Don’t let me die for nothing. Run.
He knew, right then and there, that was it for him. Maybe if I’d been paying more attention, I would’ve seen that same grim look of acceptance on all of the guys’ faces. But I just couldn’t fathom it. Even when we were overrun, I thought we could get away. The four of them are larger than life. Powerful. Other. So fucking special that I couldn’t really even begin to believe that they could possibly die.
But we didn’t stand a chance. Five against hundreds? Thousands? I was so fucking naive. So totally unprepared.
Bring her to the Ophidian.
The memory of those words being growled makes the hairs rise up on my arms. Something or somebody wants me. They attacked us, killed my demons, because those Outer Ringers were told to come get me.
How the fuck did they even know I was there in the first place? And more importantly, why? Why me? What the Hell could anyone possibly want from me?
These questions plague me, but try as I might, I don’t fucking know the answers, and I have no way of finding out. I have no one to ask. I’m so terrified and brokenhearted that it feels like I’m being weighed down with cement blocks and water is slowly, threateningly, rising up from my feet. It feels like it’s only a matter of time before I can’t breathe anymore and everything is over for me.
I can’t help but wonder what’s happening with the Hellgate. I know I didn’t really want anything to do with it, but now, I feel some sort of kinship to the damn thing. We both lost who we were counting on to stabilize us.
Is the Gate broken beyond repair? Are imps and Outer Ring demons pouring out into the mortal world right now as I’m stuck here? Am I still a Gate Guardian even though I was never inducted?
My gray eyes blink at the spikes on the wall across from me as I stare off into space, questions swirling in my head. The metal is black and rough, and there are stains in some of the crevices between the sharp points. Not only does it look intimidating as hell, but it also makes all the sound in the room muffled, as if whoever built it wanted to make sure your own sobs suffocated in the air, not allowed to drift out.
That’s exactly what I feel like—like the sadness is going to smother me.
What would Jerif do if he knew that he would die just for me to end up here?
It makes me angry on his behalf. He wanted me to get away, not to be stuck in this place. I need to get out. But my one and only weapon is gone. The scythe dropped right out of my hands, and I didn’t get to see what happened to it before I was dragged into this cell.
Exhaustion tugs at my eyes, making my lids feel heavy. I try to fight it because it terrifies me to sleep in this place and to be caught unaware. So I force myself to get up and pace again, but the soreness in my body screams at me to sit back down.
I grip the bars, yelling once more, shouting words that get swallowed up in the darkness. Defeated and utterly drained, I lie down on the bed again, and then I just cry. My tears go hot and cold. My body sweats and shivers. My mind whirls until my overflowing emotions make me go numb instead.
A long time passes by the time my heavy lids take over, shutting my burning eyes against my will. Sweeping the last of my tears away, my eyes force me into sleep, like I’ve been strong-armed in a wrestling contest and the only thing I can do is tap out.
I dream about them dying over and over again.
I wake up because of a sound, but my groggy body doesn’t pinpoint it right away. I groan at the hard metal bed that I’m lying on and rub my hands down my face. I was really hoping that when I opened my eyes, the spiked walls and overall doom of my circumstances would have been gone, nothing but a nightmare.
One look over my shoulder sends all hope away. Those grotesque, horrible multihued-purple wings are still attached to my back, some of the feathers nearly matching the shade of my hair.
I always thought it was weird that I’ve been dyeing my hair purple since I was sixteen. I just...had to. I’ve always been drawn to it. My mom didn’t even mind it; she said it suited me. I can’t help but wonder if that’s because she knew I had wings to go right along with it. It’s like every time I got a purple box of dye, I was fulfilling some omen or giving fate a hand up. Maybe this is why I only have to dye my hair every six months. It takes to the color like it’s claiming it as its own.
Did my parents know that if these blocks on me were removed, this is what I would really look like? Was I born with violet purple hair and wings? Is that why they put some sort of demon power block on me, because there was no way for me to blend otherwise?
I dismiss the barrage of frustrating questions. I shouldn’t keep looking for answers when I know I’ll probably never find them. Instead, I search my body for any other hints of change. I don’t feel any horns or tails. I still have two eyes and normal teeth, and my skin is what it’s always been. I don’t have a forked tongue like Crux, or blue skin like Iceman, or moving tattoo shadows like Echo. I don’t have fiery hair like Jerif. Aside from the wings and what I now suspect is the real color of my hair, I’m still me.
Sitting up, I look around, testing out my body as I stretch and crick my neck, trying to work out the soreness from the bed and figure out what the noise was that woke me up. When my eyes scan over to the bars of my cell, I jump so hard that I ram my wings back against the spiked wall, instantly piercing one.
With a pained yelp, I stand up, nearly falling face-forward as I overcompensate for the weight of the wings at my back. I’ve been awake for about forty seconds, and life already sucks.
With a hand over my racing heart, I stare at Lanky who’s just standing in the shadows, watching me like a creeper.
“Fuck, how long have you been standing there like the king of pervs?” I demand, reaching around to rub my smarting wing. I try not to flinch at the feel of feathers against my hand, but I don’t succeed. Fuck. I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this.
Ew.
I pull my hand away, and luckily, there’s no blood, so I guess that’s a good thing. I doubt leaving my blood cells behind in a place like this would be a good thing. Who knows what could happen? I don’t trust this Lanky fucker.
“So what’s going to happen to me now?” I ask my audience of one, not at all expecting that he’ll answer me.
He looks pretty determined to just stand there and creep me out, but what he doesn’t know is that I’m on board with not being down here alone. Slap my ass and call me misery, because company—whether silent and voyeuristic or not—is better than nothing.
I notice that he doesn’t have a chair, so either he’s an epic stander or he’s not planning on being down here for too long. I try not to think about what that means for me.
“Next time your friends come to you and say, hey let’s pop down into Hell real quick. It’ll be fun and totally fine, don’t believe anything they say. Run as far away from them as you can. And if you’re being attacked by Outer Ring demons like I always am, stick with your posse. But overall, just say no to Hell,” I advise him.
He doesn’t crack a smile, and even trying to joke about the other Gate Guardians hurts my heart. I shake my head and try to get comfortable on the morgue table that’s doubling as a bed.
“I have an idea,” I announce. “I’m going to ask you a bunch of questions. You can stay perfectly still and creeptastic. If I’m right, you can snort, and if I’m wrong, then you can blink twice or something. Okay?”