A silent tear rolls down my cheek. You would think after a year without my sister, this would be easier. But that’s a lie society tells you so you’ll stop grieving the dead. The truth of the matter is that it never gets easier. The pain is still there. Sometimes it lies dormant, and just when you think you have a handle on your emotions, something comes along and slashes right through the box you put them in.
It will never be easier. But if that is the cost of remembrance, then I shall pay it in full.
Before my vision can get too clouded with tears, Iunzip my backpack. The neatly folded clothes I packed are now strewn about. Fucking cops.
Fortunately, the clothes were on top, and the small zippered bags at the bottom seem mostly untouched. I say a silent thank you to the person who “thoroughly” searched the backpack and decided the bottom half wasn’t important.
I pull out a leather-bound journal and open it to the first page. A beautiful brunette with a heart-shaped face stares back at me. Many people mistook us for twins, but I always thought my older sister was more beautiful. Her soft brown eyes always held warmness and love, ready to greet anyone as if they were lifelong friends. It’s true what they say about eyes being a window to the soul.
Taking a few rocks scattered about, I place her picture near her grave, keeping it pinned down with the rocks and safe from the wind. I hope the tree above the grave will help protect it from the worst of the rain. Anyone who looks down will see her smiling up at them. Just as she always did.
I close the journal back up and then place it next to her photo. I don’t need it anymore; I want to share her memory with more people.
“When you died, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.” My throat is thick with emotions, tears burning my eyes. If I allow myself, I would curl up in a fetal position atop my family's graves and never leave.
“To be honest, I’m still not ready to say goodbye. But I think I know how to keep you alive, even when I’m gone.” I glide my hands over the leather of the journal.
“I’ve never been one for words. That was more yourthing, but I took your advice and wrote down my feelings. Well, that turned into writing about you and the type of person you are…were.”
God, why is this so fucking hard? A blade or bullet to the heart would hurt less than this. But Anna, my big sister, took care of me for years. I have to return the favor, even if it’s small compared to everything she did for me and taught me.
“These pages are filled with your story—everything you were and the joy you brought to people. I even included that one night at the bonfire where you accidentally burned the entire bag of marshmallows.” I smile at the memory. It was the last winter before our mother died. The last time we were together as a complete family. The last time I remember feeling genuine happiness.
“I’m going to leave this here so anyone who walks by can read your story and know how good a person and big sister you were. I don’t know how it will stand up against the weather, but I’m hoping for the best. I love you, Anna, and I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”
This time, the tears fall freely, and I don’t try to stop them. I lean forward, placing a kiss to her tombstone and then do the same for my parents. A gentle wind blows, feeling like a caress to the skin, carrying the smell of roses. I imagine it’s a sign from Anna that she’s still here, and maybe that she forgives me for what I have done.
“Goodbye, Anna. Goodbye, Mom and Dad. I love you all so much.” I force myself up and fling my backpack over my arm. I allow myself onelast glance at my parents’ and Anna’s graves before turning my back on them for the last time.
The tears don’t completely dry up by the time I make it back to The Guardian, who is still perched in the same spot I left him. I don’t have to see myself to know my eyes are puffy and red from crying, but The Guardian doesn’t comment.
I’m not sure if I’m thankful or upset about that.
“Before we go,” I say at last, “I need to know if there is a woman named Erin Goodwin in Mescos?”
The Guardian gives little away. He’s closed-off in emotion and body language. He studies me for what feels likes long minutes, but in reality is only a few seconds, before he nods. “Yes. Ms. Goodwin is in Mescos.”
“I want to see her.”
“I see.” He doesn’t ask me why, and I don’t offer an explanation. It’s not for him to know. He wasn’t affected by James like Erin and I were. “I suppose you’ll need to ask your husband.”
Before I can protest, The Guardian turns and starts to walk away from the cemetery. I hold my tongue for now, silently following behind him, allowing him to take the lead. “Now, let us go to my house,” he says. “The portal for us awaits, and so does the demon king. He’ll be expecting us.”
Chapter 3
Oziel
Flickering lights from sconces illuminate my pathway. The soft, almost imperceptible sound of my footfalls echoes behind me. I’ve walked this hallway many times, as have many demon kings before me. The hallway is a testament to ancient, malevolent grandeur. The walls are carved with intricate, infernal runes that pulse with a deep crimson glow, casting eerie patterns onto the cold, polished floor. Ruby-red framework adorns the obsidian walls with portraits of my ancestors hanging in each one. I can’t help but think that their beady eyes follow my every move, judging me harshly for what has befallen this kingdom during my reign.
Usually, they would give me pause, but today is different.
I reach a set of grand doors with golden accents splashed against the dark wood. The soft sound of hauntingly beautiful music drifts through the air, mingling with the faint scent of burning incense andbrimstone. There’s something else there too, a heady, musty scent. No longer is the music the only sound emerging from the room, but lustful sighs, moans, and grunts dilute the piano’s melody.
My eyes narrow. The party has started without me. I wave my clawed hand, sharp nails scraping the door. They burst open, and the smells and sounds assault my senses. It’s intoxicating, a perfect distraction from the curse plaguing my demons.
I pause before stepping inside, surveying the debauchery before me and demons in various states of undress and compromising positions. The ballroom is the largest room in the castle, spanning the size of three formal dining rooms. Much like the rest of the castle, the obsidian-black tiles blend into the walls, making the room feel endless and caving in on you all at the same time.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line one of the walls, bathing the room in starlight. I stalk in, and a few demons engaging in sexual acts meet my gaze. A woman is on her hands and knees, with a male demon thrusting into her from behind and another cock fucking her mouth. She pulls back, a string of saliva hanging from her lips, black claws reaching out, beckoning me.
