Page 20 of Signed in Blood

“I don’t know!”

“Where’d she go?”

“I think that bitch just tried to kill me!”

The pain is blinding. My vision goes in and out. I hear them coming as I’m running through the woods bleeding and coughing up blood. I’m about to pass out, or at least it feels like that, when I hear the crows above my head.

Then out of nowhere, I fall but don’t stop as I vanish from earth.

I barely blink and I hear Lucifer’s rage. “You let him kill you? I gave you so much power!”

The pain is no longer. Like whiplash. What the hell happened?

My body lands back in the den as if I never left to begin with. In a rough thud, I literally collapse onto the floor. The wind isn’t knocked out of me, instead I’m staring at Lucifer from above me.

Jake killed me. That fucking bastard killed me again.

I stare up at Lucifer as it dawns on me, and any anger that was in his eyes wanes. Replaced with…pity.

Bile rises up in my throat. I’m disgusted with myself. He gave me a chance and I’m so fucking pathetic… I couldn’t even…

His expression shockingly hurts more than I expect it to. Swallowing thickly, I almost apologize to him. The wretched feeling rises inside of me.

He gave me a chance at revenge and I couldn’t even do it right.

Weak, I’m so fucking weak.

“You’re not weak. You’re so strong,” Lucifer insists at my thought. My eyes are instantly drawn to his as he cups my chin. The devil who stands in front of me seems to ease every worry with the softest touch. I lean into it, into him. “Going back to where it happened, seeing them again. You didn’t cry once,” he says with such compassion, and the acknowledgment causes tears to prick at the back of my eyes.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

And in this moment I’m torn between two ideas: kissing the devil and learning how to be a better killer.

Chapter Ten

Lilith

* * *

The fire crackles in Lucifer’s den and I find myself staring into it as he pours a drink at the bar. I feel like shit lying there, trying to figure out how I feel about all this. With the adrenaline dropping and the rush all but over, the realization of what I just did dawns on me. It’s fucking dreadful, the idea that I was practically foaming at the mouth to slaughter him.

My body physically trembles and I pull the sheets tighter around myself. I tense as if I’m still holding the axe and my teeth grind against one another. I’m practically obsessed with the idea of him suffering. Of the axe violently chopping his fucking head off.

The anger…it causes dread, but also something else. Something I’m not sure I’m willing to admit out loud.

I did enjoy it; a huge part of me wants them to feel the same pain I did. The same blood and misery they put me through. I want to see them cry and beg for mercy. I deserve it.

At the same time, I look down at my hands and try to remember who I am. I don’t want to enjoy it. This isn’t who I am, it’s who they made me to and I’m having a hard time trying to find a balance with this newfound power I hold in my hands. I never imagined a situation quite like this. Where I’m sacrificed for fame and I have to find peace in the arms of Lucifer.

Maybe I’m meant for this life. The anger simmers as I remember what they did. As I remember those foul pricks uttering Sabrina’s name. My hands form fists so tight my nails dig into my flesh.

The next time I kill them, I’ll make them bleed and bathe in it. I want their flesh under my nails and their bones in my hands. I want to see their insides on the outside, I want to eat them alive.

I swallow hard, contemplating my thoughts of violence.

“It’s working,” Lucifer calls out. “Your rage, it’s taking over. Evil has that effect on people. It’s addicting…” he hisses, his eyes alight with a blaze; I see the trails of fire through his pupils. He stands with a tumbler of whiskey and offers me a glass.

I shake my head. “No thank you.”