Rhea stopped at the top of the stairs and stood in the window’s glow. Hues of blue and pink danced on her hands, and she thought back to when Caden had first shown it to her. The moonlight had slipped through the colored glass painting their bodies as they kissed.
“It’s beautiful,” she’d said.
“Not as beautiful as you.”
She wondered if he’d said the same thing to Jayme.
Rhea walked down the hallway. The door to Caden’s parent’s room was open. They were both dead. She could smell them and the gun was hot in her hands.
She walked into Caden’s room and saw Jayme splayed on the bed, naked with a small hole in her head. Rhea looked around the room. Where am I? Why wasn’t her body there, too? She ran to his bedroom window and saw Caden’s corpse outside next to his truck. Everything was the same. Everything except her.
Rhea sniffed the air.
Sage.
“Wake up, Rhea,” said the Devil. “Come back to me.”
The room blurred from the vibrations of his voice.
Invisible hands began pulling her away from the scene.
“Everything you need to see, I can show you,” he said. “Trust me. Come with me.”
Rhea gave in and hands pulled her back to the present.
No matter how much she wanted to see her death, she wanted to see the Devil more.
‡‡‡
“Sleep well?”
Rhea opened her eyes to the drab, dark interior of the hospital room. She was on the same gray bed, propped up against the same cardboard pillow and in a hospital gown identical to the one she’d been wearing when she left a couple minutes—hours? days?—ago.
She rested her hands on her stomach and Aiden kicked.
“How is this possible?”
The Devil laughed. “How much do you remember?”
“I’m not sure,” Rhea said. “Everything keeps coming back in flashes.”
He grabbed her hand and rubbed the space in between her thumb and forefinger. She felt dizzy, drunk.
“It’s been a while since I’ve fed,” he said.
Rhea stared at him, scared.
“Will it hurt?”
The Devil brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “No. You might even enjoy it.”
“What about Aiden?”
The Devil put his hand on her stomach and the child kicked. “He’s strong enough.”
But am I?
“Should we really chance it?”
The Devil opened his mouth to argue but stopped. His gaze trailed off as a faraway look appeared in his eyes.
“What? What do you see?”
“It’s not possible,” he said. “There’s no way.”
“What? What’s not possible,” she said. “What’s happening?”
“I have to go.”
“But the baby—”
He was already gone.
A million questions on the tip of Rhea’s tongue. The air conditioner hummed and the windows let in a little light as the sun started to peak over the graying clouds. She fluffed the pillow and straightened her back against the headboard. “Well I’ll be damned,” she said. Even the IV was back in her arm.
I wonder…
Rhea lifted up her gown. Nothing. Not a single stitch or scratch. How is that even possible? She traced her fingers down her cleavage and ran her hand across her navel. Smooth. Bare. It was as if nothing had ever happened.
Not a single bite.
Not a single tear.
She swung her legs off the side of the bed and steadied herself. Deep breaths. A chill moved up her legs and Rhea grabbed the sheet to wrap around her shoulders. It was wet. Same with her legs.
Shit.
Her water broke.
Chapter 42
The blades were long and angry.
Paimon dove down and hugged the ground, his ankles screaming. Dirt slid underneath his fingernails and stained the area that used to hold his life lines.
A gust of air slapped him across the back.
He flipped over and saw a giant metal blade hit the side of the wall. Sparks flew as it scraped against rock and began to fly back towards him.
“It’s reading you,” said Wrath.
Paimon rolled over and flattened himself against the floor just as the blade swung past him and crashed into the opposite wall.
“What in sin’s name is that?” he yelled.
His breaths were short and ragged. Paimon listened for the blade but he couldn’t play cat and mouse forever. Something had to give.
“The Devil picks the punishment based on your sin. The blade is your lust, and it will forever seek you out until you give into it. Just like your victims had to.”
“So what do I do then? Hope it gets bored with me?”
“No. You die.”
“But—”
“You have to die, Paimon. A death of the flesh,” said Lust. “But don’t worry. I’ll take care of your body for you.”
The others laughed.
“We’ll all take care of your body,” said Gluttony.
The blade flew towards him again, this time nicking him in the shoulder. Blood seeped through the open gash but he felt nothing. His arm had gone numb.
“Fuck!”
“No, that’s my job,” said Lust, giggling.
Paimon ignored her. His arm hung limp at his side. When he tried to sit back up, his balance threw him off and he fell back to the floor, his mouth against the brimstone carpet.
“What’s happening to me?”
“The poison works fast, doesn’t it?” said Sloth. “In a few minutes, your entire body will be numb.”
“In short, you don’t have a lot of time,” said Wrath.
Paimon worked his poisoned body into a half-kneel and put his palms together as if in prayer, despite his gods being right in front of him. His legs shook as he tried to even out his weight and stay balanced as the blade rushed him. Paimon didn’t remember much about Passover, but as Death approached him, whistling as it cut through the air, he knew that this wasn’t the Death he’d been taught about. This was rebirth.
Paimon closed his eyes. And if I die before I wake, I pray the sins my soul to take.
“I wish I could still pray,” said Envy.
