The Eighth

by Wytovich, Stephanie

“Perfect,” he said. “Now mark the female.”

  Lucifer stared at Arazel, his lips pursed with anger.

  “What?”

  “Mark her or I’ll do it for you,” he said. “And I promise that unlike you, I’ll enjoy it very much.”

  Arazel stirred in her bonds.

  “What has she done to deserve this?”

  “What has she done?” said the Devil, his voice laced with sarcasm. “She’s a whore.”

  “That’s a sin, not a punishment,” said Paimon. “And one that you embraced very much from what I hear.”

  The Devil walked over to Arazel and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into the crowd. He tilted her neck to the side and bit into her throat. Her blood dribbled down his chin as he drank, staining his lips red. She didn’t even stir. Not once. Arazel simply hung there, limp and pallid, as the Devil drained her energy.

  “Arazel, no!”

  She stared at him, her eyes a rusted orange. They no longer blazed.. They didn’t even simmer.

  “Stop, it,” said Paimon. “You’re killing her.”

  Lucifer pulled his teeth out of her throat and spit her blood onto the stage. He licked his lips and hesitated, breathing in fast and deep, before he pushed Arazel’s head away from him.

  He tasted blood on his upper lip, still gasping as he brought himself down from the high.

  “She sold her body and blood, to me. And where do I find her? Out in the fifth circle fucking every willing corpse that can still get a hard-on,” he said. “Unfortunately, I can’t kill her because we’re bonded by blood. But I can make her life much worse than any Hell she think she knows.

  Paimon gulped and limped over to where Arazel remained tied to a post. The last time he saw her, she was strong, a warrior. A woman willing to sacrifice her body and mind to repent for the wrongs she had done in a past life. If anything happened in the fifth circle, it wasn’t because Arazel had enjoyed it.

  Sex wasn’t pleasure to her.

  It was punishment.

  “Arazel,” said Paimon. “Can you hear me?”

  He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and rested his hand on her cheek. She winced, still tender from the bruises.

  “Paimon?”

  “Yes it’s me,” he said. “I’m here.”

  “It hurts.”

  “I know.”

  In all the years that he’d known Arazel, Paimon had never once seen her show any weakness. Even after they had parted ways. There had been anger, yes, but not vulnerability. Maybe on the inside but no one would have guessed. Arazel held herself together and never crumbled under pressure. To see her like this, broken and at wits end, made Paimon lose faith in everything he thought he knew.

  She didn’t deserve this humiliation. Not after all the years of service, all the prayers and dedication. Her allegiance to the Devil was as strong as his used to be, maybe even stronger. And then to be his blood slave? If anyone deserved mercy, it was her. It took great sacrifice to sustain the Devil.

  Paimon looked down at the knife in his hand.

  “Just do it,” she said. “Please.”

  Her eyes begged.

  “I can’t.”

  “If you ever cared for me, even the slightest, you’ll do this for me,” she said. “Finish it.”

  Paimon gripped the handle and the silver blade grew warm.

  “I was wrong about you,” he said. “Wrong about us.” He put the blade to her abdomen. His heart beat wildly in his chest. He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “It should have been you. It always should have been you.”

  Arazel smiled. “I’ve always loved you,” she said.

  “I know. I was just too scared to love you back.”

  Paimon leaned in and kissed her forehead.

  This time no one screamed.

  Not Marissa. Not Rhea.

  “I’ll find you, Arazel. Wherever you go, wherever this mark takes you, I’ll find you. I swear it.”

  Everything around him grew quiet. The world had stopped spinning. There was no longer any reason left to feel.

  Paimon cut the ropes that held her to the post and caught Arazel as she fell forward into his arms. He held her as she shook, her body slick with sweat.

  “Promise me,” she said as blood bubbled from her mouth.

  “I promise.”

