight collapse of his skin, it was obvious he was biting his cheek.
“At first I thought it was alcohol poisoning. I couldn’t stop throwing up,” Rhea said. “But then he—”
Gainston took her hand in his. “Rhea, stop.”
“What?”
“Are you tired? Would you like something to help you sleep?”
“Sleep? Why aren’t you listening to me?” she said. “Can’t you see that something is wrong with me? That there’s something inside me?”
“Rhea, please…”
“No. I thought you were different. That you believed me,” Rhea said. “Where’s that other guy at? Felton? I-I want to talk to him.”
Gainston motioned for the nurses and approached the bed.
“Felton will be here in the morning. Until then, why don’t you just try to relax?”
Anger built inside her.
Blood dripped down her legs onto the hospital-white sheets.
“Do you not see this,” she said, pointing to her stomach. “This thing is fucking killing me and you’re telling me to go to sleep?”
The nurses exchanged uneasy looks.
“Rhea, there’s nothing there,” said Gainston. “No bump, no bulge. You’re not pregnant, but you are sick, and I can’t help you until you start telling me what’s really going on.”
The world inside Rhea’s head grew quiet.
How can he say that? Why can’t he see it? I’m twice my size and there are fucking hoof prints painted on the side of my stomach. I’m not making it up—I’m looking at it right now!
“You don’t see it?”
“There’s nothing to see, Rhea,” said Gainston. “We’ve ran the tests, We’ve done the bloodwork. You’re not pregnant.”
“I-I don’t know what’s going on then,” Rhea said as she sank back into her pillows.
Gainston nodded to the nurses in understanding as they approached the bed.
“We’ll find the answers,” Gainston said as he took her hand in his. “I’m not giving up on you. But in the meantime, I’m going to give you something to help you relax.”
A tear rolled down Rhea’s cheek as a nurse swabbed her arm.
“You won’t feel a thing,” the nurse said as she inserted the needle into Rhea’s arm.
“No, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ll feel everything.”
Chapter 32
Rhea woke up several hours later, alone.
There’s nothing there.
There’s nothing there.
Rhea stared at her naked body. How could they not see it? Welts covered her navel. Infection burrowed between her legs. I have to get out of here. No one was going to help her. Kris thought she was an alcoholic. Gainston had her pegged for the psych ward. As usual, the only person Rhea could depend on was herself.
Not Caden.
Not Jayme.
She hoped they were enjoying themselves while she rotted away in a hospital bed. Why me? Why was I chosen for this life? What did I do to deserve this? There were no answers. Whatever God she believed in had stopped listening to her months ago. But not before he’d punished her.
The child inside her had grown still. Maybe it’s sleeping?
Rhea ran through scenarios in her head. If she stayed here, she’d die. But what other choice did she have?
You can leave, said a voice.
The darkness embraced her.
“How?”
You just get up and do it.
Rhea looked around. The sound of her heartbeat was loud in her ears, and light crept in from underneath the closed bedroom door. Dim light, but light.
No one is out there, said the voice.
“But how do you—”
Because I do.
She got out of bed, and when her feet touched the floor, a chill shocked her skin. Her thoughts spun in circles, weaving consequences in her head. An IV was attached to her arm.
Just slide it out, nice and easy. Pain is a different type of pleasure, said a different voice, a female voice.
No, just rip it out, said another.
Moonlight struck the saline bag and lit it up. Rhea stared at it, lost in the glow. The tip of the needle in her arm was hidden under a piece of yellow tape, and when she tugged at it, the tape caught on her arm hair. Ouch. She ripped it of
f quickly. Her skin eased back into place, reddened. There you are. Rhea took hold of the needle tip.
Yes, do it, cried the voices.
Invisible hands clamped down over her mouth as she yanked the IV from her arm. They were hot and cold, wet and dry. She tasted salt and smelled fire. Ah. Rhea sucked back a wince as the tip of the needle slid out from her vein. She dropped it on the bed and blinked back tears.
The room was quiet.
The hands were gone from her mouth.
Rhea was alone—if she had ever been alone in that room to begin with—and before her thoughts could catch up with the panic rising in her chest, she had opened the hospital room door and was halfway down the hallway, a white vibrating blur as she hugged the wall.
Paranoia raced through her head as she looked for an exit.
The staircase wasn’t far and the elevator wasn’t an option. More likely to run into somewhere there. Or get stuck. Can’t get stuck. So she ran for the stairs that led to the outside world, to the freedom and the absence of white rooms and unwanted visitors. But she didn’t run fast. Not now that the child was moving inside of her again.
The red EXIT sign buzzed above her as she reached for the door.
Rhea pushed on the metal bar, slowly so the lock didn’t clang, and rammed her shoulder into the door. It was heavy and the effort took more energy than she’d anticipated. It was almost as if someone on the other side pushed against her, trying to prevent her from coming through. But she did, using fear and adrenaline as a motivator. So many stairs. Like a Piranesi etching, the concrete slabs zigzagged in sharp, abrupt angles, and the consistency of the cycle made her head spin. Rhea backed up against the door and held her stomach. She tasted vomit in the back of her throat.
Everything hurt.
She spread her legs and bent down, fingernails digging into her knees and leaving crescents in her skin. Rhea took three deep breaths and counted to ten.
One.
Two.
Three.
The lights started flickering.
Four.
Five.
Six.
A high-pitched cackle lifted the hair on her neck and forced her eyes to the ceiling. The stairwell contorted as levels bled into one another as the laughing grew louder.
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