Page 159 of Dead Beat

“I didn’t make that deal.”

“And yet you will fulfill it.”

“Make me.”

He smiled and she saw teeth bloom in his mouth, row after jagged row, as if preparing to consume her. “It will be my great pleasure, Galaxy Stern. You are no hero and I am not some beast to be bested, though it may please you to think of me so.”

“Why do you think I care?”

“Your priest believes you are righteous.”

“He does,” she acknowledged. “But between you and me? That’s not something I worry about. You want to eat us. Even if you have every right to eat us, even if we deserve to be eaten, I’m not going to let you do it.”

Golgarot’s lip curled. “You are unfit to serve even as slave. Nonetheless, you will wear the yoke.”

God, she was tired of being threatened.

“Okay,” she said. “Speech made. You brought me here to frighten me, so frighten me. Give me the final puzzle.”

“It’s easy,” the demon said, and he was smiling again, all signs of fatigue or fear gone. “You just have to save her.”

Behind her, Alex heard the clang of a bathroom stall door. She knew what came next. She heard her own screams.

It’s not real, she told herself. That time is over. You’re here now. You survived it.

But it was real. The monster in the mirror. The wet concrete floor. The horror of him pushing inside her. She hadn’t known how to hurt him then, how to fight. She could do it now. She could save herself.

Alex ran to the metal door of the bathroom, seized the handle. It wouldn’t open. She pulled with all her weight, bracing her heel against the wall. It wouldn’t budge.

She pounded on the door and her hands came away covered in bloody butterflies. She knew this was what Golgarot wanted, but she couldn’t stop. She had real power now. This was her chance to change it all.

“Leave her alone!” she yelled.

She scrabbled at the seams of the door, trying to find a way to pry it open, seeking purchase. There were butterflies crawling over her arms now. She was on the floor, on her hands and knees. He was shoving her jeans down. No. That’s not me anymore.

It’s always you.

She screamed, clawing at the door, then hurling herself against it. There were butterflies everywhere, a dark cloud of black bodies and orange wings. She ignored them, slamming herself against the door again and again.

“Let me in, you fucking coward! Fight me!”

She was stronger now, harder. That Gray wouldn’t stand a chance if she could just get through the door. She could swallow his soul. She could banish him with death words. She could make him helpless the way he’d made her helpless.

Alex bounced off the metal, stumbled backward, hit the ground. She tried to get up, but she couldn’t see through the swarm of butterflies. She batted them away as they crowded over her, covering her hair, her clothes, filling her mouth, their feathery wings choking her.

Darlington. No. That was what Golgarot wanted, to claim them both. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t give him up to hell too. There would be no rescue, no knight to save her. She had already died here once, and a hundred times after. When Meagan had turned against her. When her mother had failed to see and believe. With every doctor and shrink and counselor who had promised to understand. With every Xanax and bong hit that had never granted oblivion. She’d been dying her whole life. Why bother fighting it now?

No. That faint voice. The last scrap of a soul. No, hermanita. Don’t let them off the hook so easy.

If she could have spoken, she would have told Theo she was sorry. But she was choking on the crawling bodies of butterflies and she could not make them stop, could not make any of it stop.

Someone grabbed at her arms and that was fine. She was done fighting.

They were lifting her, brushing the butterflies away from her skin, her cheeks, her eyes, carefully pulling them from her mouth. She opened her eyes and through her tears she saw the Bridegroom, and beside him Hellie, pale and blue, vomit on her tank top but somehow beautiful still. Estrea was next to her, plucking wings from Alex’s hair, crooning softly, Kerida. There were others too—the little boy who haunted JE’s courtyard, Turner’s father in his flannel shirt, Girard’s angry wife.

You fight for us too, said the Bridegroom. For the dead and those they loved.

Desmazalada. Estrea clucked. My unlucky one. Then she spat over her shoulder three times. En jinin jinan ke se kemen sus guesos. Alex remembered that saying. May his bones burn in hell.