“That’s not a good idea,” I say finally, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
The artist merely shrugs. “Afraid he’ll come back?”
I flinch, caught in my own web. Afraid of Lucifer? Not really. I am merely concerned by what might happen when the wolf returns to his lair to find another creature sniffing around the carcass he keeps hidden in the back room. By opening the door, it feels like I’ve unknowingly tipped over a domino chain miles long. Where would the final one land?
Only God knows that.
“Take a shower,” the artist says. His voice is softer. He’s looking at my legs, trying to avoid the bruises and marks that mar everything else. “Danny. It’s...it’s Danny, right?”
I force a nod, surprised that he remembered my name.
“Then, Danny,please. If you’re here of your own ‘free will’ and all, then take a shower. Change into the fresh clothes that I’m sure you have in a suitcase somewhere.” He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Just, please. Prove to me that my brother isn’t a...freak.” The word is a fill-in for a darker insult he can’t say.Monster.
I would hate to be the one to spoil that secret. Before I’m forced to, I register the rest of his words—brother—and flinch again, seizing my lower lip between both rows of teeth. I bite down once, hard enough for the pain to flood my system and counter any emotion that could cross my expression and give me away. Lucifer has a brother—a man who likes to paint the devil on the streets.
It’s almosttoopoetic.
“Okay...” I shake my head to clear it and head for the hallway—or at least I pretend to. I take the exaggerated route, skirting around the counter, and then I pretend to trip so that he doesn’t notice the knife I tuck into my hand.
The rest of Lucifer’s dwelling seems to repel my presence when its master isn’t there. I shiver when I make a detour into that lonely bedroom and approach the pile of things he keeps in the corner. It’s such a meager set of belongings. Plain. Simple. Durable. Vinny wouldn’t survive on such a lifestyle. Lucifer doesn’t require tailored suits, gold watches, and thousands of dollars to cut an intimidating presence, it seems.
All he needs are those eyes. I can almost feel them watching me now as I reach out and bat aside a pair of gray boxers to find three more plain T-shirts lurking underneath. I settle on a navy-blue one—as feminine a color as I’m likely to find. After a moment’s hesitation, I grab the boxers too, hoping they might pass for shorts, if I can even get them to fit, that is.
I’m ice cold when I creep into the bathroom and run the shower at full blast. The pelting hot spray doesn’t do much to ease the ache in my limbs or quiet this insistent whisper in my head warning me to just take my chances and run. Damn Vinny. Damn Lucifer. At least I’d spend my last moments of freedom...awayfrom some form of bloodshed.
I let the fantasies goad me into some semblance of peace. It’s only when I finally climb out of the tub and reach for one of the damp, used towels on the floor that I realize I never let the knife go. It adds a mocking shimmer to my reflection when I finally gather the nerve to turn and face it.
Lucifer’s brother has been humoring me. There’s nothing remotely “fine” about the woman staring back at me with dry, soulless eyes. They’ve been sucked clean of all emotion—she’s a robot, merely going through the motions. I’m that pathetic automaton again, the one Vinny molded and corrupted me into being. Lynn.She traces her broken lips with a pink tongue, already anticipating the next beating.
No.I grit my teeth and shake my head. Then I use Lucifer’s toothbrush to chase every ounce of her away. Daniela returns when I blink, her exhausted expression a welcome sight. I scan the wet, black hair clinging to her skull and warily drag my fingers through it. I manage to shift most of it over to my right shoulder, shielding as much of my damaged ear as I can. There’s no help to disguise the black bruise around my left eye, however. I try to counter it by making the rest of me seem as whole and as comfortable as possible.
It’s a laughable endeavor as I pull on Lucifer’s clothes. The shirt swallows me up like a child playing dress-up in her father’s clothes, but I manage to roll the waistband of the boxers until they fit somewhat snugly. I’m clean at least.
When I finally tiptoe back into the hall—with my stolen knife hidden safely in one of the boxer’s pockets—I do my best to appear at ease. As if I’ve willingly encased myself within thesefour walls—though, in a way, I have. Squalor gleams like paradise when compared to Vinny’s luxurious prison. It’s easier than I would have thought to let my shoulders lose some of their tension. I don’t smile though—that would be a step too far, even for a delirious captive.
I try to seem neutral instead, as if it’s completely natural for me to leave the shower dripping wet and wearing Lucifer’s clothes.
“You have a strange taste in wardrobe, Pyro,” the artist exclaims on a sharp exhale once he spots me near the mouth of the living room. “What happened to the cashmere sweaters and silk pants?”
I wince at the reminder of just how much control over my life—my identity—Vinny had. “I don’t have any clothes,” I say, choosing not to waste energy on a lie. “He...” Lucifer has a real name, and I struggle to remember it. Something with a D. “D-Dan...Danteis helping me get back on my feet.”
“Bad breakup?” the man asks. I can’t tell if he’s humoring me or making a logical guess.
“The worst.” For a second, I let the full horror of Vinny’s memory wash over me. That fear seeps into my blood, pooling within every muscle. Nothing about my reaction is faked, and the man takes notice.
He sits straighter, bracing both hands flat against his knees. “How do you know him? Dante.”
I reach up and fiddle with a strand of my hair as a distraction while I try to come up with a plausible lie. There are none. In the end, I spit out the first scenario that comes to mind. “He...he found me crying. He bought me something to eat.” I nod to the corroborating empty cartons of takeout on the counter behind me. “He gave me a place to crash while...while I get back on my feet.” The appendages in question shuffle uneasily against the floor, and I have to dig my toes into the carpet before he notices.
“Hmph.” The man—I struggle to recall the name he gave me.Espi?—nods along with my tale. “So he found you naked and drunk on the street corner and didn’t call the police or take you to a hospital?”
I frown. I don’t remember telling that part of the story.
“I saw him,” the man adds, “carrying you up the stairs drunk out of your mind. You only had on a pair of—”
“D-do you want me to just say it?” I demand, injecting a false bit of shame into my voice. My heart races as I run out of options and just wing it. I’m drawing on a movie Vinny made me watch with him once. Prettysomething. “My...my profession?”
His eyebrows shoot up into a fringe of black hair. “You mean...you’re a h...”
