by Allie Gail
The sound of my parents' names rolling off her vile tongue lights a fire in me that I can't describe. I've never been a violent person, but right now I am seriously considering ripping out her oily hair by the roots. And then shoving the whole wad of it down her throat.
“Hey!” She claps her hands together as if struck with sudden inspiration. “Maybe I'll dig up dear old dad and have him dance with me. Do you think he'd like that? I'm sure your mother wouldn't mind. Not when he's been so long denied the pleasures that a real woman can give him.”
Don't say a word. Don't react. Whatever you do, do NOT give her the satisfaction.
I manage to keep it together. I really do.
Until she laughs.
The sound of it. My God, it's infuriating. Like nails on a chalkboard. Or a car alarm at four in the morning. Christ, I don't know what it is, but there is something about that guttural, grating laugh that snaps my last nerve and sends me careening over the edge.
Before I have a chance to fully realize what I'm doing, my hand has shot out and I've palmed that bitch right in the nose. Hard. There is a gratifying crunching sound, and I find myself smiling in satisfaction at her loud wail as she staggers back.
“Fucking BITCH!” she screams through her hands. When she pulls them away, they are covered with blood. Which unfortunately ends up smeared all over the front of my parka as she grabs it to shake me until my teeth rattle. “You're gonna wish you'd never done that, you filthy little guttersnipe! I'll rip out your entrails and wear them as a belt! I'll have you praying for death when I'm through with you, you...”
She raises one hand, fingers curved into claws, preparing to gouge out my eyes or worse. Behind her, Silas reaches calmly into the breast of his suit jacket to retrieve a sharp, slender knife. Sunlight glints off the blade, strangely reminding me of the broken glass in the kitchen. So he wants to get in on this, too? Unsurprising. They're both going to have a barrel of fun tearing me apart.
“Beg for your life, bitch! Beg! Do it or you die right now!” she screeches, eyes blazing with derangement.
My first instinct, naturally, is to fight back. To pummel her with everything I have. The problem is, I can't. I can't move. I don't know what she's done to me, what demonic spell she's cast on me, but my arms and legs no longer work. They are paralyzed, useless, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it. It's like one of those nightmares where you're trying to run but you're frozen in place.
So this is it. I'm done for.
One hand hovers in the air like a talon as she uses the other to shake me violently. I can't even control the movement of my head. The way it's snapping back and forth, I'm afraid my neck is in danger of breaking.
“I want to see you fucking beg!” she demands, her face twisted and contorted. It's the look of insanity. “Beg, you little bitch! Do it!”
Gathering up what's left of my strength, I use it to scream defiance into her sour, scarred-up face. “I'D RATHER DIE!”
I mean it, too. Maybe I'm not thinking straight, but in this moment, death would be preferable to groveling at the feet of someone so reprehensible.
Judging by the exultant look she gives me, this was exactly the response she was hoping for.
“Have it your own way,” she gloats. “I'm really going to enjoy this.”
Of that, I have no doubt.
Steeling my spine, I say a silent prayer and wait for death.
What happens next takes more than a moment to process. Cassandra's face is suddenly upturned towards the ceiling, which strikes me as a most peculiar stance. In the microsecond it takes me to wonder what she's doing, the knife in Silas's hand glides smoothly across her neck, leaving behind a gaping, meaty maw that gushes blood like some grisly waterfall.
Her eyes bulge like a fish out of water, and she makes one brief horrible gurgling sound before collapsing in a heap at my feet.
I stare down at her crumpled body for the longest time. I've never seen anyone die before. On TV and in movies, sure, but never in real life. Never a real person. Plus, I reason, the body doesn't even belong to her, does it? It's a vessel. The person I'm looking at isn't Cassandra, not anymore. That leech is back in Hell where she belongs. And this person, this poor woman whose blood is fanning out in a puddle on the floor...whoever she is, she is the one paying the price.
