by KV Rose
Finally, Dominus speaks. “We can’t just burn it down, Luce—”
“That’s exactly what you said you were going to do.” Lucifer’s voice is calm, but I know him better than that. We all do. He’s pissed.
Elijah sighs, sinks back into the red leather chair. “There are centuries of traditions in here—”
“You told me that you were going to level it,” Lucifer says through gritted teeth. “And I told her.” He’s staring at Elijah in a way that makes me nervous, and a little giddy, too. Another show that doesn’t involve me.
Elijah sighs again, scrubbing a hand over his face like he’s momentarily forgotten that as Dominus, you don’t do shit like that. “Lucifer, the sooner you get used to disappointing your wife, the easier you’ll find your time here in the 6.”
He should not have said that.
Silence rings out.
Lucifer stands to his feet.
“What?” he asks, giving Elijah a chance to try again.
But Elijah obviously wants to die. “Fuck, Lucifer!” He slams his fist on the table. “Listen to what your brothers and your uncles are telling you!” he roars, standing to his own feet. He’s shorter than Lucifer, but not by much, and Elijah is built. I’m not sure who would win in that fight, but it would be pretty brutal. “You are lucky!” he hisses, leaning over the table, his palms pressed down onto it. “You’re lucky that Sid is your wife, and not buried behind this cathedral, where your father is!”
Lucifer looks like he’s going to combust into flames, but he doesn’t move, he just stares down Elijah like he’s marked him for death, too.
“You are lucky that we didn’t kill you for that offense. In light of the circumstances, we thought your actions were justified. But that does not mean you can do whatever the fuck you want and get away with it!” His voice only rises in anger as he slams his hand against the stone table again.
They’re punishing us. It’s why Elijah said he’d burn this place down and backtracked on it. It’s why my father is here, and still breathing. It’s why they keep pushing Noctem. This year’s is going to be brutal.
Lucifer steps back from the table and throws up his hands. “Whatever,” he snarls. “Fuck you, Elijah.” He looks back at Adam, Cal, and lastly, my father, his blue eyes narrowed. “Fuck all of you.” Then he walks out without looking back.
“Not gonna make him sit?” I ask Elijah, crossing my ankle over my knee. “That just a trick you make me do?”
Elijah’s jaw ticks. “Get. Out.” He looks around the table, at Ezra, Atlas, Cain. “All of you.”
Chapter Six
There’s no ramen. No bread. No fucking moldy cheese or animal crackers. There’s…nothing. And I can’t even blame Mom. I’m nineteen. I need a fucking job.
I pace around the small living room, the floor creaking under my bare feet with every step. I don’t know when she left, and I don’t know when she’s coming home. Her phone is off as usual, and she didn’t leave a note. Instead, she left a clogged toilet and half the blinds hanging off the back window that overlooks the red clay that serves as our backyard.
I wrap my arms around my waist, pausing in the middle of the living room. The sun is just rising—I can see it clearly thanks to the blinds she destroyed, probably in the midst of another forced withdrawal episode—and my stomach growls. It hasn’t been that long since I ate the mac-n-cheese Maverick made, shoveling it in my mouth so fast I could see him staring at me, stunned.
I didn’t care.
He didn’t say anything about it.
I want to go back to his house. I didn’t even know houses that big existed. I didn’t know twenty-something-year-old boys drove cars with doors that swung upward instead of outward. I didn’t know they were so…brutal.
Then again, my ex was brutal, too, at my last trailer in Durham, a few hours’ drive from here.
It was when I liked him best.
The rest of the time, I hated him.
I grit my teeth, sink down into the couch that Mom had her boyfriend-of-the-week haul here from someone’s house, left outside for garbage. It’s got a scratchy, corduroy-like texture, and it makes my legs—bare beneath my cotton shorts—itchy, but I need to sit.
I bury my head in my hands, feeling the oil of my hair. I wash it once a week, to save on shampoo and conditioner.
