Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
I wake. Sunlight filters through the bottom of the blinds and my heart sinks like a stone when I realise I’m back in my temporary bedroom at John’s house. Am I a prisoner, or am I a guest? Oh, heck, do I have to make nice with that monster?
I sit up without pain—wow, that is a good sign—and slide from underneath the covers.
Still dressed in my dirty clothing, I stumble into the en suite bathroom.
I grip the sink and with trepidation, I look at myself in the mirror.
I’m shocked to see the difference. Gone is the hollow-cheeked girl with the purple smudges underneath her eyes and the pale corpse-complexion.
With a frown I poke at my face. I don’t look like the girl I once was either.
There is a darkness, a hardness in my bright-blue eyes—a sadness that was never there before. I drop my eyes to the countertop, no longer able to meet the eyes of the sad girl. Huh, no wonder. My lower lip trembles.
When you hit rock bottom, the only way is up, right?
Right. I’ve got this…I look down at my tummy and puff out an anxious breath.
I tap my fingertips against my mouth as I count down from three, and with shaking hands, I grip the hem of my stained, dirty jumper and lift it.
I pull it over my head and allow it to drop to the floor with a plop.
The ileostomy bag is still attached to my tummy, but Bert… Bert is gone.
Oh wow. I sag with relief.
I lock my knees as my entire body wobbles. I grip the side of the counter so hard, my fingertips turn white; I hold on so I don’t flop to the floor.
The. Magic. Worked.
The awe I feel…wow, with a swipe of his hand and the warm golden glow of his magic, the angel healed me. It is mind-blowing. Magic has never been my friend, so it is surreal that an angel’s healing gift has made this life-impacting problem disappear.
I empty the bag and then grab the adhesive remover spray, and with twitchy nervous fingers, I carefully spray and peel the sticky seal away from my skin. I tremble as I remove the bag for the very last time.
A sob spills from my lips. It’s over, it is finally over.
Relieved tears stream down my face. Having Bert was lifesaving, and I will be forever grateful to the hospital and my surgeon, Mr Hanlon.
I’m not sorry that because of magic, I avoided the scary step of more surgical intervention.
I can finally get on with my life. I’ve hit a whole new level of normal.
Gah, I will forever hate that word. I laugh through my tears of relief. This “normal” is one that I can now get behind wholeheartedly. I hiccup another sob and allow a wobbly smile to tug at my lips.
“No more crying,” I whisper to myself as I gently trace the scars on my tummy. As promised, my surgical scars and the scars from John’s attentions are still there. Prominent. As I inspect them, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, if I should have perhaps had a full healing.
My lips tug into a sad smile. I am at a youthful stage in my life where I should be able to safely make mistakes and learn from them. Learn what type of person I want to be. But in my world, I can’t make mistakes; there is no room for error. You make a mistake, trust the wrong person, and you die.
I think I’ve proven that repeatedly.
I hand my trust over like it is a meaningless commodity. I can’t afford to make any more mistakes. I have to be more cautious. I have to ask questions and I have to be smarter, listen to my instincts.
These scars are a visual reminder.
When my memories fade over time, which is inevitable, the scars will be here. Hopefully, they will keep everything at the forefront of my mind.
They look years old—gone are the puckered, angry red gouges that painfully pulled at my skin and muscle. Instead, silver lines crisscross my tummy. My warrior markings.
I need a shower. As I strip off of the rest of my clothing, out of habit I move cautiously, almost protectively. I shake my head and straighten when I realise I don’t have to be careful about Bert anymore.
It’s the absence of pain that hits me the most strongly—it is so strange. Over the months I had Bert, I thought the pain levels had improved. But I guess I’d gotten used to it. Its absence now is profound. My body silenced.
I blow out a shaky breath. Internally I have been healed, but mentally, physically, I will never be the same.
What’s that saying? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger…
I’ve always believed that everything happens for a reason, even the horrible stuff.
Especially the horrible stuff. It impacts us the most. It forces us to change, to grow or to falter.