I don't know how to feel about this. Relieved? Sorry? Honestly, all I feel right now is numb.
Slowly, I lift my head to look up at Silas.
He lowers his shades.
For a second I think my head has been shaken just a little too hard. Or I'm seeing the pool of blood reflecting in his eyes. Because they are deep crimson, a dark, sickening shade of carmine. There are no discernible irises or pupils. If they do exist – and they must, since he is able to see – then they are camouflaged in the saturated red of the sclera. I am not looking into a pair of normal human eyes, but two sanguine spheres of coagulated blood.
He winks at me before pushing the sunglasses back into place.
And then he grins.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I'm staring into the warm, crackling fire from the comfort of the living room sofa.
I don't know how I got here. I don't know if I fainted, if I was carried in, or if I walked here myself and just don't remember. My head feels thick and heavy. My coat is gone, and for that I am grateful. There was blood on it. Cassandra's blood. I hope whoever took it off me threw it out. I never want to see it again.
My stomach flops nervously as Loc comes walking out of the kitchen holding a glass of ice water. He's lost the tie and jacket, and the royal blue shirt is unbuttoned at the throat. It breaks my heart to see how handsome he is. Especially knowing what I know now.
“Sit up and drink this,” he instructs me.
I do it, but only because I'm thirsty.
“There we go. How are you feeling, love?”
Love? How can he even say that word without bursting into flames?
“I'm fine,” I snap, refusing to look at him. In doing so, I notice with confusion that there is no light coming through the windows. “Wait, how is it dark out already? What time is it?”
“It's late. You've been asleep. Silas felt you could use some rest after all the excitement.”
“What did he do to me?” Without waiting for an answer, I groggily recall, “Silas. He saved me.”
Frowning slightly, Loc takes the glass from my hand and sets it on the end table. “Of course he did. That's his job.”
“Saving me?” I ask stupidly.
“Protecting you.”
“He...slit Cassandra's throat. I thought...”
“I must apologize for Cassandra. I don't know what my father was thinking, sending her here. I had a gut feeling that brown-noser couldn't be trusted. But would he listen to me? No-o, Leraje believes himself beyond reproach. Anyone could see that she would hate you from the start. That's why I made sure Silas knew not to let you out of his sight.”
I rub my temples, trying to wake myself. I still feel out of it. “What reason does she have to hate me? I never did anything to her.” Until I popped her in the face, that is. I almost smile when I think of it.
“Don't take it personally. She hates everyone.” He shrugs as if it's just common knowledge that Cassandra is an evil bitch. Which, considering she's a demon, I guess goes without saying. “But if you really want to psychoanalyze the reasons, then it's probably nothing more than envy. The fact that you're human and she isn't. She hates you for having what she once had. Life, youth, beauty. Hope.”
I might feel the slightest shred of pity for her if she hadn't said what she did about my mom and dad. Besides, it isn't as if she lived the life of a saint. She was basically a gun for hire, only she used black magic instead of bullets. The woman is roasting in Hell for a reason.
“Don't worry.” Smiling coldly, Loc draws a finger along the underside of my chin. “I can assure you that by now she's come to regret her lack
of finesse.”
“I see.” When I finally look up at him, it's with an expression that's equally frosty. “And is Silas going to protect me from you as well?”
He isn't one bit contrite. “Let's do away with the theatrics, darling. You don't need protection from me. You never did.”
“I know about Thaddeus Belmont,” I announce. “And Sonia. She's dead, too. But I guess you already know that. What do you do, just erase everyone who gets in your way? Like their lives don't even matter?”
“Their blood isn't on my hands.”
“Oh, so that's supposed to make it all right? The Manson defense isn't going to hold up with me, buddy. Have you ever heard the term 'guilty by association'?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I'm also familiar with the term 'casualties of war'. How about you?”
“What war? There is no war – you all just like killing for the sake of killing!”
“Don't lump me in with them. I haven't killed anyone.” He sounds as if he couldn't care less either way.