I’m on day six.
I’m lucky it’s thick. Not so lucky it takes up so fucking much shampoo and conditioner. Maybe I should cut it.
With kitchen scissors, because I’ve got access to exactly fifty cents, which I found under the fridge when I was rooting around for food.
It’s not always this bad, I tell myself.
It’s not always this bad, and tomorrow is Tuesday. Tomorrow I go to The Ark, where they treat me like a basket case, because I am a basket case. But they feed their basket cases.
An anonymous donor paid for my spot there—or rather, paid social services for a spot there, and since they come check in on me and Mom monthly, due to a nosy neighbor who called them four trailers ago, they extended it to me on their final visit. I was technically too old, but they must have felt bad. Maybe had a child age out of the system who’d recently killed themselves or some shit.
I didn’t want to go.
A farm with horses and camels and shit that needs mucking and a bunch of other freaks like me?
But Mom had asked if I was expected to bring my own food, and they said meals were provided.
I signed myself up.
Mom shot daggers my way, but she doesn’t eat. She shoots up, nods off, and the hunger in her belly is silenced.
It’s never quiet in mine unless I’m hurting, or numb.
I wonder why girls like Natalie stay numb. Wonder what eats at them.
She volunteers at The Ark, and I spotted her addiction a mile away. Pinprick pupils, a frozen smile, clicking jaw. When I called her out on it, she gave me pills to shut me up, offered to drive me to a New Year’s Eve party.
I went for the food.
Food I didn’t even find.
But it was still worth it in the end.
I pull my knees into my chest, rest my forehead against them and close my eyes. I can still smell Maverick on me; leather and marijuana and a scent that’s all his own. I can see his light blue eyes in my head, his sharp, angular cheekbones. The tattoos over every inch of his skin like he can’t stand the sight of himself.
I can feel his hand on my face.
You fucking bitch.
I press my thighs together. No. I need to get food. Orgasms will dull the ache, and I’ve spent many hours while my mom has been missing touching myself, trying to fill the hunger with something else.
It works. But only for a little while. And then I’m hollow all over again. Just like I am now.
I run my tongue over my swollen lip. He did that.
My ex never hurt me to benefit me. It was all for him.
With Maverick, it seemed like it was for both of us. A shared pain. The kind God himself might give me.
And Maverick could be god.
I’ve already fell to my knees for him.
I close my eyes tight.
I try not to think about him. He’s not coming back here. I saw his face when he realized where I lived. Saw his frustration at driving over the potholes. Saw how he didn’t want to let me out because he couldn’t believe I lived somewhere so fucking awful.
Yeah. He’s not coming back. We didn’t exchange numbers. I don’t even know his last name.
I try to find the movie version of my life, something I’ve done for years to get myself out of my head. If this was a movie, which one would it be? I don’t have many hobbies, and I can’t watch many films, but I’ve got a vivid imagination. Happens to kids that get tied up and left to starve while their moms search for dicks and drugs.
If this was a movie, it’d be a dark romantic comedy.
Maverick would turn out to be a really nice guy who doesn’t like hitting me and just does
it to indulge me. He’d sweep me off my feet with large fries and thick milkshakes. He’d kill my mom, burn this trailer to the ground. He’d marry me, tie me up in bed (but never leave me alone there), fuck me until I wasn’t numb anymore. Until I felt real pain. Until I felt his pain.
Until he broke, too, and told me all of his scary stories. Why he’s got an inverted cross on his face.
I know tattoos don’t all have stories, but that one…I want to know what it is. Maybe it’s just a way to put people off.
It drew me in.
That’s part of our movie. The foolish girl thinking she can cleanse the sins of the devil himself. But maybe she can.
Mom doesn’t come back by the time Tuesday rolls around. Usually, I take her car for the day so I can get to The Ark. It’s ten miles from here, and on a good day, I’d struggle to walk that without some serious pain.
