The sad truth is that nothing might ever be. Admitting it to myself is a knife through my soul. After five years of torment, freedom doesn’t taste as sweet as poor Lynn thought it would.
The devil doesn’t seem to realize why I blink tears back. Do I even know the reason? Without Vinny here to cherry-pick what emotions I should feel, I only have a few left to fall back on. Hatred. Loathing. Fear. All three lash out at him like a whip, and my tongue is ready to deliver the sting.
“Maybe...I should have just let him kill me.”
I watch in satisfaction as the blow hits its mark. But the devil... He thrives on the violence. One step closer and he has me trapped.
“Maybe I should have killed you myself,” he counters.
His heat leaches through my skin, sparking an inferno, and my body doesn’t know how to interpret it. I...I can’t keep my back from arching. Or my knees from trembling. My core from throbbing...
Loathing. Lust.He splits me apart and watches on as the twisted halves of me go to war.
I’ve been forced to do things to myself at night other than smother my screams. Shameful, pathetic, twisted things. Did he hear those sounds as well from down the hall?
Looking into his eyes, I can’t tell. Either way, he seems fixated on another dilemma.
“You think he’s alive?” There is no shred of humanity in his gaze as he shifts his stance, leaving his hands open at his sides.
“He’s dead,” I croak, watching his flexing fingers, but even I don’t believe it. His body may be ashes. Those ashes may be in a morgue—but Vinny Stacatto is very much alive. His soul still lingers...feeding off what’s left of mine.
“So they say,” the devil agrees, “but...there are rumors.”
I suspect that the words are a test. A taunt. He watches my reaction but doesn’t seem satisfied when I flinch. My chest contracts, brushing his, though I don’t know if he’s closer or if I simply stopped trying to shift away. His scent fills my lungs regardless, chasing every ounce of oxygen out.
I look down at the bag dangling from my shoulder. Underneath the clothing are old newspapers scavenged from any store that carriesThe City Harold. While Espi tracked schools down for me, I hunted down every mention of rising crime rates in the city and the names of the bastards who’ve taken Vinny’s place. They were only mentioned in tiny, anonymously quoted fragments,but the mantra became my bedtime prayer.Piotr Petrov. Wilhem Donahugh. Arno Mackenzie.
They, and quite a few more, have eagerly picked up where Vinny left off... But none of them comes close to the darker specter who seems to be pulling the strings from the shadows these days. Apparently, even ghosts can rule with an iron fist.
“Yeah. I’ve heard the rumors,” I admit out loud. Do I believe them? I’m not sure.
“And?”
“And...” I lick my lips and consider the question. He seems to want more than a simple answer. “As long as any of those other men exist, Vinny still wins. Even in Hell.” I can’t tell if acknowledging that sad fact hurts or not. Maybe, deep down, I’ve made peace with it. I’ve absorbed it. “Look,” I tell him, hiking the duffel higher on my shoulder. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But I...” My voice trails off, and I seize my moment of freedom by staggering out of his reach. I make it inches from the exit before the duffel seems to fly off my arm of its own accord and hits the floor. “No. On second thought, you know what, Dante? Why do you even care if I leave?” I turn to face him, but his expression is unforgiving. Stone. “Is it because you’re worried? Do you really...trust? It all comes down to trust...and the fact that you don’t trust me.”
The devil says nothing, and I can’t seem to shut up. “You guard Espi’s door at night like I’m...I’m some kind of threat. You lurk in the shadows, avoiding me, and yet you don’t take your eyes off me.”
And then it hits me. In the devil’s world, betrayal apparently has no distinction—he’s treated me the same way he treated the other monster he used to protect Espi from.
“So, what are you afraid of, exactly?” I croak. “Are you afraid I’ll tell someone where you are? Someone like Mack? Is that it—”
“I don’t give a damn what you do,” he tells me, jerking his chin to the door. “So get the fuck out.”
I move, but my steps take me in the wrong direction. I’m closer to him. Inches away. On top of him. As battle-worn as he is, he isn’t expecting the hand that flies out and catches him across the cheek. The resounding slap echoes throughout the room, but the shock doesn’t stop me from hitting him again. And again.
Again.
I punch, kick, slap, scratch,anything. The violence is more addictive than the heroin. Maybe this is what Vinny felt—this rage that made him rail against the world. Hitting the devil makes me feel better. For about a second.
It’s not as fun when he doesn’t fight back though. Not even when I lash at him with both hands. I kick him, and he’s stone. I’m hurting myself more than I’m hurting him. Even when I dig my nails in. Even when I goad him on with the words that would have sent Vinny into a blind rage.
“I hate you, you goddamn bastard. I fucking hate you—”
He slams his hand over my mouth, muffling the awful things I’m shouting at him—for Espi, he muzzles me. But, when my teeth cut his palm, he turns my own body weight against me, and I hit the tiled floor on my hands and knees, tasting blood. I try to crawl away, but one of his hands seizes the back of my neck while the other pins me down by my waist.
“Let me go,” I croak. I’mpleading.
More tears blur my vision, and when I reach back, I’m not sure what part of him I clutch. His chest? No, his arm. He growls when I dig my nails in and try to push him away.