  Paimon dug the knife into her abdomen and cut the inverted cross—the mark of shame—into her stomach. All those who wore the mark were banished from Hell, unworthy to walk in the presence of the Devil. Arazel’s soul would be cast out into the unknown, her name ripped and erased from scripture. This branding was the lowest form of punishment, reserved only for those that brought shame upon their family.

  If anyone should bare the symbol, it should be me.

  Arazel started to bleed, rapidly and the wound caught fire. The horde went wild. Their screams and cheers filled the room as they watched and waited for what would happen next.

  Paimon dropped the knife.

  “Please forgive me,” he said.

  Chapter 39

  The Devil applauded.

  “Bravo, bravo!” he said. “Real convincing performance, my son. Truly great work.”

  Paimon hung his head, ashamed of what he’d done.

  “You had such potential. Such promise!”

  Paimon didn’t move. He just stood, still holding Arazel, unable to let her go. “I never had anything,” he said.

  “No. I suppose you didn’t,” said the Devil. He motioned at the guards. “Take her body to the feeding ground and get her ready for mass. We’ll all need the extra strength tonight.”

  The imps approached Paimon. Their long, brittle toenails scraped and broke against the wooden floor and their spiked tails traced lines in the wooden stage. Their hands were in her hair, on her body.

  “Don’t touch her!” Paimon said.

  They grinned as they ripped Arazel’s body from his arms and held him back. Paimon smacked his head against the whipping post she’d been tied to and hit the ground hard. Everything began spinning again, and when he got up again, tried to go to her, he swayed left to right, drunk on the pain, and fell back to the ground.

  The imps dragged Arazel’s body away—some holding her hair, others her legs—her stomach grazing the ground. But she’s still alive. A moan escaped her lips and her eyelids fluttered, revealing white clouds instead of fire. They’re going to eat her alive, drink her while she’s still warm. And then what? Where would her soul go? Disgust swam in Paimon’s mouth and he vomited without warning.

  The Devil bent down and kissed his forehead. “Welcome to your new Hell.”

  He turned to address the horde, his arms open in cruciform shape. “Take him to the pit.”

  “No!”

  Paimon didn’t see the whip, but he felt it.

  He cried out as it stroked his back.

  His brothers and sisters laughed as the strips of black leather tattooed his skin and he tried to crawl away. They cheered at his pain.

  “The first for Lust,” the Devil said. “The second for Greed.”

  Blood trickled down Paimon’s back.

  “Please, no…”

  “The third for Gluttony!”

  His manhood—tickled hard from the fingers of the whip—stiffened, throbbing to the point of pain. But pleasure was a privilege in Hell and one that he had not been granted. His body’s reaction to the whip would only bring him agony should the beatings continue.

  He prayed that it wouldn’t.

  The pain exploding between his legs weighed him down like a sack of lead as blood began pooling beneath him. The more he tried to get away, the more they laughed. This was a game to them; sport to help pass the time. They enjoyed this, each and every one of them. It didn’t matter that he was their brother up there who walked the same halls as they did and prayed in the same chapel. These creatures weren’t his family.

  He had no family.

  But he deserved to be alone.

  I made my own H
ell.

  Paimon swallowed his pride.

  He refused to give them what they wanted.

  Paimon may not have believed in redemption, but he believed in revenge and his wrath kept him strong. For the first time in his life, he felt something more than longing, thrived off something other than regret: rage. If the Devil wanted to play, then a game is what he’d get.

  Paimon didn’t end up in Hell because he played fair. If a collector was what the Devil wanted, then perhaps it was time to start acting like one. Gather his dues. He just needed a little help, and this time, he was willing to take it.

  Paimon winced as one of the straps caught him in the face. His right eye stung and began swelling almost immediately, puffing and expelling tears as it began to close.

  “Enough,” said the Devil.

  Paimon laughed.

  Keep going, said Wrath.

  “Damn,” said Paimon. “Just when it was starting to get good.”

  The Devil walked up to him and bent down, his breath sour on Paimon’s face. “Mind your tongue, boy.”

