Page 47 of Devil Inside

“He thinks you’ll give him hell for it.”

“He’s not wrong...”

“Will you? Be his best man?”

“Do I have to wear a tux?”

“If you’ve got one.” Lys keeps talking, sharing their plans.Ceremony in Maymont, she says—I think she says—but I’m having a hard time keeping up with the words. My attention drifts to this grizzled fisherman at his stand, surrounded by fish packed on ice. There’s a steady drip of melted slush at his feet, puddling along the sidewalk. As we walk by, I notice one eye slither across the socket, rotating away from the other eye, all on its own.

Watching me. He’sfuckingwatching me.

At least, one of his eyes is.

Faces are starting to blur. My grip is slipping. All these people milling around us. Their eyes start to slide. They’re looking at me. All of them taking me in.

Grinning.

Then I hear it. A song I can’t place. A faint harmony in my head, just at the brink of deciphering itself. It’s there, right at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t pinpoint it.

Music without a tune. A song without words. A ghost that won’t take shape.

Where have I heard it before?

Look at all these faces. These people. The mass of humanity tragically on display. Everyone wanders along these stalls, their lives intertwining for a few breathless seconds.

They don’t see us. See me. None of them know we are walking amongst them, drifting about the crowd. Absolutely anonymous and soaking up every second of it.

Some sense us. That fitful chill runs down their spine. A shadow passing over their soul. Even if they can’t comprehend what’s causing it, their instinct is to shrivel.

Call it evil. Call it sin.

Call it Lilith.

It makes us smile. We hold our head high, chin lifted, gracing these blissfully ignorant people with a touch of their own darkness. We channel it. Luxuriate in it.

I want more. So much more. I wish to test the very precipice of this flesh, push this skin to the edge of experience, see how far I can go before it all breaks.

Then I’ll simply slip into another. And another. Never settle. Never sink.

We spot a man and woman before us, pushing their infant child in a stroller. The baby is so vulnerable. Succulent, all wrapped in its own fat. The innocence it radiates across the lot is as luscious as butter, the salty tang of its sinless existence filling our lungs.

Our stomach grumbles. Even our own hunger is a pleasure. To feel the need to feed, that craven desire that calls out from deep within the pit of our belly, brings its own joy.

We find our way before this family. We have halted them with our smile.

“May I?” we ask in the gentlest voice.

This father acquiesces. Nods. He should know better. He is more entranced by our own grin, the pomegranate juice still seeping along our gums, the blood guttered within.

This mother notices. Of course she does. We sense the spikeof petty jealousy. Her attention is on her husband. Not her own child.

Here’s our chance...

We lean forward and coo. Her parents watch on, oblivious to us. What’s inside. They barely bat an eye when we tap the tip of our finger against the child’s nose.

Such a soft target. Her soul tastes like strawberries.

A gift, my child. Your first chilled inkling. A black spot. What’s to come. A blight to guide you. Our darkness, now yours. Let it lead you through this life. Let it be your shadow.