“Do you understand me?” he asks in ancient Ifrit. He should have started with that like he did out in the sand.
I try not to react, but I must make an expression that he approves of because he nods.
“The venom of the demons strong. You no move for minutes.”
Okay, so maybe his Ifrit is a bit choppy. He mixes the language with other ones, the languages of hell I spent an entire semester pouring over and catch in bits and pieces.
I roll the words silently over my tongue, trying to remember how to speak them.
The myth that says if you speak two languages, it’s easier to understand a third is a fucking lie. As I try to separate the gags and growls in my mind, my father—theMessenger, I adamantly remind myself—steps down from the dais and sits on the first step in front of the centered, massive throne. The spikes frame behind his head like a distorted crown.
“You stay here now, groemmel,” he growls.
Oh, I think the fuck not. And there’s that fucking word again. Groemmel. It hurts to hear it come out of his mouth in such an endearing way that must be considered soft and affectionate for him.
I try to move, but whatever venom those demons injected into me with their claws makes even the effort unbearable. I feel the twitch of my toes on one foot, and the tremble of my fingers. How long before it wears off?
I try to coax my Prod out, but wherever she is, the venom must have affected her, because she doesn’t respond.
My anxious breathing grows labored at my inability to move. I have to get out of here. Ihaveto.
“What do you want?” I growl hoarsely, the sound rasping painfully in my throat.
His mouth widens into a smile, revealing pointed teeth. Geez, in the gene pool I’m glad I didn’t get those…
“You.”
And then he gets up and gestures at one of the thrones. The smallest one of them all, just to the right.
It’s molded and arched as if it’s made for someone my size.
Made for me.
Oh,hellno.
I barely wanted to be a manager at Willy Hog Dog Shack. If he wants me to rule hell at his side, he’s got another thing coming. I’m too young to be caught up in just another customer service gig for the rest of my fucking life. Listening to demons’ problems and shit. No, sir.
“That’s a nice gesture and all…” I trail off in English, and he seems to understand me just fine as I discreetly try to move my feet again, doubling my efforts. I feel a twitch. Good. That’s good. “But I don’t think I could. I’m not worthy of that, ya know.” I move a hand; my wrist twitches. Yes.
“You stay!” he roars angrily and I freeze as smoke billows from his nostrils.
“I—would love to, but I have school to finish. They’re touchy about missing one class so they’d be kind of pissed if I took a vacation in hell. And really, I’m sure my boyfriends are worried about me. It’s just not the best time for me.”
Shit. Why did I say that? He’s bringing me here like some sort of hell princess. If he knew I have four boyfriends will he try to rip them apart like some overprotective bully father?
What a way to establish trust.
I triple my efforts and move an ankle, all the while I’m screaming at my Prod, trying to coax her out urgently. I feel inside myself for that well of power.
“Well… I mean… I suppose I could visit like during Christmas. Gonna have to pass on Halloween though. Can’t miss my annual trick-or-treating…”
He growls and my lips snap shut.
That’s when I feel it. When I feel the thrum of power inside me. A small sparking kernel of it that beckons gently. It’s not the overwhelming force I’m used to, but at least it’s something.
I just need to keep him distracted.
“What do you want from me?” I put enough tremble in my voice to make him think I’m sniveling and weak. Maybe he’ll let me go if he thinks his offspring is lame.