You truly find out what you’re made of when the shit hits the fan.
The way I see it, I’ve always had two options: option one, I can roll around on the floor wailing, “Why me, why me.” Option two: I can woman the fuck up.
I have so many things I’ve got to do. If I think about it too much, it becomes almost overwhelming. First step: I need to find Bob, Munchkin, and me somewhere to live. My independence starts now, this very minute.
I will not depend on that arsehole John. The demon gave me an allowance that I managed frugally, so I have money in my name. Not a lot, but enough for me to pay for Bob and Munchkin and set them up at a livery yard, and sufficient to find me a place to live.
I’m not staying here in John’s house for one more minute than I have to.
In this world, power is freedom, and I’m a shiny new half-demon. I need to learn what I can do—fast. I need to protect myself. I’m going to manoeuvre myself into a position of power so that no one, no one can have control over me again.
I slump. That sounds great when I say it in my head. I wonder how the heck I’m going to learn my new demon powers. I rub at my eyes, and the dirt on my face is gritty underneath my hands. I’m so gross. It’s not like I can say to just anybody, “Hi, will you train my demon?” I snort.
I need a help book…or…I need a library.
I smile. Well…well, funny that. It just so happens I know of a private collection of demon books. I guess I need to visit one library in particular. Arlo’s library.
He has a substantial hidden collection. I strum my fingers on the bathroom countertop in the rhythm of a horse’s canter. It looks like I will be sneaking back onto Arlo’s estate.
Dodging hellhounds and guards. Whee. It will be so much fun.
I shower and change, and before I head out, I pause. Perhaps I can start with something small, like my eyes.
I go back into the bathroom, and I look at my eyes in the mirror.
I blink a few times.
I strangely hope my eyes will automatically go black, like flicking off a light switch. If I blink enough, they will change. Right? My rapid blinking makes me look a little deranged. Instead of my eyes going black, I look as if I’ve got something stuck in my eye.
I groan in defeat. This will never work.
I strum my fingers against the sink. How do I do this?
I’ve done it before. Huh, perhaps the colour of my eyes is linked to my emotions?
When they changed, I was angry. I want to smack my forehead.
Of course—anger is the trigger. Arlo never had black eyes when he was happy.
Okay, think angry…I close my eyes and I focus on the moment when Sam said my eyes turned black. My heart drops at that betrayal, but I shove it to the back of my mind to deal with later. I remember the moment clearly. Yeah, I was angry.
The vampire’s hand goes to Bob’s stable door.
Without thinking, my own hand lands on the sharp knife, the one we use to open bales of hay and bags of feed. I grab the black handle in my fist.
I’m so livid my vision has gone hazy, almost black…an inhuman growl rumbles in my chest and leaves my throat with a roar.
Wow, the rage I feel. That bloody vampire. I growl and straightaway my eyes tingle. My eyes fly open and I stare at my reflection. I blink—my vision is hazy. I gasp. Whoa.
They are black. Boom, get in.
I’ve seen Arlo’s eyes like this countless times.
But nothing prepares me for seeing my own eyes completely black.
It is probably the most freaky thing I will ever see.
The urge to poke myself in the eye is huge, and I almost headbutt the mirror by getting too close.
They don’t look real. I drop the angry energy and like raindrops the black colour bleeds slowly down.
It collects and pools at the bottom of my eyes for a split second and then disappears without a trace. I shudder. Creepy.
My wide, multicoloured blue eyes stare back at me. I blink.
Wow. I need to do that again.
Sam is cleaning Bob’s bridle in the tack room. I stand at the door and watch her as I gather my courage to ask her the question. I could ignore it and pretend I never found out, but I am done with lying to myself. I clear my throat. “Why didn’t you tell me that my eyes went black?”
Sam turns her head. She tilts it to the side and silently regards me. “You look good. Better. The poo bag is gone then?”
“Yeah, it’s gone. After John set up another kidnapping…he staged a car crash. Sam, why didn’t you tell me? You told John, but you didn’t think it might be worthwhile, to…I dunno, say something to me?”
