She lets out a single, nauseating, irritating, absolutely fucking ear-bleeding sob.
Hell was preferable to this.
Making humans cry was only enjoyable when I was actively causing their torment. This inconsequential-tears nonsense is rather…unrewarding, one might argue.
“Are you going to tell me why I’m here, or are you going to keep running around this godforsaken place and assaulting my ears?”
Her mouth opens and closes, and she looks between the wall she came through and me. As she moves, dark strands of hair fall from her shoulder to cascade down her back, thick and grabbable. Not that I would attempt to fuck a ghost, as much as Tony would love the gossip and the details. He’d probably high-five me for the rest of our miserable existences.
When I was down there, I didn’t have the chance to properly look at people—I’m more focused on surviving minute to minute, as one might expect is required when one lives in Hell.
They play games down there. Torture for fun. It’s a constant fight for survival, with the occasional orgy.
So this teary-eyed girl—all innocent looking and full of fear—is probably the only person who hasn’t tried to kill me in the last few decades. It’s rather disappointing. Tony has even killed me a couple of times while in his hellhound form.
I’ve done the same to him, as friends do.
We’ve learned to get along, since we bunk together. But he’s a pain in my ass, and the annoyance running through me rightnow reminds me of all those times I’ve had to sit with him while he ranted about his past life and how he doesn’t belong in Hell.
His kill record before he died begs to differ.
As was his copious consumption of the Devil’s lettuce—a ridiculous name.
It doesn’t grow down there.
“I can’t be dead,” she repeats for the hundredth time.
I sigh. She’s as dumb as Tony too. Probably dumber. Maybe I can summon him here, demand he shift into his hellhound form and maul her. That’d make for decent entertainment.
She disappears from the room again, and her crying turns into hyperventilating screams. I press my fingers to my ears then bring my hand in front of my face. Not bleeding.
Could’ve fooled me.
My gaze drops to the stuff beside her body—a book catches my attention. It’s thick, tattered, and looks like it’s hundreds of years old.
I pick it up, brows furrowing as I open it to a page about blood rituals, summoning spells, and ways to speak to the dead.
We were told in Hell that sometimes we might be called into the world of the living to carry out a task, and if we completed it, we would be rewarded. With what? Fuck knows.
Tony likes to call it Hell’s version of jury duty. He went into great detail about what exactly that is and bored me to death. Regardless, what the fuck is this girl doing with a book like this? She hardly looks like a witch or like she had a death wish, despite her graying body at my feet.
Maybe sheisa witch?
My nostrils twitch. She doesn’t smell like one.
Either way, I deserve to know why she summoned me and how she plans on sending me back with one of her spells. Or better yet, let me get the ever-loving fuck out of this house.
I slam the book shut and realize the crying has finally stopped.
Good. I need answers—only then can I plan my next move.
I search the manor again, growing more and more impatient until I walk into the dining room and find her staring at a chair in silence.
Thethumpof the grimoire landing on the already cracked oak table doesn’t make her jump. Nope. She’s still staring at the chair, shaking, and I sigh at her bloodshot eyes. I’ve never come across someone who cries so much. She could fill the damn Styx with her tears.
I snap my fingers in front of her face. “Hello? Anyone home? Earth to dead girl?”
Nothing. The lights are on, but no one’s home.
