Chapter Text
Soft…Everything feels so soft…
Eyes still closed, I bury my face against it, running my hands through it, gripping it tightly between my fingers. I sigh from the comforting weight across my back. A black fog in my mind tantalizes me to go back to my dreams, to never wake up from this sleep. But a restlessness deep inside stirs me awake.
As I start to blink open my eyes, the last thing I remember was falling asleep in the library with Stolas.
My eyes snap open. Soft. Stolas.
Raising my head off the pillow, I glance around.
Sunlight pools through the open curtains.
My curtains. In my own bedroom. In my apartment.
Beneath my hands is my own bed, my bedding around my shoulders.
I’m alone.
How did I get here?
Everything from my hospital stay is neatly folded on my nightstand. The coat Beth gave me, the hospital clothes. my painkillers, my phone, the eyepiece from my telescope. Even my keys.
I’m still wearing the soft pajamas from last night.
Last night, what even happened? Stolas asked if he could hold me—but what did he even mean? What was I thinking? Caught up in the moment, I assumed he asked to hold all of me. But was he only asking if it was okay to keep holding my hand? And I overstepped? I was so tired last night I was not at all in the right headspace. And he’d just finished telling me he wanted to be attentive to my needs. What if he only followed through with holding me because it seemed like that’s what I wanted? And then he fled the first chance he got? I rub my hands across my face. I need to make sure I’m aware of him and his needs, too. I can’t just assume something like that again.
My eyes travel back to the items on the nightstand. Next to them sits a small, wooden box. Tucked beneath it, a folded piece of paper.
Curious, I slip out the paper and unfold it, recognizing the flowing handwriting.
Forgive me, Sam, for last night, if I seemed too forward. I only wished to express my desire to make whatever comes of this attachment a mutual decision, one that will make me worthy of the admiration you have shown me.
So, I did overstep. I knew it. I must look so clingy.
As I look fondly on the trust you have given me, my desire for you is to never feel obligated to entertain any of my requests, no matter how small. Though, I admit I do regret the other responsibilities that require both my attention and my presence, as there is now somewhere I would much rather spend my time.
As an attempt to alleviate this distance between us, you will find a wooden box with a small pendant inside. Should you wish to contact me, simply open it and I will check on you no matter where I am.
My humblest gratitude, Stolas.
Setting aside the letter, I scoop up the wooden box and pry back the lid to peer at its contents.
From the cushion inside, I lift out a thin, delicate necklace where an inverted teardrop jewel of translucent white, smaller than a raindrop, hangs in its center; what looks like a trick of the sunlight, a tiny dazzling light shines from inside the jewel.
Pretty …
But how am I supposed to ‘open it’? The chain is already unhooked, so that couldn’t be it. Running my nail across the jewel reveals no seams on its smooth sides.
I don’t realize I’m twisting it—until it clicks.
Instantly, the jewel switches to a solid, iridescent black.
I draw in a breath as my shoulders tense. Did that just ‘open it’? I hold my breath, waiting to see if anything else will happen.
Nothing does.
I don’t want him to think I like to draw his attention for no reason, like some clingy airhead. The letter said he would check on me, perhaps he’s watching and listening through that spell from last night. Drawing on that assumption, I explain, “I wasn’t trying to open it. I was putting it on, and it just—it was an accident. I’m sorry.”
A few moments of silence pass.
Then, on their own, moved by invisible hands, the two ends of the chain rise to my neck and slide around each side, along with the sensation of a cool breeze. Meeting in the back, they clasp together, the pendant resting below my collarbones.
Stolas. So, he can use spells without being present, so long as he can see where to cast them? With a small, lingering sense of awe, I touch my fingertips to the pendant and reply to the empty room. “Thank you.”
The jewel twists until it clicks, returning to its original white color.
He closed it? He must have. So, if the jewel is open, there’s a chance he could be watching me. How does he know when it’s open?
