Chapter 11
Sable
I’ve seen human dick before.
Several of them—more than I’d probably like.
But demon dick? Jesus fucking Christ, maybe Satan really does exist because the size of that thing was inhuman.
And couldn’t he have locked the door?
I pant, blinking through my blurry vision as I run down the corridors to escape the sight of cum spurting from his cock.
Something’s wrong with me because the blood that oozed from the wound on his ribs only made him hotter. Fuck, and his tattoos? He’s covered in them—foreign script and symbols swirling down his arms and torso.
The entire image was ungodly at the same time it was divine. Unnatural in how it kept me hooked on him, watching moisture bead at his crown as he fisted it like he wanted to start a fight—then the way he looked at me like I was a dream come true and a twisted nightmare all in one.
And when he came—fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever erase that from my mind.
My shirt and striped sweater stick to my skin as I bound down the hallway, trying to put as much space between me and the demon and his hidden monster.
One question keeps circling my mind, making me hate myself a bit more: what would he feel like inside me?
No. Nope. Fuck him. I’m never going to find out.
Shaking my head, I push myself to my limit, running harder. I felt him thicken against my core before I stabbed him, and that alone would’ve been enough to send my eyes rolling to the back of my head.
But then feeling that fucked-up asshole grow harder when I stabbed him… What does it say about me that my own body reacted the same way?
It was stupid of me to stab him, but that’s what I do. I don’t think. I act first and deal with the fallout later.
The peeling wallpaper and askew photo frames fly past in my peripheral vision. Suddenly, I’m a kid again, trying to sneak away as quickly as possible, falling back on muscle memory to lead me down the staircase, toward the kitchen, and down another set of stairs near the back door.
My legs don’t stop moving until I’m safe beneath the house.
I breathe hard, pulling the musty air into my lungs. The distance does nothing to quell the coiling tension low in my stomach. I squeeze my legs together and pretend the moisture down there is all in my head.
But as hard as I’m forcing myself to believe that seeing him like that doesn’t affect me, I don’t want it to stop. I want to feel something other than this hollowness in my chest, like I’m held together by more than just cheap duct tape.
The truth is, I wasn’t complete when Ella was around. I wasn’t complete when we were all living under this godforsaken roof either, but at least I wasn’t alone.
And watching him? It was a moment of intimacy I haven’t been afforded in a long, long time. Even if it wasn’t consensual or… real.
I rub my eyes like it might get rid of the image of him fucking his hand. Cursing, I glare at the ground, counting to ten.
Fuck him.
It’s unfair that I’m getting all hot and bothered by my demonic murderer. No wonder they’re said to tempt people into committing sin, because my fucking God would I be down to get carnal.
No. Enough thoughts of him and how his dick could fill the void inside me.
I hang my head back and groan. This better not be what the rest of my undead life looks like. Unrequited lust—because I’m the one who doesn’t want this feeling.
Massaging the back of my neck, I turn to double-check that the lock is in place. It’s unlikely to keep the asshole out, but it’ll give me a two-second head start to glide out the sliver of window lining the top of the basement wall if he does show.
The late afternoon sun trickles through the small windowpane above the earth, illuminating the large space that was once filled with furniture, family heirlooms, and decorations that could cover at least a year of rent and expenses if sold.
Coming from old money means having countless antique goods.
As with upstairs, all the Feds left behind are the white sheets that once covered my family’s things and the odd bit of broken or soiled furniture.
I used to like it down here. It’s quiet.
I’d come here whenever I got in trouble, or if my parents were in a mood, or when I saw them put Ella on another pedestal while they kept me in the shadows behind the curtain.
No one could ever find me when I hid in the basement, not even Ella. So when the cops rolled down the driveaway, I only learned what was happening when I heard Mom yelling.
Let’s hope the demon doesn’t track me down here or magically poof up beside me.
For old times’ sake, I wade through the piles of cloth covered in dirty footprints.
There are some odd things on the shelves like rusted tools, cords, and spare parts.
Anything that isn’t worth something was left behind—like Grandma’s creepy-ass doll that’s lying on its side, staring right into my soul.