On a day when I haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours? Not happening.
I pull my phone out after taking a quick shower, wetting my hair but not washing it. I shoot a text to Connor. He’d handed me his phone the first day I was there, hadn’t said a word, just put it in my hands with the contacts open.
I’d never text him before. He might ignore me. He might not even be at The Ark today. I’ve been going for several weeks now, and he’s been there most Tuesdays, but not all of them. Either way, I don’t have any other choice and I’m starving. My head aches, there’s a gnawing sensation in the pit of my belly.
I squeeze my pale flesh after I send Connor a text with my address, begging for a ride. I don’t do small talk. Connor doesn’t talk at all; I think he’ll appreciate all the information at once.
Ten minutes pass.
I’m sitting on the threadbare carpet of the living room floor, glancing at the crumbs from crackers my mom probably left here days ago. I reach for one, no bigger than a speck, but it’s better than nothing.
My phone vibrates in my lap.
Be there in fifteen.
I snatch up the crumb anyway, let it stick to my skin. Plop that in my mouth. I close my eyes, relishing the taste.
It tastes like nothing.
I put my hands on my belly and squeeze, hoping to God fifteen minutes pass by faster than an entire day and night away from the devilish boy with blue eyes did. He’s not my first hook up, and I doubt he’ll be my last.
But sex like that…I wanna do it again.
Let it go. He’s not coming back here.
I try not to let that bother me; I don’t even know him. He’s out of my league, financially, emotionally, physically.
But when Connor picks me up, I can’t help but glance around the dirt driveway my trailer is on, think about Maverick maneuvering his stupid car over the potholes. Think about him pushing his stupid bowl of food over to me.
Think about his hands on my throat. All the stupid bruises he’s left on my body.
How can someone be both so brutal and so…kind?
Maybe I’m just fucked in the head to think anything he did was kind.
I toss Connor a smile and he smiles back, warmth in his gaze. That’s kindness. He’s the type of boy I should crawl into bed with. He wouldn’t even leave a single mark.
Tragic.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday morning and the sun is barely up, but for some reason, I am. I went to Ella’s Sunday night, after Council.
There still wasn’t a car.
I couldn’t bring myself to knock on the door, so I walked back to my own ridiculous car, parked outside of the trailer park.
Yesterday, I fucked a girl I barely knew. Some chick from AU named Chelsea that I usually only see at parties. I went to her apartment so I wouldn’t have to deal with her when it was over.
I came inside her mouth, in a fucking condom like I was in a porn shoot following the laws, and I closed my eyes, thinking of Ella. Hated myself a little more when I was done.
I have so many things I need to do today, and I want to do exactly none of them. I want to barricade myself in a closet, get high as fuck, maybe snort a line. Disappear into my head and let my own monsters eat me alive.
I want to feel something bad.
I bite the side of my fist, press my back against the couch. Both hurt; none of them hurt as much as I want them to.
Ria.
I run my hand over my face, groaning. I promised her I’d see her every morning, and I’m not so sure she wants me to keep that promise, but it doesn’t matter. I said I would, and I already fucked up Sunday. Yesterday she was asleep.
This morning it is.
I stand at the door to the basement, holding my breath. The door is locked with a keypad that only opens with my thumbprint. I think of the 6 coming in here. What they’d do if they found out I was keeping her here. Maybe they know.
I think of Ella; what would she say if she knew I had a girl down here? I think maybe she’d be mad it wasn’t her. The thought makes me smile, but I push it aside.
She makes me feel bad and good all at once, and I fucking hate that. Hate how her green eyes lock on mine when I treat her like shit while I fuck her. Hate how those same eyes look at fucking macaroni and cheese like it’s a gift from god.
Hate how in the twenty-four hours I spent with her, she made me feel like a god.
I exhale, close my eyes a second. Try to breathe normally as I think about facing Ria again.
