Page 88 of The Devil

It’s a tiny fluttering like a butterfly’s wings. Timed perfectly. Like she wants to tell me it’s okay. She wants to say she’s not a monster because monsters don’t touch you with butterfly wings. Monsters grip you with fingers that dig into your flesh to leave marks.

She. It’s a girl. I know it. I feel it. At least it’s not going to be a boy because boys become men and men become monsters.

I need to figure this out. Stay strong. Because if I don’t get away, she’s just as doomed as me.

The entry ends there. There are doodles in the corners, the same thing she keeps drawing. There’s something familiar about them.

I need to find Amal.

As if on cue, the door opens and for the briefest most fleeting, most stupid moment, I feel a relief like I have never felt because for that instant, I think it’s her. I think it’s Amal.

But that relief is replaced quickly by a dark dread when I see Robertson moving out of the way to allow Senna to enter.

That same sensation I’d felt when I’d first met the man overcomes me. It’s a feeling of ants crawling over my entire body and I’m unable to move. To swipe them away.

I shove it all down. Bury every emotion. It takes all I have but I do it.

“Where is my wife?” I demand, dropping the diary and stalking toward him. “Where is she?”

Senna continues to take in the room before he bothers to look at me, all calm confidence in that grin I hate.

I think about Sev. About what they did to him. I imagine Councilor Senna standing on his raised dais condemning my brother to have the mark of The Society removed by branding.

“Where the fuck is my wife?” I say in red-hot fury as dread grips me. If they hurt her, if they fucking hurt her, I will kill them! I stalk toward Senna. He’s barely six feet tall and I expect him to cower, but he doesn’t.

“Crude language, Mr. Blackstone,” Senna says.

Two soldiers that must have been standing outside stalks into the room. One has an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder like we’re at fucking war. The other stalks right past Senna and stops me in my tracks.

“Where the fuck is my wife?” I demand, the soldier holding me back from him because I could snap his neck single-handed if he was unguarded.

He looks me over and raises his brows, a curl to his lip when he speaks.

“But I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything different from you. I don’t know where your wife is. Why would I? Perhaps she’s left you.”

I shove an elbow into the gut of the soldier and he grunts, curling in on himself. The instant he does, I smash the back of my fist into his nose hard enough to break it. The soldier’s hands fly to his face, and I grab his arm and twist it behind him, shifting our positions, hearing the very satisfying crack of a bone as I force him to his knees. From his holster I take his gun and put it to the side of his head.

“Where the fuck is my wife?” I demand as the man with the automatic points his weapon at me and two more soldiers appear.

When they take a step, I cock the gun.

Robertson appears and holds up his hand signaling that no one shoot.

“Your wife is being prepared,” Robertson offers, sounding very put off. “What exactly is this? Remove your weapon from that man. Good God, what did you do to him?”

I look past Senna to him. “What the fuck to do you mean, prepared?” I ask, keeping the gun exactly where it is.

“For the masquerade, of course. I can assure you she is quite safe and well looked after.”

“Where is she?”’

“In her dressing room. Please, some decorum, Mr. Blackstone and we will explain. Now, can you behave in a decent manner? Our men are standing down. I ask you to do the same. Really, Mr. Blackstone.” When I make no move, he continues. “If you’d like your wife to see you alive rather than dead, I suggest you comply.”

The eager beaver soldier raises his gun again taking aim at my chest with a grin that says please don’t comply.

I’m outnumbered. And he’s got Amal.

I de-cock the weapon and shove the soldier with the broken nose and arm to the floor.