The Eighth

by Wytovich, Stephanie

  And she did.

  Rhea’s body jackknifed in the air, drunk and possessed by his blood. The hooks moved into her stomach, sewing up her organs and filling her cavity with fresh meat. The more Paimon bled, the more Rhea moved. That’s it. Come back to me, Rhea. His body weakened, and he collapsed on the ground.

  The hooks closed up her chest, using Paimon’s veins as thread. Her eyes were open, but they were cloudy orbs, gray and full of storms. He knew she couldn’t see him; surely though, she could feel him?

  She has to know. This time, she has to remember.

  Paimon recited his prayers as he crawled over to her, his body dying the more it tried to repair itself like it did after his burning sessions. His skin tried to bind the gaping hole that was his chest, and his blood bubbled and spit like water in his open chest trying to escape a dried, rusted spigot.

  Paimon placed his hand on her stomach as the hooks sank back into the ground. The bumps of the stitching rose to meet his palm and he admired the work that invisible hands had crafted, even though they’d left scars. The remnants of his veins were tied into neat little knots that bunched together like wet cherries against her breasts. Paimon thought how delectable it would be to lick them, roll them around in his mouth, and then bite the heads off.

  Of the veins that is.

  The world started to spin and Paimon lay down in her lap, exhausted and only half-alive. But even as he rested, he fell, if the ground had opened and pulled him under, sweeping him up in a black cloud that stole his will to move, his will to be.

  He stared at Rhea, taking in the curve of her jaw, the curl of her hair. She was beautiful, perfect. But he hated seeing her in pain. He wished that he could take it away. That he could drink her sadness and replace it with joy.

  Like I know anything of joy.

  Paimon jumped as something stirred against his hand.

  No way. It’s not possible.

  But her skin reached out to him as if tiny fists tried to punch their way out. Paimon lay there, stunned, as bruises formed and the child started to scream.

  Her womb was alive.

  Rhea’s eyes lightened and her breathing stilled.

  “Shhhh,” she said, coming back. She dropped her hands down to rest on her navel and brushed against Paimon’s fingertips.

  Paimon lay there, shocked. Is she doing this on purpose? She intertwined her fingers with his and held his hand against her stomach. The child moved furiously under their touch.

  “Shhhh,” she said again and then started to hum. Her voice cracked as she sang her death-song lullaby, but the child calmed down.

  “That’s it, Aiden,” she said. “That’s my boy.”

  Aiden? She named the child.

  Paimon couldn’t hide his happiness even though he couldn’t physically smile. The hooks had ruined his lips and his body was slow to recover. This is nothing like what happens after my burning sessions. Even through the ripped flesh and exposed bone, he imagined his eyes were bright with a father’s glow and with Rhea, the mother of his child, singing to their son, he couldn’t think of any time he’d been happier.

  He knew she wouldn’t betray him.

  He knew that she was the one.

  This proved it.

  He closed his eyes and listened to her voice. It was soft, sweet. Paimon’s mouth hung open at a crooked angle, and the shower crawled inside his mouth and rested on his tongue. The moisture—the wetness—felt good.

  His mind wandered.

  Maybe too far.

  Paimon pictured Rhea against his mouth, recalled how she’d leaned into him—into his tongue—and squirmed on the bed as he’d licked at her sex. He thought back to the first time he touched her. How she’d spread her legs to him and pulled him inside. There was want, pleasure, need. Lord, he would give anything to experience that again.

  She squeezed his hand.

  “I can’t wait to see him, Lucifer.”

  Lucifer? What in Hell’s name?

  “He’s going to be strong. I know it.”

  Rhea let go of his hand and reached for his face. Paimon couldn’t move. She thought he was the Devil? How was that even possible? And after everything they’d shared? After he’d given her his body, his soul…

  “Yes. He is,” a voice said.

  Sulfur.

  Paimon smelled him before he saw him.

  The Devil walked closer to Paimon and smiled.

  “She is quite beautiful,” he said. “I can see why you’re so fond of her.”

