Chapter 22
I was suffocating.
My face was covered and a crushing weight sat on my throat; not like the grip of a vice that squeezed until oxygen deprivation could drag me down. No, it was more of an unimaginable, immovable object that wanted to slowly watch my windpipe collapse on itself.
“What the– Oh Judas save me!” I gagged as the hot smell of sewage came rushing back in full force along with the cotton coating the entirety of my mouth.
No. Not cotton. My fingers swiped the inside of my cheeks and came out with…
Fur.
Black and white fur.
That. Little. Fucker.
“Jesus!” I didn’t have to look hard. Staring from the other side of the bed was the demon spawn himself. “You are such a, a– urgh! There are no words to describe how much I love-hate you sometimes! Was your asshole on my face?”
His level eyes were neutral. It was the twitch of his whiskers that gave him away.
“Jesus? Was it your asshole on my face?” I asked, voice half question and half pleading.
His deafening purr told me everything I needed to know.
“Don’t cry,” I sniffled to myself. “This is fine. I was forced to eat ass this morning, but it’s fine. Everything is going to be okay.”
Did I believe it? No. But the Christians say manifesting is healthy for the soul.
My very, very dead soul.
As the world settled back onto its axis, the last fourty-eight hours fell back into place.
Joe; my overreaction, the hurt in his voice, and the confusion I felt when he inevitably walked away.
Decorating for Christmas with—
I inhaled sharply, shivering when the ghost of his wood fire scent tickled my memories.
Lucifer.
His name alone pulled the world back into focus. For a second it had felt like any human night in any human living room as we’d strung lights and decorations for Christmas.
What came after burned the word normal out of me.
He asked and waited, and even when it sounded like a command, I knew it for what it was: a plea.Then he took me apart like he planned to live with where each piece landed. The way he steadied my hips, the careful drag of his teeth…
I could feel him in the ache low in my belly and, worse, the absence of him sat heavily in the empty space beside me.
The feeling hit me with the same clean terror as the first drop on a roller coaster: if he walked away now, he’d take something essential with him.
I had spent thirty years pretending I didn’t need anything I couldn’t kill or cash in.
One night with Lucifer and I knew better.
I laid there afraid, not of him, but of the devastation he’d leave behind if I ever had to go on without that patient, ruinous worship.
I sat up and a splash of pink on my pillow caught my attention. It was folded once, the crease pressed to perfection with elegant cursive visible through the back. I scrambled to grab it and my heart rate doubled as I read:
Dearest Dany,
I take it back. You’re almost charming when you’re unconscious. Almost.
The difference between your Joe and I, dearest Dany, is that I never pretended to be good for you. Do not mistake severity for doubt. I’ve always believed in you. I never bring back the forgotten. Only the unwanted.
Yours,
Luci
I read the note over again and my eyes burned, heat climbing my face, the kind that always came right before I either laughed or cried, and I didn’t want to do either.
“Almost charming.” I could practically hear the curl of his mouth on almost and smiled.
The lines underneath hit harder. Do not mistake severity for doubt.
I never bring back the forgotten. Only the unwanted.
The word I’d spent a lifetime wearing like a brand suddenly felt like a source of pride and belonging.
Lucifer didn’t pity me. He chose me on purpose, and again.
I must have reread his letter a hundred times before I finally folded it back and held it in my clammy palms as the world shifted on its axis once more.
The difference between your Joe and I, dearest Dany, is that I never pretended to be good for you.
Not mine, though. He never really was, and I’d never really wanted him to be. I’d chased what I always felt like normal was, and that wasn’t Joe. It was an illusion of what I thought he represented.
Out of all the souls Lucifer could’ve saved, he’d chosen me. And last night…
Judas save me. Last night proved that there had been a reason for it.
A nagging voice of doubt said that it was because of what I could do for him. Killing, retrieving souls, and keeping hell fed for eternity. But what if that wasn’t the reason? What if he simply wanted me?
MY phone dinged on the night stand and blue light lit up the screen. I snatched it quickly, heart pounding and hoping to see Lucifer’s name.
There was nothing except a long list of notifications. I scrolled through, combing through promotional emails, group texts from the building manager, matches from the Farmers Only dating site and–
“Fuck me,” I whispered.
Batman.
Text Message.
Unwanted memories from our argument surfaced and soured the bliss of my afterglow.
Joe had wanted to talk about our night together; to ask about why I’d run off that morning rather than stay tangled in his pristine sheets. Mother Mary there were so many red flags waving that night that I’d failed to see. Gaslighting was only the beginning. I’d been upset because–
“Shit,” I breathed. My friends. They were missing, and I needed to see Barb.
My thumb hovered reluctantly over the message notification. I needed to text him back, and to break it off. Fuck if I didn’t want to deal with it right now, though.
I tossed the phone aside and groaned as I stood. Lucifer had left my body sore in the best of ways and, no matter how I moved, I felt the marks he left. As a bonus, only seventy-five percent of my joints popped when I hopped up and started toward the living room.
Other than the life-changing, mind-altering sex, Lucifer gave me something I could stand on: his faith in me with a deadline wrapped around it and honestly, I respected it.
He set a boundary and kept it. If I put Callen in the ground, did “we can be done” become truth?
Because I didn’t want done; I wanted his scent wrapped around me for whatever time immortality granted me.
The only way to find out was to finish this.
As I stared at the box laying in the middle of my floor, a new spark of rage struck by determination reminded me of what I’d always known. The only person who could avenge my death was me. Lucifer had given me the tools I asked for, and it was time to use them. For me.
The night I lost my life, I’d put my trust in the words of a man and it had gotten me brutalized. Had I trusted myself, though, I would’ve never ended up in his car.
I packed up the essentials into the box and grabbed my phone from the bedroom to text Barb.
Dany: I need help. You up?
Barb: If I say no, will you fuck off?
Dany: No.
Barb: Fine. I’m up.
Then, with an irritated sigh, I tapped on Joe’s thread.
Joe: I hate how we left things. I hope you’re okay. I’m ready to talk when you are.
Forty-eight hours ago, his concern would’ve made me melt. It would’ve spoken to the hungry need of a desperate girl who tried all of her life to be loved by a man.
I wasn’t desperate anymore. And I certainly wouldn’t let my life be ruled by a desperation for love. Love was for the living.
Vengeance was for the dead.
I texted him back: Sure. We need to talk. I’ll call you later.
Was I terrible for breaking up with a man over the phone? Meh, probably. But Lucifer already owned my soul so I couldn’t see any reason to be noble now.
I shoved my phone in my pocket and stood before the box that held my fate like a vice. The lid was off, and a familiar face stared back at me from a black-and-white photo.
The last soul I’d ever owe to Lucifer, and the last life I owed to myself.
Callen.