Holding it between my fingers, I give it a closer look. As long as no one looks too closely to see its faint glow, it looks unassuming. And it takes me some time to admit it that I do feel more at ease while wearing it, knowing if I need to speak with him again for any reason, he won’t be far away.
I don’t see myself removing it anytime soon, especially since it will blend in with my work attire—
Wait—work. What time is it?
Because of my injured wrist, I was able to get a week off from work. But while in the hospital, my supervisor emailed me, asking me to come in today for a couple hours to collect a few things and catch up on some unfinished paperwork.
Spotting my phone on the nightstand, I open the screen to check the time.
I curse under my breath.
I’ve only got an hour to get there. And I need to eat.
I fling open my door, rush to the kitchen—and freeze.
Seated on the kitchen counter is Blitz, in imp form, wearing a long-sleeve fishnet shirt, black pants, and boots.
He stares at me with a blank—almost guilty—expression, looking me over a few times, occasionally glancing to the side. A box of pancake mix in his hand. A half-cooked pancake sizzling on the stove beside him.
All the questions that instinctively fly through my head first—What are you doing? How did you get in here? Is that my food?—are immediately answers by my own voice in my head: This is Blitz. I don’t think he cares. Stolas did say he would be back, I just didn’t expect him first thing in the morning and to find him already making himself at home. Though, at this point, I really shouldn’t be that surprised. It’s more jarring than anything else. So instead, I ask, “Where’s Moxxie and—”
Blitz quickly presses a finger against his mouth, silently shushing me. Hopping off the counter on light feet, he motions for me to follow him quietly as he darts out of the room.
In the living room, Blitz crouches down behind the couch, motioning me to come closer, silently shushing me again.
I don’t join him in crouching down, but I do walk over to him, no idea what to expect.
As I get closer, he grasps the back of the couch as he peers over the top, looking down at the seat cushions.
Both asleep, Moxxie and Millie lie together with their limbs completely entangled in each other. And like Blitz, both have dropped their human disguises, so aside from one’s hair being dark and the other being light, I cannot tell where one’s body ends, and the other’s black clothing begins. And, like Blitz, they are much smaller, where the top of Blitz’s head now only comes to my chin, theirs would now come to my waist.
Blitz pulls out his phone, opening it up to the camera. After snapping a couple pictures of their intimate position, he switches it to video and starts recording.
Then, from his back pocket—he produces an air horn, giving it an eager shake.
Oh no …
With a wicked grin, Blitz whispers, “Party’s over, bitches.”
He reaches down and blasts the air horn at their heads.
Moxxie draws in a shrill gasp, frantically looking around.
Moxxie scowls at Blitz while clinging tighter to Millie—who lazily yawns while rubbing at her still closed eyes. Moxxie demands, “What. The. f*ck?! BLITZ?!”
I cringe at the ceiling. At least I don’t have downstairs neighbors to worry about.
“Rise and shine, ya little horn-dogs!” Blitz throws his upper half backwards over the top of the couch. Upside down, he grins as he attempts to balance the air horn on top of Moxxie’s head—who bats it onto the floor. “Our host is up! And just like you two, breakfast is HOT!” Hopping back off the couch, Blitz darts back around the corner into the kitchen.
“I swear, Blitz! You underestimate just how close I am most days to mounting your head!”
Blitz laughs. “I’m gonna give you a chance to rephrase that, Mox!”
“Moxxie…?” Millie dreamily nuzzles her blissful, sleepy face into Moxxie’s neck. “Did you make us breakfast?”
Moxxie’s face and posture soften at her sweet behavior. “No, honey. Blitz did.”
Wide awake, Millie smiles with an ecstatic gasp.
Millie sits up, her head of messy hair whipping around to face the kitchen. “He did?!” Tearing herself away from Moxxie, she hurries around the couch and swings around the corner into the kitchen.
