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“I’m not my father,” I eventually say. “You have beef with him, not me.”
The Devil stares into my soul over the rim of his glass, before slamming it to the table with a force that makes me jump.
The emerald ring catches the light as he gestures above my head.
“Go.”
The hope comes back. It rises in my chest like bile. “Really?” I all but whisper.
He nods. “You can go, Miss Murphy.”
I don’t spend another second looking into the eyes of the Devil. I scrape my chair back, scrambling away from the monster and his chocolate cake, and stumble towards the door, unsteady on my heels.
I tug at the handle.
Locked.
I rap on the glass to catch the attention of the guard standing outside. He twists his head enough to flash me a pitiful smile, before turning his attention back to the street. “Let me out,” I all but squeak, slamming my hand against the door. The thing that stands between me and freedom.
The noise that floats across the restaurant is demonic. Low, gruff, yet eerily melodic. I turn, horrified, and meet the amber gaze of the Devil. His face is split in two by a psychotic smile.
The waitress appears from behind the curtain with another platter, stooping low enough so that he can pick something off of it. It glints in the low lighting, just enough for me to make out the sharp tip of a needle.
A scream rips from my chest, my own demon trying to escape my body. I slip a pump off my foot and slam the heel into the glass, desperate to escape. When I turn around again, he’s holding the needle up to the light, one eye closed. He flicks the barrel, once, twice, then squeezes the plunger a fraction, enough for a spurt of liquid to come out.
“Please,” I wail, hammering on the door. More men have appeared outside of the restaurant now and are standing shoulder to shoulder, their backs to the door. Blocking my view of the street. Blocking the street’s view ofme.
When I turn back around, the Devil is on his feet. Striding, gliding across the restaurant. In three strides he’s on top of me. It’s scary, how easily he flips me around to face the glass, pushing my breasts against the cold surface. How easy he pins down my flailing arms and pulls back my head to reveal my neck.
His hand smells like cigars and leather as he clamps it over my mouth.
The cold tip of a needle against my neck. The hot rush of breath and beard against my ear.
“Welcome to hell,” comes the throaty voice. “I told you you’d be joining me here.”
Poppy
I wake up in a dark abyss.
My head is groggy and my throat is dry. I’ve felt like this before after nights of too many Gin Fizzes and Nellie forcing Jagerbombs down my throat.
But it only takes a few moments of being conscious to remember this isn’t a hangover. Rolling over and going back to sleep for a few more hours isn’t going to solve my problem.
Realization and panic flood my body, and I force myself to open my eyes. My arms are too heavy to push myself up, but through the sedative-filled fog, I try to take in my surroundings. With the help of a sliver of moonlight, I can make out the outline of a bedroom. A bedside table and a lamp. I clamber around, finding a switch, and flood the room with a soft amber glow.
Gold. Marble. Mahogany. I squeeze my eyes shut again, willing the blurriness to go away. This time, when I open my eyes I can focus on actual objects, not only materials.
The first thing I focus on is the foot of the bed I’m lying on. The frame is curved in the middle, tapered at the edges and coated in glistening gold. Embroidered curtains hang above it, tied to the pillars on either side with oversized silk ribbons. Beyond the elaborate bed is a chest of drawers with the same curved silhouette and decadence. I can just about turn my head to the left to take in an overstuffed chaise lounge and an oval mirror hanging above it. To my right is a glass cabinet, full to the brim of trinkets and ornaments.
Where the hell am I?
It takes a few attempts, but I eventually prop myself up on my shaking elbows. Looking down at my body, I realize I’m wrapped in a silk robe. Even in my numb state, it feels incredibly expensive and smooth against my bare skin. The shame seeps in.
He drugged me. He took me. Heundressedme.
I feel dirty at the thought.
There’s a glass of water on the bedside cabinet, and I greedily gulp from it before I can consider whether it’s poisoned or not.