  Paimon spat in his face. “You can’t hurt me anymore,” he said. “I have nothing left to live for.”

  A brief flash of panic crossed the Devil’s face, but Lucifer hid his fear well. Paimon knew the trick to a convincing bluff was half-believing your own lie.

  “Then I guess there’s no reason to keep you alive.”

  “So don’t,” said Paimon.

  The light turned off and the candles around the gallows went out. The Devil stood before Paimon, the darkest shadow in the room, cheered on by the screeches and howls of the horde.

  Paimon froze.

  Go into yourself, said Sloth.

  Remember who you are, said Pride.

  A gust of mildewed-air slammed into Paimon’s face as the Devil moved closer to him. The creaks and cracks of splintered-wood filled the space.

  “Goodbye, Paimon,” said the Devil. He leaned in and his lips brushed against Paimon’s earlobe. “Aiden will be twice the son you ever were.”

  Chapter 40

  The stench of rotted flesh clung to the walls as the darkness pulled him down. Suffering screamed inside Paimon’s head as the voices of those who had been tortured called out to him in agony, their wails a siren song that lured him deeper into the Devil’s trap as they sang their melody of pain.

  The pit swallowed him, held him tight as he fell straight-legged and blind down the hole. It took hours—and yet, it took only seconds—until he was spat out in a dimly-lit room with a dirt floor encased in stone. White candles crammed into the crevices of the wall, burned and dripped wax down the gray rock. Shadows danced on the slabs around him.

  Paimon hit the ground feet first, and his ankles snapped under the weight. Bone poked through his flesh. His hands were scraped and bleeding, his mouth full of dust and grime. He spat dirt and wiped his hands on his bare stomach as he tried to fight back the blinding pain that clouded his vision.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Is anyone there?”

  Candles flickered in response. Morse code in light.

  Using nothing but upper-body strength, Paimon dragged himself over to the wall in a slow crawl, his feet lame from the breaks. With each move, his ankles howled. He barely made it a few feet before he had to stop.

  Paimon looked around the room, searching for something, anything, even if he didn’t know what he’d do if he found it. There were no doors or windows. No light other than what came from the candles. He didn’t feel a draft when he felt the air, and as his eyes adjusted to the subtle glow of the pit, he noticed perhaps the most important thing of all.

  He was alone.

  So how do souls die here?

  He couldn’t starve or die of thirst. Isolation couldn’t drive him to suicide, and silence meant nothing when he’d spent his years locked away in his cell hiding from the world around him.

  So what would come him?

  What…or maybe who?

  The candles blew out one by one, and Paimon watched as darkness circled the room.

  “Who’s there?”

  Silence.

  The last candle went out.

  “You’re here to kill me and yet you’re the one who hides,” Paimon said, holding back a wince. Pain shot up his leg like an electric charge and he clenched his teeth, hissed. “Who’s the coward now?”

  Laughter—not the joyous kind—erupted all around him.

  “Still you it seems.”

  Thank sin.

  They’d come for him.

  Seven pairs of yellow eyes lit up the room like floating citrine crystals. They moved closer, and while Paimon could trace the outlines of their bodies, he couldn’t see their faces.

  “We’ve been watching you, Paimon,” said Envy.

  “I know.”

  “But only because you called to us,” said Pride.

  “I know,” said Paimon, even though at the time he didn’t realize he’d made the call. Still didn’t quite know how he did it.

  “What’s most perfect about your ignorance in this, is how well it affects your sin,” said Lust. “I can smell it on you. You smell like the woods, like fresh grass and rosemary.” She leaned in and Paimon felt her breath on his neck. And then her tongue.

  “No, I wanted to be the first to taste him,” said Gluttony.

  “Hush, my brother,” said Wrath. “There’s much to do, and so little time to do it.”

  “Do what?” said Paimon.

  “The Devil is dying.”

  “I know—”

  “No, you don’t,” said Greed.

