I think the last time I heard anyone say my name was the week before Ella died. That was almost a year ago. That the person to break the spell is the man who murdered me is a depressing realization.
I’m torn between wanting him to say it again or keep my name from his mouth because hearing it has made me feel human for the first time in years.
But, of course, the demon ruins the moment.
“I prefer dead thing.” He throws another pebble at me.
“Stop it,” I snap, batting it away even though it goes right through me.
He shrugs.
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my rapidly rising irritation. How is it possible for one person to be so beautiful yet piss me off so thoroughly?
“What’s your name?”
He scowls at my question. Fuck it. The gloves can come off.
I can’t get any deader, and his little attempt at tying me up didn’t exactly work. If he had his way, I’m sure I’d be locked up in the basement. All my practice won’t be for nothing either. If he tries to touch me, he’ll fly right through me.
We narrow our eyes at each other as if he’s seen the switch flick in my head.
“Actually, don’t tell me. I don’t care. Asshole has a nice ring to it. I’ll stick with that.”
The cunt’s eyes darken, and he tips his head to the side tauntingly. Fear zips down my spine, but I sink my nails into theanger coursing through my system and turn it into a weapon; into armor.
“You know the difference between us?” His voice sounds too loud in the enclosed space. It echoes against the stone floors and disturbs the mothballs floating between us. “You speak even when I don’t care to listen.”
In a single sentence, he’s transported me back to the manor, to being a child again, listening to my parents tell me they have no interest in hearing the words that come out of my mouth.
I grit my teeth. “And yet here you stand. Unwanted.”
“Yet invited.”
“It doesn’t count if you’ve taken someone else’s invitation. You’re free to go back to burning in the flaming pits and killing puppies.”
“Close. I tortured people like you instead,” he states plainly.
That’s only moderately mortifying. My skin crawls with the urge to run. The only thing keeping me in my spot is the reminder that I can’t escape.
“Offering information I never asked for. That’s rather hypocritical of you.” My lips twitch into a sneer. I neither see the point nor the benefit of this conversation—unless, of course, his plan is simply to harass me, which would be on brand for him.
He scowls in response. It’s disturbing how good he looks when doing such a foul thing. “Do you keep speaking because you like the sound of your own voice?”
Of all the things he’s said, that takes me most by surprise. This is the most I’ve spoken outside of work since Ella died. In fact, it might be the longest conversation I’ve had in the past year.
When Megan came round to “check in,” the entire interaction would involve her talkingatme. She’d usually throw something on the TV to fill the silence. Not for lack of trying—I simply had nothing to say.
Now, I’m battling the need to rip him a new one. But talking to the demon means being in his presence for longer than necessary, despite the fact that it’s making the gray world a little more colorful, and that’s a bad idea no matter which way I cut it. That knowledge is throwing me—that much is clear from my shitty response.
“Maybe. Do you like watching people sleep?”
“Another difference. What you call watching, I call terrorizing.”
For what? To sate his boredom? I think the fuck not. “I’m shaking in my boots.”
“You will be.”
I scoff. “You’ve had four days to make it happen. Either you’re slow at adapting, or you’ve got nothing left to give.”
