A heavy sigh of relief floats down and shifts the hair of the little boy in uniform, who is holding an order form with both hands and staring up at me. Behind him, standing on the sidewalk, is his mother, her arms folded, the toe of her blue canvas sneaker tapping on the ground, and an impatient look on her face. When the little blonde boy looks back at her, she unfolds her arms and says, “Go on. Ask her.”
The boy peers back at me, then immediately stares at his feet as he quietly says, “I’m selling popcorn for Boy Scouts. Would you like to order some?”
“Of course I do,” I say with a shaky smile, taking the order form and paper from him. I fill in the line for four boxes of salted caramel corn for my dad, who loves it, and select a kettle corn for me before handing the form back to the boy. “Give me one moment, let me grab some money for you.”
Paying $100 for five boxes of popcorn may seem ridiculous, but I remember when I was little and in Girl Scouts. Having so many doors slammed in my face and so many rejections made me feel as if it were my fault. But when just one personplaces a significant order with you, it makes you feel worthy and successful.
When I return to the door, the boy is smiling up at his mother, who is also smiling. My guess is they’ve been at it for a while with little to no orders. Now maybe they can go home. I stand in the doorway, holding the money out to the little boy who eagerly scales the steps, grabs it and shoves it into a manila envelope with a glowing smile. He thanks me confidently and leaps off the porch, running to his mother, who has already proceeded down the sidewalk without a word to me.
As the door clicks quietly closed behind me, my eyes get stuck on the low fire that has rekindled in my absence. It slowly grows higher and higher as Mastyx calls to me, eagerly needing to see me in person.
He wants to hurt me, punish me for my thoughts and my desire to save the doctor’s life. The contract between us allows him to see me only when there’s a full moon; otherwise, my sacrifices to him and my decision to bring him to me are my own, not his. And right now, after what he pulled today, I chose to let him stew until the next full moon to see me. Like the doctor’s calls and the bell he rang to summon me to answer my door, Mastyx’s messages and requests for my company will go unanswered.
I know I will regret this decision, and the pain that awaits me with the next full moon will be significant and unrelenting, but to me, it’s worth it to show him that despite being his submissive, I still have some control over my life. At least, I think I do as I enter the living room and lean against my sacrificial altar, staring inside the fireplace.
The small flame inside suddenly vanishes, the fire burning out completely, no glowing embers, no smoke, nothing. It’s fully extinguished. An emptiness grips me that I didn’t expect.
I kneel before the dark, porous wood and poke it with the fire iron.
Nothing. Not even a hint of heat remains. I reach in and touch the burnt wood, and it’s cold to the touch as if it were never lit. He’s gone. Mastyx is gone. I sit back on my heels and stare into the darkness before me, a smile creeping across my face.
Perhaps he read my mind and is backing off, worried he won’t get any extra sacrifices or visits from me. I don’t feel him or sense his presence, releasing a build of anxiety that has been festering inside me. My stomach unclenches, relaxing into this unexpected feeling of freedom. I rock my head back and forth, my smile broadening, before my face grows serious. My feelings are my own, and Mastyx can’t force me not to have them.
“I control my feelings, not you,” I say with newfound confidence to the dead space between me and the soot covering the brick back of my fireplace, knowing he can’t hear me.
There’s a brief moment of peace that quickly succumbs to dread that overwhelms me. I exhale a staggering breath, and fog escapes my mouth as the room turns stone cold, casting goosebumps across every inch of me. My face prickles and drains of color as flaming clawed hands launch from the fireplace, trying to grab me. I leap back, scream, and turn to run, but a fiery grip tightens around my calves, singeing my skin and dropping me face-first onto the hard floor.
Metallic liquid fills my palate, and I swallow it down before digging my nails into the hardwood, splitting and breaking them as I gouge it frantically.
Mastyx’s tongue tangles around my throat, cutting off my airway and silencing my desperate cries for help. His flaming body drops on top of mine, singeing my spine through my clothing. I thrash beneath him, frantically trying to escape his grasp.
My feet, then my legs, heat up as he drags me backward into the flames of hell, where the fire consumes me until there is nothing left. Nothing but darkness and silence.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Falling
I’m falling, and he’s letting me, the fire down below growing closer by the second—the walls around me, black with grooves leaching lava.
What was I thinking, running my mouth as if I actually have control over my life? I scream at Mastyx, “Please, stop. I’m sorry.” Tears sting my cheeks.
He shrieks above me, “Don’t forget, you belong to me, my Little Sinner.”
My back arches beneath the painful slap of multiple sharp objects digging into my spine like glass. Without warning, my direction changes from heading toward the flames of hell to a bright light.
I pinch my eyes closed, the brightness burning my orbs. A diabolical, low, throaty laugh echoes around me and slowly fades. A beeping noise forces my eyes open right before I slam to the floor beside my bed, sending a lightning-like pain scorching through my arm. I roll onto my back, the pulsating throb in my appendage making me cry out.
“Fuck,” I murmur and blink away the tears blurring my vision.
My phone alarm blares above me from the nightstand. I reach over my head, slide it off the surface and turn it off.
The back of my shirt is wet and sticky. It makes sense after the nightmare I just had. I turn my head and gawk at my forearm. It’s twice the size it should be. I can’t believe this. I haven’t fallen out of bed since I was eight and dreamed that I fell off my bike and woke up on my bedroom floor. At least back then, it was carpeted, and the distance I fell wasn’t as high. I roll onto my side and sit up, wincing as a painful burning spreads across my spine.
I twist my face in confusion. My head spins along with the room as dizziness takes over.
“No,” I say aloud to my empty room. “It was just a bad dream.”
The mattress sinks as I press the top of it and push myself to a stand, my legs like jelly, wiggling. I stagger across the room, stand in front of my mirror and slowly turn around. Blood spots stain the back of my Courage the Cowardly Dog shirt, where Mastyx grabbed me with his razor-sharp talons and redirected me.