I never liked that thing. When I was a kid, I hid it behind a vase so I’d never have to look at its beady black eyes.
Grimacing, I walk closer to cover it with something, but my foot catches on something hard beneath the cloth. I pause, frowning down at it.
My ghostly knees don’t click or squeal as I squat down to push the fabric away. It takes several tries and a couple beads of sweat to pull it back enough to see the offending object.
The grimoire.
I snatch it off the floor with unnatural ease and rush closer to the window, where it’s brightest, to confirm that the spell I used is still there. I can’t believe that fucker hid an antique book on the dirty floor.
Disgusting. That man truly has no morals.
For the first time in days, hope flickers in my chest. Maybe I just needed to be something other than human in order to summon her. It’s not like I can summon my murderer twice.
I’m not daft enough to think he’s the only demon in existence, but it’d be worth dealing with two of him for a chance to talk to my sister. It’s worth the risk and the potential price. Even if neither happens, maybe it’s the answer to undoing the link between us and freeing him from me.
And if the blush on the demon’s cheeks is any indication, he’s not going to be seeking me out anytime soon.
If I want to do the spell, I need to do it now, while he’s preoccupied and/or embarrassed. Can demons feel embarrassment?
Whatever. Not my circus, not my monkey.
Wait, shit, we’re basically in the same circus. Fuck my life.
I storm to the door and fling it open, fueled by sheer anger. You know what? Screw him. If we’re going to be stuck in this godforsaken place, there needs to be ground rules because he has another thing coming if he believes he can just shove me around and then jerk off in front of me.
I spent my entire life having crap thrown at me by my parents, and then I spent four years barely making ends meet while being reamed out by customers on an hourly basis.
Like hell am I going to let my undead life be the same.
Fuck complacency. Fuck submission. And fuck my parents for saying my personality is the worst thing about me.
If they thought I was bad before, they’ve seen nothing yet. The only difference between me and the prisoners that could go after them is that I’m behind a different set of bars.
Stomping up the steps lacks the same effect when my footsteps don’t make a sound.
It’s for the best, lest I want to alert that fuckface to my plan.
He’s gone to the effort of hiding the grimoire—I doubt he’s going to show his enthusiastic support about me doing another spell, even though I’m still struggling to wrap my head around the fact that it worked.
Sort of.
My attempt failed successfully.
I pause before Ella’s door. My corpse is in there. I’ve been… I keep staring at her—me. I’m not sure why my chest grows heavy every time I come near it. It’s like I expect to find myself walking around like nothing ever happened—or my body gone as if I’ve actually been real the past few days.
I take a deep breath, my movements slow as I step inside.
And there I am, gray and blue and rotting.
I keep expecting to find my body infested with insects or half eaten by rats, but I’m still the same lifeless lump of limbs and sinew.
Untouched and unwanted by nature. I’m telling myself it’s the magic in this room that’s stopped that from happening, not that even pests find me unworthy enough to feast on.
Every time I see myself, I look a little different.
Yesterday, I stared at my milky, unseeing eyes for hours. The cold room can only do so much to hinder the course of decay and the smell I’m emitting. I’d nearly doubled in size from bloat, and my skin had turned a mossy green. Foam and blood had seeped from my perpetually open mouth.
Today, I’m unrecognizable, hidden beneath a white cloth I never placed. I can’t see my eyes or the state of my skin. I don’t know if the foam has made it onto the floor or if a lone fly has made its way into my organs.
The demon covered me.
Something heavy forms in my throat that I don’t know how to process. Everything else in the dilapidated room is unchanged.
Swallowing, I get to work. I flip open the book, take several tries to grip the chalk, then get to drawing. The matches have long disappeared, so I have to hope that the existence of the candles is enough.
From here, all that’s left is to recite the ancient words that I’m still just as terrible at pronouncing.
Nothing happens on the first go.
Nor the second.
I’m doubtful anything will happen on the third. After all, I’m dead. What power can a ghost hold? Summoning that pretty demon was a freak accident anyway.
But the temperature drops on the fourth attempt.
The Latin words hang heavy in the air as a cloud of condensation puffs from my lips for the first time since I’ve died. My voice becomes a ragged croak as I continue chanting the incantation. It’s the only sound amongst the silence.