“I want his soul first,” said Greed.
The blade hooked Paimon in the chest, impaling him as it lifted him off the ground and pinned him against the wall. The silver burned and the venom worked its way through the rest of his body as he bled out.
In those moments, Paimon thought of Rhea, of the moment he eased onto her—into her—and looked her in the eyes. It had been so long since he felt love—since he felt anything other than sadness, regret—and now his heart lay bleeding, ripped out once again by the claws of a female. Where did I go wrong? All I wanted to do was save her from this. And Arazel? All these years I pushed her away? I’ve never been more wrong. A fog drifted through his head, clouding his vision. The blade pushed deeper, shearing him from navel to throat.
The scent of baby’s breath and rain filled the pit as dew drops formed on Paimon’s tongue.
Marissa screamed.
Rhea reached out for the Devil’s hand.
And then there was only blackness.
Blackness and silence.
‡‡‡
Light cradled him when Paimon opened his eyes. The world smelled like winter and he froze and burned at the same time. The scent of pine trees filled his nose. Ice crystals covered his forearms even though his hands were burnt and peeling. Bits of charred skin dangled off his wrists like black-beaded bracelets and shook from the chill in the air.
Paimon reached out to test his surroundings, and snow collected on the palm of his hand.
Voices muttered behind him.
They were soft at first, but that changed when they began to chant. Their voices moved inside his skull, clawing at this sanity, their mantras like electric shocks through his body.
“Snis sih mi
h sselb.”
Paimon collected the echoes—wrapped them up tight in his head—and floated towards the sound. He could see himself drifting, but at the same time, the face wasn’t his. Something was off, different, but he couldn’t quite place it. He looked younger, yet older. Dead, but alive. Circles. Always fucking circles. The eyes were the same though. Two black coals that were useless until someone warmed them up.
Paimon wondered if he’d ever be warm again.
If he’d ever burn again.
He didn’t know where he was going, or what would happen when he got there, but he knew who’d be waiting for him.
The Seven.
Their voices merged in a seven-part harmony and the vibrations sent his heart into arrest. It jack-hammered in his torso—is it trying to tear me apart?—and then as if someone had willed it, his heart beat steadied.
“You won’t be able to move,” said Sloth. “So don’t try.”
Paimon’s bones locked into place.
His muscles froze.
Only his eyes could move.
He shifted his stare, left to right, right to left. Paranoia. At first he didn’t see anything. The light was too bright. But as his eyes adjusted, his surroundings began to settle.
Bodies littered the frozen world around him, some decapitated, but all of them mutilated. Their chest cavities collected snow and the holes where their eyes used to be were filled with small balls of ice that reflected his stare back at him. A pile of bones lay next to some of them, pearly white, picked clean.
The closer Paimon got to the ground, the more he sensed them. The Seven. Their presence was everywhere. They were in every desecrated corpse, in every snowflake, and in every beat of his heart. Show yourselves! Paimon didn’t understand the charade. He’d taken the blade, embraced Death, and yet here he was, floating through The Void while they toyed with his body, made a joke of him.
“Regretting your decision already?” said Pride.
“At least we know he knows his sin,” said Envy.
Paimon’s body hit the ground with a thud, cracking the frozen sheet that covered the grass. It split beneath him as the naked trees in the distance waved barren arms. Snow and trees. He lay there on his back, shivering as goosebumps erupted all over his body. This place reminded him of the fifth circle, the forest, but less alive.
“The fifth circle is, well was, mine,” said Wrath. “It seems only fair that The Void should reflect it.”
Paimon looked up at Wrath, but when he went to speak, but could not move his lips. The cold pressed them together and held them shut. When he tried again, his skin pulled and ripped; he didn’t have the strength or the stomach to pull them apart. So he remained prostrate, mute, his words froze on his tongue.
Wrath looked down on Paimon, his black-hooded robe swaying in the winter breeze.
“When we created this place, we did so out of anger. It’s not right what the Devil does to his souls,” said Wrath. “He treats them as if they’re human when they’re nothing but food.”
Another hooded figure joined Wrath, then another. Eventually they all stood in front of him, their arms at their sides, waiting. For what? Paimon couldn’t see their faces and part of him was thankful for it.
“So we came here. Our own little safe haven,” said Pride. “We take the souls the Devil can’t control, like you for example, and then we eat them for strength. And let me tell you, brother, they’ll feed your sin better than any meal you had under his reign.”
“Of course, we all feed differently,” said Lust. “Some of us more frequently than others.”
Sloth laughed in a succession of high-pitched wheezes.
Lust giggled in return.
Paimon inhaled quickly through his nose, his breaths growing faster, more intense. A panic attack? What did I get myself into? His eyes burned from the combination of light and snow and he didn’t know what would happen first: if he’d go blind or if the snow would collect in his sockets and wash his eyes away.
“But it’s how little we feed that’s the problem,” said Gluttony. “We need Hell. That’s where you come in.”
Wrath stepped over a body—it was impossible to tell whether it had once been male or female—and squatted next to him. “I want you to know that what you’re about to feel is going to be worse than any pain you’ve ever experienced.”
