Page 86 of Devil Inside

What a work of art he is.

miracle mile

Jordan

The spokes are spiraling. I watch them fluctuate, the thinnest glistening tendrils. They’re moving, somehow. Oscillating through the air. Every last wheel is this writhing mass of metal tentacles. I pinch my eyes shut, steadying my breath—keep it together, just keep cool, keep breathing, keep yourself from freaking the fuck out—then open them again.

The bike’s spokes are back to normal. Nothing’s moving now.Just my imagination.Again. Sure seems to be happening more and more these days.

I’m losing it.

I wish Lilith was here. Who knows? Maybe she is and I just haven’t sensed her yet. We bolted from the museum after I got yelled at by a security guard—no touching the art. I’m lucky I didn’t get arrested. Lilith simply ditched, hopping to another body, the two of us separating on the way out, losing each other. I haven’t seen—sensed—her since.

We disconnected. Now I’m feeling empty without her.

Time away from her stretches. There’s an elasticity to it, like saltwater taffy, where the seconds extend and bend and eventually snap. It’s hard to focus without her here.

I don’t want to be here.

I had completely forgotten about the Miracle Mile. I would’ve blown off the race without even realizing it if it hadn’t been for Lys reaching out to remind me.

“You’re riding, right?” Lys asked over the phone, even though I’m pretty sure she already knew my answer. I could hear the lift in her voice. The hope. A fleck of determination. The previous year’s winner always starts the race off. They’re the grand marshal to the night parade. Since I’d won last year, I needed to be there. Tradition and all.

It always hurts to let Lys down. “Think I’m sitting this year out, Lys... Sorry.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

The other end of the line went silent. For a second there, I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d hung up on me. I wouldn’t put it past her. She had every right to be pissed.

Finally, I heard her take a quick breath, then she said, “We’re all starting to take bets whether you’re ever gonna saddle up again...”

“What’s the kitty up to so far?” Since when have I ever turned down a bet?

Sodium lights strike metal at night in a way they never do during the day. Sunlight doesn’t capture the metal, but streetlights sure do. It shines. These bikes ignite at night. Something about the steel, the chrome itself, the way it interacts with the streetlamps... I can’t help butseethem as underwater creatures. Not the type of fish you’d find swimming along the surface, gliding through the sunlight. No—these are the kinds of translucent sea life that inhabit the deepest shadows along the ocean floor, where there is no sunlight. Nothing but darkness all around. These bikes have a bioluminescence to them.

The devil just next to me executes a wheelie, freestyling for several seconds on nothing but his rear tire, his front wheel spinning in the air. I catch a glint of metal under the nearest streetlamp as this Beelzebubba’s legs work the pedals, weavingover the road in this upright unicycle position, and I swear—for just a second—I see his bike as some sort of psychedelic jelly. The way Satan’s limbs move along with his bike, fanning about, the precarious balance of his body on the rear tire, the glimmer of chrome under the sodium lights, the rest swallowed up by the surrounding shadows—it all makes him look like the strangest jellyfish I’ve ever seen, swimming about the bottom of the ocean.

He’s not alone. There are bound to be dozens—Jesus,hundreds—of deep-sea riders out tonight, surrounding me at this very second, just waiting to launch into the darkness.

What the fuck am I doing here? Where’s Lilith? I’m doing my damnedest to scan the crowd, see if I can find her. Feel her out there. So far, no dice. It’s all cold. Melting faces.

I shouldn’t be riding. It’s too soon. Way too soon.

Too late now.

At the stroke of midnight, costumed cyclists will be released into Richmond, taking over its streets. The roads are ours tonight. Alley cats are unsanctioned bike races organized by its messengers. Not your pop’s spandex brand of bike marathon.

There are prizes—FTF: First to Finish. DFL: Dead Fucking Last. Best In Show.

Since I won FTF last year, that lands me an automatic starter position. Front of the line. Precisely what I don’t want. Not that I can tell Lys that. This is her event. If I didn’t show, I’d be in deep shit. She was fucking relentless with her texts:Dragging u outta ur shell. Don’t be such a chickenshit. C’mon. Man up saddle upshowthese assholes who u r.

So here I am, at the last place I want to be right now.

On my bike.

A loaner, actually. Freel offered his spare. A decent ride, but still. It doesn’t feel like a part of me. I’m disconnected from the metal.