“He set up a kidnapping? Who did he try to kidnap—”
“Sam, please answer my question,” I implore.
Sam shrugs and looks down at the bridle in her hands. She rubs a clean spot vigorously with her sponge. I silently wait. My eyes narrow as the minutes tick by. Finally, she replies with a mumbled, “John pays well.”
I flinch at her words. Oh, that’s how it is?
I huff out a breath. “‘He pays well’? You didn’t think to speak to me…
give me a heads-up? Sam, I thought we were friends.
” Sam shrugs again—unbelievably, she couldn’t care less.
I grind my teeth in annoyance. “Did you not hear me? John set me up. He staged a real-life car crash. The car flipped. Riddick and Eleanor jumped out of the smashed-up car and slaughtered a bunch of vampires.” I wait for her to respond. “Do you not care?” I whisper.
Sam keeps scrubbing. I grip the wooden frame of the doorway.
“I was thrown into a van and taken to what I can only describe as a cell, where I was interrogated. Again. They used Riddick as an incentive for me to talk…if I didn’t talk, they said they were going to cut him into tiny little pieces.
It was horrendous. I was so bloody frightened.
” I let go of the frame and hug my arms to my chest. I hunch and rub my arms. “Oh, and Riddick turned out to be John in his hellhound form. Did you know that? I was stroking my torturer this whole time.” I laugh a little manically, my crazy peeking out.
I cut the laughter off and bite my lips closed. I need to hold all my deranged thoughts in; I need to get a grip on myself. I drop my arms and sag against the door. I close my eyes. When I have gained some semblance of control, I open my eyes and continue.
“It was all a trick to get information out of me.
Ever since I fell off Pudding and helped that little shifter, the hellhound has been attempting to manipulate me into showing myself to be a raging demon—a demon that John knew without any doubt that I was, because you told him.
You told him, not me, that I had black eyes when I confronted those vampires.
“I’m not saying that what happened wouldn’t have happened anyway. I’m saying if you would have told me”—I slap my chest—“perhaps…perhaps I would have been more prepared.” Sam continues to scrub in silence.
“Did you always know that I was a demon, Sam? Did you know John set everything up? He killed all those vampires to trick me into revealing myself…” I shake my head, my eyes water, and I sniff.
I wait for her to answer me, but she will not look me in the eye.
My heart squeezes painfully. “N-nothing? You won’t say anything to defend yourself?
” Sam shrugs. That’s all the response I get to my heartfelt splurge of words.
I tap my fingertips on my lips and try to swallow the lump in my throat. In an attempt to get her riled up, I say, “You can get your stuff, and you can go. I don’t trust you, not with Bob and not with our so-called friendship…” My voice cracks.
Sam throws down the sponge and places the bridle onto the side with a clack. “Look, Emma…you owe me money for buying Bob.” I blink at her. That’s it? That’s all I get?
“I transferred the money last week. It should be in your account,” I whisper through that same painful lump in my throat, my chest burning. I recognise the calculated move: Sam has neatly reminded me I owe her for rescuing Bob. Am I being too harsh? Or has my friend always been so manipulative?
“I’m keeping the Shetland,” Sam says somewhat snidely as she barges past me, clipping my shoulder. I swallow down all the angry words I want to say. I’ve done enough damage.
“Were you ever my friend?” I ask her retreating back.
She pauses mid-stride, and with her back still to me, she quietly says, “Em, you are the best friend I have ever had…I just wasn’t yours.
I told that demon twat your every word, your every move.
Then I told the hellhound.” She shrugs, lifts her chin, and walks away.
“I will do anything for protection, and I have bills to pay.” Her last words to me whip around in the wind.
Wow, clearly all my instincts are seriously messed up: a ten-year friendship, or what I thought was a friendship, is over within seconds.
God, it hurts.
What is it about me that brings out the worst in everyone? Just when I thought I’d hit rock bottom, I instead have another meter to fall.