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The silence is hot and heavy despite the January weather. The Devil studies me with a poker face that any gambler in Vegas would die for. Then, his lips stretch, his deranged smile splitting to reveal a perfect set of white teeth.
“I’m already here, princess,” he murmurs, closing the gap between us. He’s so close now that the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Mixed in with his oaky cologne is another scent, one that smells bitter and acidic. Alcohol. I force myself not to shrink away from him. “And in three years, you’ll be right here with me.”
He widens the space between us as quickly as he closed it, shoving past my father and striding back up to the sanctuary, taking his spot behind the pulpit again. Adjusting his cufflinks and smoothing down a strand of wavy black hair that has escaped his mane, he nods towards the back of the church. “You’re dismissed,” he says, without looking at me again.
The patter of heavy boots as the Devil’s men make a beeline for my father and me. Marcus Murphy’s hands shoot right up, palms in the air, walking himself out of the church. Me, on the other hand, I find it a lot harder to budge.
The teen with the Doc Martens and his haggard father are the only ones left. And I have a feeling that the Devil makes a habit of saving the worst till last.
“Wait,” I stammer, trying to rip my arm out of one of his hound’s vice-like grip. I was torn between wanting to get the hell out of here and finding out how this ends. “What about them?”
It was obvious “them” referred to the only two people left in the room; the father and his Doc Marten-clad, ice-cold son. The punishments had gotten progressively worse, to the point where if I stay silent, it’ll eat me up inside for the rest of my life.
The Devil throws a stony look over the pulpit. “I said, you’re dismissed.”
The hounds of Hell kick into action again. I might be no match for them, but I’m tall for my age and have enough stubborn strength to dig the heels of my worn pumps into the floor. His lips twitch at my struggle, enough for me to realize this is nothing but a cruel, twisted game to him. This knocks all of my fighting breath from my lungs and now I’m as limp as my father. The beige and brown colors of the church pass in a blur as the men drag us outside, dumping us on the curb like we’re the day’s trash.
The monsters that live in your head grow bigger and stronger and scarier as they feast on your fears. But when confronted by them in reality, you realize how much you’ve blown them out of proportion.
But not the Devil. He was exactly how I imagined him.
Catching my breath, I look up at the looming spire, letting the day’s first bout of snow settle on my face.
Today has proven to me once and for all that God doesn’t exist. If he did, the Devil would have gone up in flames.
Poppy
SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD
My relationship with my father was hanging by a thread before the funeral. But his final act of cowardliness was a sharp razor blade, severing any fiber of love I had left for him.
The last time I spoke more than three words to him was on the steps of the church, a fresh snowstorm building up momentum around us.
“How could you?” I’d screamed, my frustration snatched away by the wind. “I’m yourdaughter. How could you letthat monsterclaim me?”
His weary eyes had looked through me. There was no sparkle in his emeralds, and I couldn’t remember a time when there was. What stood in front of me was a defeated man controlled by something much bigger than him.
“Lorcan Quinn,” he had muttered back, as if those two words were explanation enough.
When I shoved him with all of my force, wanting to elicit something—anything—that showed he cared, he closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Pops. What the Quinns want, the Quinns get.”
It was also the last time I called him “Dad.” He’s Marcus Murphy to me now.
On my seventeenth birthday, the reality of my future hits me like a ton of bricks. I have one year to figure out a plan and change the fate the Devil bestowed on me. I have to escape the crumbling walk-up I share with the man formerly known as my father. I also have to get as far away as possible, out of Boston and anywhere the Quinn’s power might reach.
But moving means money, something I’ve never had. I have to turn something out of nothing, and then that something into something more.
I’m clambering through the cobbled streets of Beacon Hill one day after school when I see that nothing. It glitters in the low winter sun, forcing me to look at it.
A mirror. Beautiful and broken. The gold, oval frame twists into intricate knots, and the glass is cracked and streaky. It rests against the railings of a townhouse, a damp post-it note stuck to it, flapping in the breeze.
Free. Help urself. :)
I peer up at the towering house, with its polished stone steps, red brickwork, and shiny black door.How rich must you be to discard something so precious?
The next morning, I head into school early, the broken mirror tucked under my arm, and make my way to Mrs. Harjo’s office.
She responds to my shy knock by peering around the door, her caramel eyes widening in surprise. “Hello,” she says politely, “how can I help you?”