  “Leave her alone,” Paimon said. “Please. She’s been through enough.”

  Lucifer reached down to Rhea and took her hand. “Yes, she really has. But whose fault is that? I sent you to do a collection, and yet you had to complicate things by sticking your fifthly sins in her.”

  “I love her,” said Paimon.

  “Love,” said Lucifer. “That Paimon, is why you’re in Hell.”

  The Devil motioned to the horde. “Take him to the gathering hall,” he said. “I’d like a moment alone with her.”

  The demons laughed.

  And then they were on Paimon.

  Dragging him back to Hell.

  ‡‡‡

  The Devil sat down next to Rhea and kissed her hands, graced her fingertips with his lips. Sweet hellfire, she is lovely. Her naked body seemed to dance before him as she pushed herself up and stared into his eyes. Her eyes were a maelstrom of darkness. She was close, not fully committed, but she would be soon. He knew she would reconsider. Everyone turns to him eventually. They all want to make the deal.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Stupid.”

  “Why is that?”

  He took one of Rhea’s fingers in his mouth and she moaned. She ran her hands over her body’s new scars and closed her eyes. How am I still alive? The Devil took her in his arms and she rested her head against his chest.

  “I should have said yes when you asked me.”

  “When I asked you what?”

  He let his hands rest on her waist and she tensed at his touch. A small sigh escaped her lips and the Devil wanted nothing more than to take her there, take her half-broken and at her wit’s end. With the baby inside of her, it would be like having a threesome, two pairs of hands on him at once.

  “Rhea? What did I ask you?”

  She bit her lip. “You asked for the child.”

  “Do you agree?”

  “No,” she said. “But I’m willing to make a deal with you.”

  The Devil smiled. I knew I chose you for a reason.

  “And what would that be, my dear?”

  He nuzzled into her neck as he tongued and pulled at her earlobe. She tasted of exhaustion and weakness.

  “I want you to take me, too.”

  “You’re asking for Death?”

  “No. I’m asking to be reborn, to live next to you as your partner, your companion.”

  He wasn’t expecting that.

  “You’re a clever girl, Rhea Harmon,” he said. “It’s a good thing you’re beautiful. I have a weakness for beautiful girls.”

  “So we have a deal?”

  “Birth me the child, and we’ll talk again.”

  “No. I’d sooner kill this child than depend on your word.”

  The Devil smirked. Well played.

  “You’ll do well by my side. And as it is, I seem to be in need of a new blood slave. And your blood--” said the Devil, “smells delicious.”

  She brought her face up to the Devils and he felt her warm breath on his chin. This girl continues to die and yet she holds the fire of lust in her eyes. It would be nice to have someone like that to die with. The Devil couldn’t believe what he was about to do. It seemed unnatural and entirely surreal. But he wanted the child, and he could think of worse things than taking the female as his mistress, as his blood whore.

  “Fine,” he said. “Consider it a deal, Ms. Harmon.”

  Rhea smiled and fell back against his chest.

  “Sh
all we kiss on it then?” he said. “Seal the deal, as it were?”

  Rhea opened her mouth and took him in.

  But as their tongues began to dance, every memory Rhea had lost at the lake when Charon wiped her mind clean came back. As she took Hell down her throat, she watched herself kill Caden and Jayme, saw Paimon climb on top of her and take her virginity. Fire. Blood. Murder. The Devil gave it all back to her.

  When he pulled away she was limp in his arms, asleep.

  “You can’t come to Hell unless you know your sins,” the Devil said. “But all in due time, my child. Now let’s get you back to the hospital,” he said. “We can’t have you birthing a child in the circles now can we?” The Devil laughed. “I may have my faults, but even I know what’s best for my son.”

  And as he walked away, he started to hum his favorite lullaby.

  The Devil decided that fatherhood would suit him well.

  Chapter 37

  Paimon didn’t fight. What would be the point? What did he have to live for besides more pain?