“Really? Really? And I suppose Claude Gilbert just bit off his own tongue because he didn't care for the dinner selection that night!”
His mouth twitches. “Cute. I do love your dark sense of humor. But just to be clear, that information was passed on to me secondhand. I wasn't there. The whole situation was handled – or should I say mishandled – by someone else.”
“Someone else. It's always someone else. Make excuses all you want, but you were still responsible.”
“You're certainly in an argumentative mood this evening, aren't you?” Crossing his arms over his chest, he gives me a haughty look. “Yes, I delegate. I can't be everywhere at once, you know. Forgive me if I preferred remaining here with you. I didn't hear you complaining at the time.”
“Oh, drop the act, will you? You're not innocent in this so stop pretending you are. People are dying and you don't even care! What I want to know is why. Why, Loc?”
“People die every day,” he states indifferently. “If the process was expedited in a select few, I can't see that it makes much of a difference overall.”
“Would you feel the same way if you were the one who was dying?”
“What does it matter? Death isn't the end, Jude. You're looking at this all wrong.”
Shaking my head, I bark a humorless laugh. It blows my mind that anyone with a trace of human DNA could end up so thoroughly lacking in compassion. “Are you sure your mother was human? Are you sure she wasn't...I don't know...a succubus or something?”
“I can assure you, she is very much human. Currently living in Seattle. Quite the cutthroat businesswoman, too, if you'll pardon the expression. Did I mention she's a self-made multimillionaire?”
“You said she was dead! You told me she was an abusive heroin addict!”
“Is that what I said?” His coy smile is absolutely infuriating.
“You're so full of shit, Loc!” Jumping to my feet, I turn my back on him and head for the front door. I can't take another minute of this madness. “Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie. Everything! I can't believe I ever gave you the benefit of the doubt. You make me sick!”
“Where are you going?”
“I'm leaving,” I inform him stubbornly.
“Planning on walking all the way back to Kansas?”
“If I have to.”
“Without your coat? It's cold out there.”
“It's a lot colder in here, believe me.”
“Don't you even want to know how your brother's doing?”
Freezing in my tracks, I slowly turn my head to stare at him. “What...did you say?”
“I saw him this afternoon.” He gazes back at me coolly. “That's where I went, you know. To Buena Vista, to meet with Russell and Max. They're very concerned about you. Can you imagine, they somehow got it in their heads that you were taken away against your will. Isn't that a riot?”
I clutch my stomach, as if holding it will subdue the butterflies. “Please tell me you didn't do anything to them,” I whisper, sick with dread.
“Of course I didn't do anything to them. Why should I? We're all the best of friends now, aren't we?”
“Loc...” Tears spring into my eyes, blurring them.
Sighing, he averts his gaze to the ceiling. “They're fine, Jude. I promised you I wouldn't harm a hair on their empty dimwitted heads, and I haven't. Last I saw of the two stooges, they were headed back to Grainfield.”
I want to believe him. I want to, but how can I? “Then what were you doing?”
“Conducting a minor business transaction.”
“What business do you have with them?”
“Ah...I was hoping you'd ask.” Waving a hand, he beckons me to follow him. “Come. I'll show you.”
I hesitate, not because I don't want answers, but because I don't trust that he has any intention of providing them.
“It will only take a minute,” he insists. “And then, if you still want to, you can leave. I'll arrange for a private car to take you straight to your front door, if that's what you want. I won't stop you. You have my word.”
Furrowing my brow, I accompany him into the small office just across from the laundry room. All traces of technology have been removed, of course, but there's no question that's what this sparse little room served as. There is a bookshelf full of medical journals and a metal file cabinet, which I already know from my earlier plundering is empty. A cushy executive chair is tucked behind an expensive-looking mahogany desk. I remember it being bare before.
Not anymore.
Now, it contains a red manila folder and a white feather quill tilting askew out of a pen-and-ink set.