Moxxie’s arms hang limp at his sides, staring misty-eyed at the corner where Millie disappeared. “I make good breakfast, too…”
Feeling like I should say something, I remark, “I’m sure you make great breakfasts, Moxxie.”
Eyes about ready to spill with grateful tears, Moxxie’s looks up at me. Still moping, he slides his feet onto the floor and drags them towards the kitchen. “I make us coffee. I bake us cornetto. But as soon as that one decides to make us pancakes—”
“Look alive!” Blitz shouts.
As soon as Moxxie reaches the corner, a plate launches at his face—like a saw-blade Frisbee.
Moxxie flinches and barely catches it.
Growling, Moxxie marches behind the wall towards the kitchen, waving his hand. “Sir, these aren’t your things! They’re not even plastic! What if you break something? How do you expect to pay back this kind lady?”
“Eh, you caught it. So what?”
Alright, this is a bit much. At least they behave in the way I would have expected from imps: wild and uncoordinated. But being in the thick of their mayhem is another thing. Although assassins, apparently, something in their wild behavior tells me they aren’t that great at what they do. I can’t even imagine. Maybe I’ll just skip breakfast, this time.
Ignoring the commotion in the kitchen, I slip past them, locking myself behind the bedroom door.
I fix myself up with the bare minimum, dressed in basic work attire, tan dress pants and a white blouse.
Checking the time, I give myself a small pep talk before going back out there. “Okay. Just, one step at a time. Go to work. Deal with this when you get back. Whatever else happens—happens.” Collecting myself, I grab my keys.
Walking past the kitchen, I head for the front door.
“Hey, look who’s dressed up—where you headed?” Blitz asks me, seated back on the counter with an empty plate, while Moxxie and Millie share a single chair at the small table.
“I need to go to work for just a few.” When I catch Blitz glancing between his empty plate and the stack of pancakes, I add, “It’s alright, I’ll eat when I get back.”
“I’ll go with you.” Blitz sets down his plate, and hops off the counter, searching through the cupboards.
“Really, it’s fine. I’ll be back before lunch.”
Blitz ignores me, finding a paper bag and a hot-pink water bottle with a straw.
He quickly wraps a few pancakes in a napkin, shoves it into the bag, and fills the bottle with tap water.
In a blink of diamonds, Blitz assumes his human disguise, still dressed in the same fishnet shirt and black pants. He sweetly waves at Moxxie and Millie. “You two got things here?”
Around a mouthful of pancakes, Millie exclaims, “We got it, Blitz!”
“Just don’t let him drive!” Moxxie implores.
Blitz clicks his tongue and shoves the paper bag in my hands, sipping from the water bottle. “Coming?” he asks me, opening the door and stepping outside.
“I don’t believe this,” I mutter. At least I can trust Moxxie and Millie to be home alone. I hope.
I close the door once we step out into the summer morning, eyeing his revealing attire. At least he has a second, short-sleeved fishnet shirt layered over his long-sleeved one, but it still doesn’t leave much to the imagination. “You can’t come to work with me dressed like that.”
Still sipping on the straw, Blitz frowns at me, then looks down to examine himself.
He frowns at me again.
He doesn’t get it. I shake my head. “Forget it. Just, sit in the waiting area when we get there, okay?”
“Where do you work?”
“A corporate office,” I explain. “Just pushing papers.”
“No, I mean—where do you work? I’ll take you there.”
Moxxie just said not to let him drive. “I can drive myself.”
“Aw, really? Such a big girl,” Blitz says dryly. He flicks at an amber crystal attached to the back of his fingerless gloves. “I’ll get you there quicker. Where is it?”
So, that’s the crystal Stolas mentioned. I am cutting it close on time as it is. I hate to admit it, but if he can get me close to work, it would help me a lot. Can’t believe I’m letting him do this. So long as I keep him at arm’s length while watching for any signs of an emotional breakdown that could cause him to lash out again, I should be fine.
It hits me that he no longer reeks of alcohol. But I can still catch whiffs of nicotine.
