Chapter Ten • Pure Evil • Lillith
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Ifucking knew it. I knew Damien was evil. I totally called it.
I don’t dare look over at him as I pour another portion of batter into the waffle iron.
I swear I can feel the sadistic glee rolling off of him like a miasma of fuckability.
And I don’t want him to see how flushed I am.
I don’t need a mirror to know that I’m crimson from my decolletage to my damned ears.
I take a few more moments to recover, waiting until some of the heat ekes out of my body before I lean against my counter and look at him.
He looks perfectly at ease, his hands in his pockets as he leans against the doorway.
His smile is easy, but his two-toned eyes are heavy-lidded as they scan me.
I want to climb him like a fucking tree. Then I want to make him call Oren so I can climb him like a tree too. I’m going to build a tree house out of sad, talented men and I’m going to live there forever.
“You alright?” he asks. “You seem a little... flustered.”
“If you keep this up, I’m going to wind up tackling you to the ground and you’re never going to get to hear about any of my weirdness.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he says, giving me that sharpened, crooked grin.
He must know it’s an idle threat somehow. If I’d not lost my necklace the night before, I’d already be leaping into his arms. But until I do some research on the transferability of my curse, I can’t fuck him. Even though I really want to.
“Last night at The Nocturne, I encountered a presence...or an entity,” I say.
“Like...an evil one?” he asks, seemingly happy to move on from flustering me. Maybe he does really mean it when he says he wants to know everything he can about me.
I lift a hand in a so-so gesture as I continue.
“So, I don’t really specify good or evil when it comes to presences,” I say.
“There’s usually a sort of density in the energy.
It’s like when you’re floating on one of those blow-up air mats in a pool and someone tries to get onto it with you.
There’s a sort of displacement. Denser entities tend to be more powerful; lighter ones are more like impressions. ”
“Alright. And this one… Was it powerful?”
“Yes,” I say. “I shooed it off, but in the process...”
I reach up to my throat again and frown as I feel the absence there. “I had this necklace that’s been passed down through my family since the 1800’s. After I dealt with this thing, the necklace broke. But it was really precious to me. I haven’t felt right since.”
His expression sobers. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “That must feel fucking terrible.”
He’s so genuine in his expression of care that tears prick my eyes and, to my abject horror, start spilling onto my face before I can force myself to turn away from him.
I press my palms against my eyes to stem the flow, and just like that I fall apart into a heap of humiliation and fear and heartache.
“Oh fuck. I’m so sorry,” I hiccup, turning away from him.
“Hey, don’t be,” he says. I feel him, warm at my side, only seconds later.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I sob. “I swear I’m not like this, like…ever.”
I hear him wrestle the waffle iron plug out of the wall with one hand as he curls the other behind my head and pulls me against his chest. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says. “That’s a huge loss, right? I mean it’s not like you can just replace something that’s been in the family that long.”
The tears won’t stop and his other arm curls around me.
He’s embrace is so strong. Somehow both crowding and comforting as his biceps flex and tuck my tight against his body.
It’s soothing in the same way heavy blankets feel when draped across the body.
In the same way that Nan’s hugs used to be. Which only makes me cry more.
He sways as I weep against his chest. I wish I could tell him just how right he is.
I wish I could tell him about the horrible rite I had to do just before Nan died.
About the demon. About the curse and The Buried City.
I wish I could spill my guts, but I know he’ll think I’m absolutely fucking insane if I do that.
“You didn’t ask for this,” I hiccup quietly. “You just wanted to kiss a nice goth girl at your show, and you got a weepy epileptic instead.”
I feel his cheek against the top of my head and his chest moves a bit with silent laughter. “Lucky for you, I’m super into weepy epileptics, and lucky for me, you are still a nice goth girl.”
In spite of everything, I let out a wet laugh. “You’re so fucking nice. And somehow also evil.”
“Hey, I thought you didn’t believe in evil,” he teases.
“Oh, I don’t,” I sniffle. “But you’re definitely evil. Bringing a mini blood choke to the function and then making me spill my guts right after until I ugly cry? That’s super evil.”
“I’m really sorry, sweetheart. If I’d known it was so upsetting I promise I would never have choked you without giving it my all. The next time I choke you, I promise to go all in.”
I laugh again and he loosens his arms around me. He props a finger under my chin to bring my gaze back up to his. His callused hands brush the wetness from my face. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty when you cry.”
More tears fall to replace the ones he’s wiped away. “You’re so fucking nice,” I blubber again.
“Right. Nice. And evil,” he says with a soft laugh, smearing the wetness away, completely unperturbed.
“I made you waffles,” I say stupidly.
“And we’re going to eat them,” he says. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, finding it in myself to heave in a shaky breath.
There’s a buzzing sound and Damien takes his phone out of his pocket and frowns before answering it. He hooks his free arm around me, hugging me against him. “Hey, Fletch, what’s up?”
It’s not on speaker, but I’m close enough to him to hear the other side of the conversation.
“Hey, you didn’t come back last night,” the Irish-accented voice on the other side says.
“Correct,” he replies. “Oren tell you what I texted him?”
“Yeah, he did. Little lass alright?”
“What do you think, little bird? You alright?” Damien asks me.
“Yeah, I am,” I say weakly.
“Good, ‘cause we need you to come back to the studio. Oren’s itching to record and he’s being a fecking arse about it,” he says.
My heart sinks as this bubble pops. Of course he’d have to go at some point today. I knew that intellectually. But anxieties seize me. I have to fix this before he goes. If he leaves me as a weepy mess, he’s never going to speak to me again.
And I realize that I want him to. I want him to speak to me again. Desperately.
“Alright. I’ll meet you guys in a little bit. I’ll head out from here in like an hour or so.”
“Yeesh, let the poor girl recover before you fuck her into oblivion,” Fletcher says on the other line.
Damien smirks down at me before sighing.
“I wish. We’re actually just about to sit down to some breakfast,” he says. “She made some waffles. And also I don’t want to rush out. She’s like... way prettier than you dicks are.”
“First of all, rude,” Fletcher says. “Secondly, I can’t wait to tell Oren. He’s going to be so sour about it.”
“Yeah, give him hell. See you later,” Damien says.
“See ya,” he says.
Damien hangs up and looks down at me. “Do you want to come to the studio with me?”
“I shouldn’t,” I say, frowning.
“Why not?” he asks, looking adorably crestfallen.
“Because I tend to be a little more prone to seizures right after I’ve had one,” I say. “And I don’t want to ruin your creative process by being a distraction. Believe it or not, the idea of irritating any of your bandmates makes me want to evaporate.”
“Right. Right. Makes sense,” he says. There’s a bit of a pause before he inhales and blows the air out slowly. “So... Can I come by after we’re done for the day?” he asks. “I mean, you can say no. It will be probably be late—”
“Come back when you’re done,” I say, a little too quickly. “You can stay the night again if you want to.”
His brows shoot up and that easy smile comes to his face again. “Yeah?” he says. “Just me? Or should I bring Oren too?”
My flush returns with traitorous ease and he laughs, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to my lips.
“No. I don’t think I want to share you yet, actually. He can come some other time. Pun intended.” He beams a boyish grin.
Pure. Unadulterated. Evil.