I don't like where this is going.
Loc takes a seat behind the desk, then folds his hands together and looks at me expectantly. As if I'm here for a job interview and he's the prospective employer.
“This is a bit familiar, isn't it?” His smile is disarming. “The accommodations are an improvement, if you'll pardon my saying so. Although I do rather miss the shackles. They added something to the ambience, don't you think?”
I tear my eyes away from his hauntingly beautiful face. That smile, those eyes – they're the reason I got myself into this mess in the first damn place. “Are you trying to lay a guilt trip on me? I wasn't the one who locked you in the basement. If you'll recall, I was the one who let your sorry ass out!”
“Yes, and while I appreciate the gesture, it was completely unnecessary. I could have left at any time.”
I could have left at any time. I turn the words over in my head, analyzing them, trying to make sense of them. At any time? Even from the start? If that's the case, then why on God's green earth would he stay? Why would he voluntarily subject himself to all that abuse?
I ask the obvious question. “Then why didn't you?”
“Do you think we'd be here now if I did?” Apparently that's all he has to say about the matter, because he opens the folder and begins shuffling through the papers inside. “Well. Let's get down to business, shall we? Technically we have until 1:36 a.m. central time, as that is the precise moment of your birth, but there's really no point putting this off any longer.”
I stare at him blankly. How does he know the exact time? Does he have a copy of my birth certificate in there? And what does my birthday have to do with anything?
“As I mentioned before...” he continues, “...I've just come back from an inspiring reunion with your brother. Who attempted, once again, to barter his soul. He really is desperate to unload that thing.” Noting the widening of my eyes, he raises a hand. “And before you get yourself all worked up, no, I didn't accept his offer. His raggedy bargain basement soul isn't worth a hill of beans to me. Or to anyone else, for that matter.”
I shoot him a dirty look, though mentally I am on my knees thanking everything holy that Hell doesn't seem interested in that particular dividend. “Get to the point, Price.”
“Oh, it's Price now, is it? That isn't what
you were calling me when I was balls deep inside you just this morning.”
“I could think of a lot worse things to call you,” I snarl.
“I'm sure you could. But in the interest of time, let's stay on track here, shall we? You requested that I get to the point, so I will. I just thought you might like to see my latest acquisition.” Pulling a sheet of paper out of the folder, he pushes it in my direction. “And here it is. A freshly signed contract for one soul, free and clear, to be delivered upon the moment of death. Former property of a certain Maxwell Bryce Fallon.”
The paper dims and blurs in front of me. I can't make out any of the words on it, other than the two that matter. The name, scrawled at the bottom in a handwriting that's vaguely familiar to me.
Max Fallon.
“No,” I whisper, horrified.
The next six words are arrows straight through my heart. “And now it belongs to me.”
“No!” I choke on my denial. Oh God, it can't be true – he can't really have done this, he can't have thrown away his immortal soul for nothing! For nothing!
“Yes. Believing you to be in mortal danger, Max traded his soul for your safe return. Now if that isn't dedication, I don't know what is. You really have a way with men, don't you, lover?”
“Don't d-do this,” I beg, my pleas tumbling out in stuttering gibberish. “Loc, please...you're n-not a monster, you don't w-want to do this, I know you don't...”
“Oh, but I do.”
“No, you don't! You can't!”
“Too late. It's already done.”
“Then t-take it back! Cancel it! Tear it up! I'm begging you, Loc, please...”
“Sorry. No can do. Max Fallon's soul is in escrow now, and once he dies he will endure the tribulations of Hell until the end of time. I plan to personally make his stay an eventful one.”
His eyes have hardened into impenetrable fortresses. And I know then, looking at those ruthless frozen orbs, that no amount of begging will ever get through to him.
Though I'm sure it will make no difference, I snatch up the paper in wild desperation, ripping it into shreds before letting the pieces flutter from my fingers to the polished mahogany.