“Yes,” said Gluttony as he leaned in closer. “We’re going to eat your soul.”
Paimon shivered. Their breath cut through him worse than their words. Each exhalation felt like knives through his skin. Later, there would be real knives. More blades.
Bless me my sins.
The Seven nearly pulled his limbs off as they stretched out his arms and legs and crucified him to the ground. They pounded wooden stakes through his hands and feet, laughed at him when he started to cry.
Tears streamed down Paimon’s face and stained the ground red.
Lust bent down and licked them away. “You’re going to like this one, Gluttony,” she said in between moans.
The more Paimon bled out, the more he was able to feel. The wounds on his hands screamed as the snow drank his blood. His feet froze around the icy stakes jammed into his ankles, and if the sting of frozen flesh pulling against his sores wasn’t enough to make him beg, what he saw happening in front of him was.
The Seven took down their hoods and removed their robes. They stood naked before him, seven individual butchers bearing the brands of their sin: a number behind their left ears. They moved towards Paimon, their focus never wavering.
Paimon turned his face away and closed his eyes.
“Don’t look away from us,” said Pride.
“It’s okay to look,” said Lust. “It’s better for us if you watch.”
Watch what?
Paimon opened his eyes and met the faces of his brothers and sisters. Each sin had its own price to pay, something that went far beyond the branding they wore on their flesh. Sloth’s skin was drooping and gray. It hung off his face in pouches and collected sorrow in the bags under his eyes. He was a mess of exhaustion and laziness, and the bed sores that covered his body were proof of his sedentary lifestyle. In the afterlife, his sin made him slow, constantly tired but unable to sleep.
Wrath was covered in stab wounds, his face a collage of cuts and bruises from years of targeted hatred. He dripped blood from open gashes and the scent of copper and anger seeped from his mouth. A trail of red pooled behind him, and his robes were wet with the blackened stains of his rage. Unable to divert his fury, he buried his anger inside. His chest was tied in a contingence of bumps as if someone, or something, had stuffed him full of knots.
The stench of Gluttony was hard to miss. The putrid odor of dried bile clung to the air like a wet blanket. His face was bloated and puffed with fat. It bore the yellow stains of vomit mixed with the feces of flies that never left the corners of his mouth. Pride’s fate was an unseen curse. A phantom with no reflection to gaze at, he could never remove the plain white mask that covered his most prized possession. Flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, his reflection was hidden from him, forever.
This turned Envy green as she would have killed to have her reflection hidden from her. Her flesh was a rotted-moss color and covered in mold. It decayed in a sickening fashion, decomposing but never dying. Greed would have traded with her in heartbeat. His face was contorted in heap of want. His muscles were torn and twisted like a contortionist act. Slathered in pain, he wished for nothing less than Envy’s faulty green flesh.
But Lust had it the worst.
She was covered in a mix of oozing, pulsing sores that bled down her chest. The STDs that covered her face were a constant reminder that she was a walking disease. Even in Hell, there was no escaping the branding of a whore. Her infections pussed and spit contagions like confetti.
Paimon stifled his fear and wondered what would become of him. What mask would he be doomed to wear? How would regret change him?
He tried to blink away
tears and failed.
“No reason to be embarrassed,” said Wrath. “You should be afraid.” The air grew warm and Paimon felt the hot breath of rage on the nape of his neck. It smelled like ashes. Tasted like brimstone. “We’re going to kill you now.”
The Seven stole the light from the sky and the hour grew dark. Greed stepped forward, his arms outstretched in a cruciform shape.
“By the power of seven and the sins that we claim, I beckon the soul that feeds off intent, that lives in sorrow and laments its own pain. I call on thee, Paimon, Son of Regret.”
Paimon braced himself against the ground as a roaring agony spread his body. His limbs tightened as his bones grew back and ripped through his newly fashioned skin like jagged knives. His body sewed its wounds together again, each stitch a stab of pain worse than the one before.
“Open your heart to darkness. Let it fill your decisions and move inside you like the disgrace that fuels your every move,” said Lust. “Embrace the hurt and learn to love the pain.”
Her words set his body on fire. Paimon’s back arched in a bridge of flames as a loud crack rippled down his spine. His body twisted in half as his hands were ripped from the stakes. His shock reflected in the obsidian coals of The Seven’s eyes. They were a shade of black darker than any soul Paimon had ever collected, yet they looked so happy. As if they were at peace.
The heat increased and the flames consumed him.
“Here on this day, on this sacred ground, we give you back your life in order to sacrifice it to sin,” said Wrath. “An offering that we, your brothers and sisters, are all more than willing to make.”
A hand clamped down on his shoulder.
“Open your mouth and get ready to swallow,” said Lust.
Paimon stared at her, unable to look away from the boils that festered on her face. “Or don’t. Any hole will do.”
Lust grabbed his nose and pried open his jaw. The rest of The Seven all knelt down next to him, hovering over his face. Paimon sucked in the foul stench of Gluttony as a thick glob of puss from one of Lust’s sores dripped onto his tongue. It slid around his mouth, pushing in and out as it beat against his teeth like a bad lover.
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