I pull out my phone, open my maps, and show him where my work is. He points at the screen, asking if any of the surrounding buildings are abandoned or have alleyways. I point out a few businesses that have sketchy alleyways that people usually avoid.
“That’ll work.” Blitz takes the lead, heading around to the side of the apartment building, away from the road or neighbors.
Once out of sight, he taps the crystal on the back of his glove, opening one of his diamond-shaped portals. He steps through, not looking back to see if I’ll follow.
I approach the portal, expecting to feel some sort of odd sensation upon stepping through it, like walking through a film of water, or a wave of hot air. But doing so feels natural, like stepping through any ordinary doorway, with me moved from one place to the next.
Once I’m fully through, the portal closes without a trace.
Blitz has already disappeared around a turn. I hurry to catch up, finding him at the head of the alley, watching cars and people passing.
Turning onto the sidewalk, Blitz and I pass a rough-looking group of young men and women, seated on the steps of a building, mumbling among themselves, eyeing us as we walk by.
Though Blitz initially starts by walking between me and the buildings, he switches sides with me once the group is out of sight. “What hours do you usually work?”
“Usually, 9-5. I’m not out after dark. Except for a couple weeks during winter.”
“Still have pepper-spray?”
This is the most that I’ve heard him talk without swearing or making some vulgar comment. It sounds strange, coming from him. Maybe I just haven’t been paying close enough attention this morning. “I ran out. I need to get more.”
“We’ll get you more before we head back—maybe a couple other things.” He eyes the paper bag in my hands and pokes at it. “If you’re not gonna eat those yourself, you’ll find out how good I am at shoving things down people’s throats.”
And there it is. God, he never stops, does he? Taking the hint, I open the bag and break off pieces of pancakes to eat while we walk the rest of the way in silence.
Moxxie was right. There’s nothing special about them, they’re just pancakes—very dry pancakes.
By the time I finish, we step up to the front of my work: concrete steps leading up to a high-rise building of glass and steel. I climb the steps.
Staring at the top floor, Blitz whistles with a subtle grimace. “Cozy...”
Stepping through the revolving front door into the waiting area, I ask, “Can you promise to stay down here while I head up?”
Drinking from his straw, Blitz casually shrugs. “What floor are you on?”
“Six?”
“Kay.”
Blitz finds a sofa and falls into it, his legs crossed, and starts browsing through his phone.
I hate how easy that was. And I don’t trust it for a second. Honestly, I should’ve given him a different floor number, just to throw him off. Not like there’s anything else I can do to keep him here, if he decides to change his mind; arguing with him last time was fruitless for the little I got out of it, and at Beth’s expense. I can always try making up a story to the police to come restrain him, if the need arises. Or, better yet, just tell the police the truth: ‘Here is the man who shot me’. They’re probably still looking for him. I at least have that to fall back on. With that small reassurance, I head towards the elevators.
After a short ride up to the sixth floor, I head down the hallway, past the break room, and into the main area, a wall of windows across the back with gray cubicles lined up in neat sections.
Through muscle memory alone, I make my way to my desk inside my personal cubicle. My bin has a small stack of papers, but most of my work will have collected in my email attachments.
The empty cubicle beside mine catches my attention.
An older gentleman usually sits there, with pictures of his grandchildren push-pinned beside his computer. And he always shows up to work before me. Now, his chair is empty. The pictures gone. A barren invitation for yet another to take its place. He was one of the few here who I enjoyed. Like me, he often kept to himself, so we never talked. I wonder what happened to him.
Switching on my computer as I sit in my chair, I quickly clock in and start sorting through my emails.
The most recent email was sent to me this morning—from my supervisor, asking me to speak with her first thing, once I finish with the papers on my desk.
I start sifting through a stack of papers that have collected in my bin. Working with my cast is a little cumbersome, but I make it work. After about fifteen minutes, I catch a few coworkers leaned against one of the walls, talking to each other. They wryly smile to each other and keep throwing glances in my direction.