  The imps dragged him through the gatehouse and into the gathering hall, his body a battered sack, his wounds collecting brimstone and ash.

  The sky burned and the rivers ran red.

  His body raked over the cobblestone streets, each stone a punch to his spine. His skin hung off him like old, scratched scabs and his upper lip was busted and bleeding from where one of the imps had caught him in the face with a left-hook. And hooks they were. Their claws dug into him, pierced him like long, silver fishing lures.

  Bait.

  It seemed appropriate.

  The Devil had this all planned from the very beginning. He only needed someone foolish enough to go up and plant the seed so he could watch the madness flow.

  Control yourself, said the voice.

  Wrath.

  Paimon was able to recognize him among The Seven. Him and Lust. The two went hand in hand like absinthe and sugar.

  Why bother?

  Because there is a time and place for vengeance, said Wrath. Trust me, I know.

  The imps pushed through the full crowd, shoving and barreling as the other demons followed close behind, desperate to get a look at the betrayer. Paimon was careful to avoid the stares and disgusted looks of his brothers and sisters, some of whom spat on him, others kicking him as he was dragged by.

  When he looked up, he saw her.

  Arazel. Lord, no.

  She was tied to the whipping post on stage, her hands bound above her head, her feet shackled to the ground. Her naked body was bruised, and blood dripped down her navel and onto her sex. Her red hair was wet and plastered to her face, but not from water. Those foul, insignificant bastards. Their semen dried white on the tips of her crimson locks and her left eye was swollen shut, her right barely open.

  Was this the work of the horde or of the souls in the forest?

  The imps roared as they flung him onto the stage, the same stage where he’d made the deal with the Devil all those years ago. But he’d been a child then. An orphan looking for a father.

  Arazel lifted her weary gaze and glanced in his direction. Blood smeared down her face and collected in the bags under her eyes. Her lips quivered. She shook from the chill of the air as ash collected on her shoulders. In another world, another time, she might have been the witch that survived the trails, the sorceress that used her magic to charm her way out of her bonds.

  Except in Hell there were not trials.

  One was always guilty.

  The only decision to be made concerned punishment.

  The imps quieted and fell to their knees. Like Moses spreading the Red Sea, the Devil walked through the center of the crowd, an ocean of black following him as the sky died down, its fire simmering at his presence. The ash stopped falling midair, and Hell silenced as the Devil walked on stage to address his children.

  “My children, my brothers and sisters,” he said, his gaze directed at Paimon. “We are here tonight in mourning for two of own have betrayed us.”

  What is he doing?

  “Paimon, my son, has a thing for women,” he said. The crowd laughed, cheering him on. “And he has a hard-on for redheads.”

  No.

  The Devil walked over to Paimon, his sewn-flesh robe billowing behind him. “Get up.”

  The demons laughed harder, taking special pleasure in his choice of words. They jumped on each other’s backs, pushed and shoved each other like little children on a playground, antsy and ready for the game to begin.

  Paimon hung his head and tried to ignore their howls.

  “I said get up,” said the Devil.

  “No.”

  Pain exploded in his stomach as Lucifer’s foot entered his stomach. Only half-healed and barely stitched together, Paimon shrieked as the Devil removed his foot, bloody and covered in mucous. A vein wrapped around his heel like a wet noodle, and for a moment, Paimon’s vision went black.

  “Please, stop. It hurts.”

  “I wasn’t asking,” he said. “Now do as I say.”

  Paimon’s legs wobbled as if trying to stand for the first time. The imps clawed at the wooden edge of the stage, raking their nails against the wood as they cried out and pumped their splintered fists in the air, rooting him on.

  “Get up, collector!”

  “Stand before him!”

  “Beg for your sins!”

  Arazel choked and spit out a thick glob of black blood. Residue hung from her chin. Her nipples were hard, bright and bleeding as if someone had chewed on them for too long. Lord, they gnawed on her like a dog toy. The small puffs of hair on her sex were caked with dirt and grime, and even though she tried to keep her legs together, it was easy to see the dried blood and purple bruising on the inside of her thighs.