Lucifer’s words from weeks ago echo in my head. This is about a girl you can’t love. You can’t love her, and you can’t let her go. I grit my teeth. Because you know Ria is going to die, too.
And then Poe, echoing around in my skull like bats in a decaying attic: The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
The Premature Burial.
The premature burial.
Father Tomas and his ill-disguised advice. Is locking her in a basement any better than death?
I slam my fist against the door, wishing it would hurt a little more than it does. Then I press my thumb to the keypad, and it lights up green, a soft click as it unlocks. I twist the knob, step inside the darkness at the top of the stairs and take another deep breath.
The door closes behind me and I don’t move for a long, long moment, seeing nothing in the pitch black. It might be morning, but it’s still early. Maybe I’ll wake her. Maybe I should turn around and go back out, lock the door back. Deal with this another day.
I have papers to look through from the 6. People I should be watching. Things I need to stay on top of before they become breaking news. People to kill.
A job to do.
But I promised her.
And even though I know she hates me and probably couldn’t give a fuck about what I did or didn’t promise…I don’t want to make this worse for her than it already is.
Then again, is seeing my face any better?
Frozen with indecision, I let the seconds tick by and eventually, she decides my fate for me.
“I can hear you, you know.” Her voice is groggy, but I don’t know if I woke her or if she just hasn’t gotten out of bed yet.
I take one step down the steep staircase, then another. “Good morning.” I try to keep my voice light as I force my feet to move down the stairs, the polished wood cold against them.
I clench my hands into fists in my pockets, feel the chill of the dark basement as I descend further. There’s a heater down here, but she rarely uses it.
I hear her laugh. It’s bitter, and she’s not a bitter person. When I first met her, she was so bright. Eager to learn. A little nosy, but I encouraged it. It drew her to me. I don’t think she’d have ever thought to fuck someone like me otherwise. She wanted knowledge. Maybe she wanted a little power, too, but she’s graduating this year with a teaching degree in history, and she adores Alexandria.
She wants to know all of its dark little secrets.
Now, though, she knows too many. And I have no idea what to do with h
er. Just like I have no idea what to do with Brooklin. Save her? Leave her? Let her live?
My father let Brooklin go. Kicked her out but let her go all the same. At the time, I hated him for it. I understood what he thought; that she’d made Atlas betray us by disguising herself, tempting him to sleep with her. But he gave in to the temptation, and at the end of the day—who fucking cares?
My father did, though. Maddox Astor, my tormenter and savior. Guiding me and bringing me down all my life, as if he was incapable of doing one without the other. When he used to beat me, he never actually seemed angry about it. To him, it was just a part of parenting.
When he beat my mother, he was furious.
And he did just that after Malachi, when they got home from their trip, bursting into the house with wide, disbelieving eyes.
She screamed louder than I’d ever heard anyone scream in my life. I’d hidden in the same closet I’d been locked in right before…
I don’t think of Malachi.
But I can still hear my father’s screams mingled with Mom’s in my head if I think about it too long. Especially if I think about how their volatile relationship reminds me of Lucifer and Sid, without the beatings. They hurt each other enough without violence, and I think Lucifer made a big fucking mistake. I sometimes wonder if he’s any better than Jeremiah fucking Rain…
I sometimes wonder if I’m any better.
But thinking about it is a waste of my time.
So I don’t.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. But I see her, sitting up on the bed tucked against one corner of the basement. It’s a bedroom down here now, really. I moved all of the weights out, the pool table, left the mini fridge, put a proper shower curtain in the bathroom. Brought down an armoire, which is opposite the bed.
But a hostage is a hostage, no matter how comfortable the victim. It’s something I tell myself often when Ria screams at me. The truth is, I wish I felt worse about it than I do. The reality is I regret ever having entangled myself with this girl.
I lean against the column in the middle of the room, hands still in my pockets as I watch her. Her dark, curly hair is nearly all I can see. She’s just a small shadow in the dark.