I don’t want to entertain the idea of whatever that could be about. It’s only for a few hours. I only need to be here a few hours, and then I can go home.
Right as I get to the bottom of the stack, Blitz turns into my cubicle. He raises his eyebrows at the paperwork with a cringe. “Yikes.”
“Blitz,” I dejectedly moan, knowing full well this would happen but still chose to do nothing. Spying those same coworkers turning their noses up at the sight of his clothing, I implore, “Now is not a good time.”
“Just wanted to see everyone and how far they’ve shoved their own sticks up each other’s asses.” Using his heel, Blitz maneuvers the spare chair closer to my desk, taking a seat. He stares at the top paper on the stack. “Even mine started puckering up just walking in here.”
I slide the stack away from him. I whisper, “Could you at least keep your voice down. I’m supposed to be meeting with my supervisor.”
He frowns. “And?”
God, it’s like trying to explain behavioral theory to a goldfish. A psychotic goldfish. “Look. All I do here is come in, get my work done, and go home. I like it that way.”
Blitz scoffs, “Didn’t take you for one to enjoy getting pegged?”
Seriously, there must be others in nearby cubicles who can hear him. I whisper, “Why do you even care about this?”
“I really don’t—if this is why you wanna live so badly.”
Did he seriously have to bring that up? What does he know, anyway? “It’s a job. I have it so that I can live. I don’t live so that I can have it.”
“Even if this all you have?”
He might as well have just shot me with how low that comment was. He is so disrespectful. Each of his words are like one bullet after another. I shake my head. “What is your problem?”
Blitz smirks, examining his fingernails. “Let’s not shine the spotlight on me, sweetheart, I am good at sharing.”
“No—you’re loathsome. And disgusting. If the only reason you wanted to help me was so you could insult me to get your kicks off, then I don’t need your ‘help’. Or your ‘protection’. You said yourself you don’t make it your business to protect people, so why aren’t you sticking to what you’re good at?”
With his smirk gone, Blitz’s stares at me with an unreadable expression.
I only have a few papers left to finish, but they can wait until after. I stand as I implore, “Please. I need to speak with my supervisor in private. Just stay away. Please.” Thankfully, he doesn’t move or say anything as I walk out.
Finding my supervisor’s door open, I knock on the door frame to get her attention. Looking up from her computer, she warmly smiles, asking me to close the door and take a seat. Once I get comfortable, she asks, “Heard about what happened to you, poor thing—hiking accident, right? How’s your arm?”
“It’s doing alright, actually.” I hold a cordial smile. “Doesn’t hurt much.”
“You’re a trooper. I once twisted my ankle while on a competitive softball team. Had to sit out the rest of the season. Never liked watching everyone else play after that.”
More small talk; it always feels like a way to delay an inevitable conversation. There’s obviously a reason why she asked to meet with me, prolonging this with sweet words makes the air feel stifling. She means well, I know she does. It just feels insincere.
“I want you to know that I love what you’ve brought to this office, Sam. It’s refreshing to see someone get their work done without any issues or push-back, and I respect that. You have a clean record, no write-ups, no complaints. A position opened for a supervisor role—so I even submitted your name for consideration.”
A supervisor? Me? Why?
She sighs, leaning forward. “But, unfortunately, this morning, corporate sent out a list of employees to be laid off. They’ve been evaluating your performance, your repeated denials to cover for your coworkers, your numerous requests for time-off. And now, with the prolonged time-off needed for your injury—they made the determination that your under-performance isn’t what this company needs and decided to let you go, Sam. I’m so sorry.”
How do I even respond? My mind struggles to process whether I even heard her right. I didn’t have an emotional attachment to working here, but I wasn’t expecting this to happen so suddenly. And her leading up to it with claiming she recommended me for a supervisory role, what was that about? I thought I was finally finding the balance between being tied to my job and having a life outside of work. But I guess that’s what you get when you don’t sign your life away to them.