  There were bite marks, too.

  Dozens.

  She groaned and Paimon turned towards her, but Lucifer motioned for his attention. The Devil reached into his robe and turned to the crowd to show a steaming hot, pulsing organ in his hand. He squeezed it and Paimon dropped to his knees, crying out in agony. His couldn’t breathe and no semblance of vision or sound surrounded him. There was only pain.

  Paimon writhed on the ground, a man possessed. The Devil gripped his heart a little harder and Paimon howled. It’s too much. I can’t take it. He curled into the fetal position. Make it stop! His throat started to bleed.

  The Devil laughed and walked over to him.

  “Calm down, my boy. I’m your father,” he said. “And I only want to help you.”

  The pressure on his chest abated and Paimon’s body went slack. His limbs had gone bent and stiff but now eased against the smoothness of the stage. His back relaxed.

  “Tie him up,” said Lucifer.

  Paimon didn’t try to fight them off. There were too many, and he was too weak.

  Almost, said a voice.

  Endure the pain, said another.

  The imps pulled at his arms and legs, stretching him into a four-pointed star. His groin screamed as his thighs were snapped open like wishbones and were tied to hooks fixed to the stage. Their tiny hands fondled his body with the curiosity of teenage boys. Paimon tried to pray but he seemed to have forgotten the words. He didn’t want to be saved. He just wanted it to be over.

  The Devil stood between Paimon’s legs and lifted the heart above Paimon’s head. It began graying and the ventricles shriveled, wrinkling, the vena cava wheezing. His valves spurted and coughed and as his heart dried, so did Paimon’s body.

  His hair grayed and fell off in clumps, split ends frayed and threadbare. His body withered and curled as his bones shrank and his chest caved in on itself. Paimon tried to scream but his lips puckered and chapped, his tongue dry and stiff in his mouth.

  The Devil got down on his knees and straddled Paimon. “You want to feel betrayal? You want to know what it means to lose everything? To truly feel regret?” His words slithered into Paimon’s ears and coiled in his head, echoing as they bounced off the walls of his
mind in snake-like whispers. Paimon gasped for air, sucked in dry heaves as he started to suffocate in front of the monster on top of him.

  “I’ll show you what it means to bleed, what it really means to burn.” said the Devil. Then he plunged Paimon’s heart back into his chest.

  Chapter 38

  Fire.

  So much fire.

  Paimon’s body burned as his heart began to work inside of him the first time in centuries. There was pain, and love, and sorrow. There was happiness and fear. But more than anything, there was regret. Sweet sin, it was as if all the hurt from the years passed had been building up inside of the organ, waiting for a release.

  Paimon’s body came alive as the juices pumped and swept away the old age and rigor. His lips grew wet and full again, his tongue poked out through his lips and licked at the moisture. His lungs inhaled air, inflating like two flesh balloons as his skin tightened and firmed. Body, mind, and spirit, he came alive as he started to relearn—remember—what it meant to touch, to feel, to love.

  But it was a life he no longer wanted to live.

  The heart that swirled within him proved an angry maelstrom of heat and rage as it fed on his regret. Like a cannibal, it devoured him. It sunk its teeth into his memories, sucked on his agony and filled his mind with sorrow. He saw Marissa’s corpse, watched Rhea hold out her hand to the Devil. Their voices swam around him, their mouths opened in permanent screams.

  Tears streamed down his face. His heart dug into his chest, securing its spot as it started to fester like an open wound. It pumped feeling into every limb, every synapse and it shocked Paimon full of suffering.

  His body went numb and he wouldn’t have believed he moved unless he’d seen it with his own eyes. But he stood, completely healed and on fire, the flames of regret engulfing him as the Devil met his stare.

  “Tell me Paimon, does love feel as good as you remember?”

  Paimon answered without words, his lips tight with wrath.

  The Devil waved his hands and extinguished the flames. Then he put a knife in Paimon’s hands.