  “We thought we could kill him on our own. But we didn’t anticipate him getting the female involved.”

  “Rhea?”

  “Rhea has a bigger part in this than we thought. The Devil picked her for a reason. A reason that wasn’t clear to any of us until recently.”

  “And what’s that?”

  A hush fell between them.

  “We need to know that we can trust you, Paimon,” said Wrath.

  “That you’re one of us,” said Greed.

  Paimon stirred and tried to sit up straight so he could hear them better. Lying down, their voices were quieted by the thunder of his heartbeat. He hated having that infernal organ back already.

  “What more could I possibly do? I’ve renounced his name, betrayed him, escaped the circles?”

  “But all with our guidance,’ said Pride.

  “We need you to make a commitment. For you to give yourself and your allegiance completely over to us,” said Lust.

  “And how do I do that?”

  “Join us,” said Wrath. “Help us become The Eight.”

  “The Eight?”

  “We tried to kill the Devil as Seven, but failed. We need Eight to carry out the war. We need eight deadly sins,” said Envy. “We want your regret.”

  Paimon sat speechless.

  An eighth? How was that even possible?

  “What if I say no?”

  “Then you die,” said Wrath.

  “And if I say yes?”

  “Then you die,” said Wrath. “But you die with us.”

  “I’m already dead.”

  A deep, mechanical noise erupted behind him.

  “Oh goodie,” said Envy. “The show is about to start!”

  “Do we have a deal?” asked Wrath.

  The ground started to shake and Paimon thought of Rhea. How did she get mixed up in this? What could that poor, sweet girl possibly have to offer in this life? And why wasn’t I good enough? I saved her, not him. Something began falling from the ceiling—pebbles at first, then larger chunks of rock—and crashed against the floor, littering the ground with granite shards.

  “What will happen to her?”

  “Envy, knock it off with the rocks,” said Pride. “Have some class.”

  The other sins laughed.

  “She’s just messing around. Envy doesn’t really want to watch the show,” said Wrath. “She wants you as much as w
e do.”

  “No, not Envy,” said Paimon. “Rhea. What will happen to her?”

  Lust chuckled. “That will be up to you.”

  “Good,” said Paimon. “Then we have a deal.”

  “Wonderful. Now be sure to duck,” said Wrath. “If the blades chop off your head, you won’t be much use to us.”

  Chapter 41

  Rhea stirred in her sleep.

  Bodies flashed before her as she walked through the house. In each room she knew what she would find because the gun was in her hand and their blood was on her face. All killers are drawn back to the scene, and she was no different. She wanted to see where she killed them, relive the moment the light left their eyes. Most importantly, she wanted to lay down where she took her last breath.

  She remembered everything and nothing.

  Rhea turned the corner and stood at the bottom of the hardwood stairs. The stained-glass window sent shards of multi-colored light against the carpet. She remembered standing there years ago and looking at it, wondering why something so beautiful would be put in a corner where no one could see it. Protection. No one breaks a window on the side of the house. Not one facing the woods.

  Rhea gripped the gun and walked up the stairs. She knew every crack and crease, and as the steps whined, she smiled. Jayme wouldn’t have known that the seventh stair was the one you had to jump over to avoid waking up Caden’s parents at 3 a.m. She wouldn’t have known that Caden’s mom slept on the side of the bedroom door to make sure they came home safe, no matter what the time. Jayme wouldn’t have known to open Caden’s bedroom window in the middle of the night because he’d overheat from his nightmares and sweat through his clothes.

  Jayme wouldn’t know any of that.

  Because she wasn’t in love with him.

  Not like her.

  Rhea’s heart beat wild in her chest. She couldn’t wait to see the bodies. She’d been so angry ever since her dad killed himself, ever since her mom had abandoned her. All she ever wanted was to be loved. For someone to care about her as much as she cared about them. But her dad couldn’t do it and her mom didn’t even try. And Caden…

  He mocked her.

  Fuck it.

  They all deserved to die.