By the sixth time, the shadows move. Smoke swirls between my legs and over my corpse, into the middle of the circle.
My heart hammers against my chest. Nerves and excitement make my head heavy. No amount of time or practice will ever prepare me to see my sister again.
What if she hates me? What if she doesn’t want to hear my apologies? Ella isn’t that type of person, but maybe the afterlife has changed her. Maybe—
A figure forms before my eyes. Just like that night, it’s nothing more than darkness that shifts and molds until there’s a silhouette.
It keeps heightening and widening—far too large to be Ella.
I was taller than her, but the thing appearing before me is at least a head taller than me. The shadows slowly shape into a male.
Oh no.
Oh nonononononono.
A realization hits me: I forgot to use Ella’s dagger.
My panic slowly recedes as the man is painted in color, and I have to blink a few times to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me because this being doesn’t belong anywhere near this type of setting.
His golden locks cascade over his shoulders and down his back in messy waves, one side tucked behind his ear, which has a gold sleeper earring in it.
He wears creamy linen pants with a rip at the knee and a blue dress shirt, half unbuttoned to reveal the crystal necklace nestled amongst the blonde hairs on his chest.
My mouth hangs open. Who the actual fuck did I just summon?
The man’s dewy green eyes brighten when they land on me, and the best way to describe the true magnitude of just how much light flashes behind his eyes and how wide his smile is, is that he’s like a golden retriever being offered a treat.
And this big puppy checks me out with all the subtlety of a freight train.
“Ayo, hello. Look at you.” He nods approvingly. “The name’s Tony. Six foot two up top and seven inches below. Single-ish. I like to think of myself as easygoing and hard elsewhere.” He holds out his hand, which has at least two rings on every finger. “Pleasure to meet you.”
I’m too shocked to be disappointed by the current outcome.
I stare at his hand then back up at him and accept the handshake.
My parents would’ve hated him just for how he looks, but Father would’ve loathed him for his weak handshake. By virtue, this man instantly deserves the benefit of the doubt, something I believe most people shouldn’t get.
I glance around the room, internally cringing at the sight of my corpse, despite the fact that it’s covered. I shift so he doesn’t see it and start asking questions I don’t want to answer. “I’m, uh, looking for Ella?”
“Who?” Tony’s many bracelets jingle as he lowers his arms.
“My sister.”
“Oh, yo. I had one of those. She was the working-for-the-man type, so we never vibed. She’d say blue, I’d say yellow, and she—oh and she had so much stuff. Like she didn’t need so many things, but she was always obsessed with buying more and more and more.”
I blink. “Uh, okay?”
I repeat, who the fuck is this guy?
“My brother was chill though. Hands typa guy, ya know. He actually built one of my bud’s sheds over the summer a couple of years back—Wait.” He sniffs the air. “What are you?”
My eyes widen. Is it bad in ghost culture to reveal yourself as a ghost?
It doesn’t matter. All I want is to talk to my sister. Unless he knows how to make that happen, then he’s welcome to go back where he came from—if he can.
He shakes his head, forgetting about his question and staring at me in awe like I’m a creature of the divine. “I’ll be honest, you’re goddamn beautiful. I have a lady friend down under. Name’s Nala. Please don’t tell her I called you beautiful.”
My cheeks burn bright red against my will, and it’s like my body and brain stop working in tandem because I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and almost combust into flames from his bashful smile.
I think the last time anyone called me that was when I was five years old. It was one of Mother’s friends.
I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. “I’m looking for Elanor Marie Eldrith. She died nearly a year ago, and I—”
“Hold up.” Tony raises his hands and gawks at the circle beneath his feet. “Dude, is this a summoning circle? That’s sick! I’ve always wondered what one looks like.”
I nod uncertainly. That’s definitely not the reaction that dipshit demon gave me when his ass ended up here. “Look, I’m just trying to—”
“What the fuck did you do?” a voice thunders from behind me, and we both turn toward the sound.
Piercing red eyes glare daggers that would tear my mortal flesh into shreds if he hadn’t already killed me.
Speak of the Devil.