What’s more, I know I’m going to have to explain this to Blitz once I get back to my desk. He’s going to rub this in my face.
“I’ve broken the news to a few others on the team. If you have any remaining tasks, Devin has volunteered to handle them for you. You’ll receive a letter regarding your severance pay and information regarding unemployment benefits, should you choose to apply. There should still be a box in the break room to collect your things to take home. Corporate wishes you the best.”
So, that’s it. Not like there’s much I can say in this situation. She’s also only doing her own job. The blame doesn’t really fall on her. But any kind of thank you would be a lie. So instead, I only nod, standing up with a small wave. And walk out.
Sure enough, there’s a cardboard box above the fridge in the break room, left over from a catered lunch the company provided to us a few weeks ago.
Not mentally prepared for the conversation I’m about to have with Blitz, I let out a defeated sigh and take the box.
Turning the aisle to my cubicle, I find Devin standing at my cubicle, with my stack of papers in his hands. Blitz stands just inside the entrance, leaning against it while conversing with Devin with a small smirk, twirling his finger through a lock of Devin’s hair near his temple. Though Devin has a stiff posture, his ears are flushed red, and he wears the smallest hint of a smile.
Keeping my head down, I slip past them. “Excuse me.”
Devin disappears down the aisle, and Blitz frowns at the box that I set on my desk. “What? They can’t even f*cking provide you with paper anymore, you need to make your own?”
I glare at him. “I got laid off.”
Opening the drawer to my desk, I pack away what few things belong to me—empty binders, a calendar, nice pens, a small dove figurine, a picture Beth and I took during a road trip to another state last year, an unopened bottle of water.
Blitz observes everything that I pack away.
Once I finish and clock out, I walk past him with the box in my hands. I pause to say, “Listen, I know you’ve got a lot to say about this. But I really don’t want to talk about it.” Avoiding looking at him, I make my way back to the elevators.
The elevator ride is painfully silent with Blitz beside me, almost as much as the walk across the downstairs waiting area.
Not until I step out the front door that I remember I didn’t drive here. I need Blitz to take me home.
Still not ready to talk to him but not sure of where to go, I take several steps to the side and sit down on the building’s steps, placing the box next to me, my mind fighting between processing everything and wanting to block it all out. Especially Blitz.
Blitz sits on the other side of the box, one elbow on his knee to prop his chin up with his hand. He watches the people walking past.
A few more long, painful minutes pass, before Blitz finally states, “I was raised as a circus clown.”
What is he getting at? I look at him, waiting for him to somehow turn this into another insult.
“I sucked at it.” He catches me looking at him from the corner of his eye. He looks away with a smirk. “I know. Me, right? Biggest f*cking joke in history—can’t even get anyone to crack a smile. Not even the wasted father of the daring ‘Blitzo Buckzo’ himself.”
I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. I keep waiting for this to turn into something else.
“Then one day, there was… an accident. A lot of people burned alive. And I lost the only ones I thought would ever care. Those who did survive threw me away. So, I set out on my own, trying to save up to start my own circus business. Only thing is, you can only do something you hate for so long until it starts to kill you, too. Then after yet another failed show, I realized: You know what—” Swallowing back some emotion, he nods his head. “—I’m pretty damn good at killing people.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Blitz shrugs. “Not like you’ll end up in Hell, won’t affect me much if you know.” Blitz absently pulls a red skull-shaped pendant from his pocket and rubs his thumb over it. “Point is, I’m not going to offer you a job, because you’re not cut out for it.”
An incredulous laugh escapes me. “Is that what this is about? Because that might be the nicest thing you will ever say to me.”
“Well, it’s certainly not the worst thing I could’ve said—that’s gotta mean something, right?”
“Sure,” I remark. “That’s not how this works.”
Blitz takes my measure with his eyes. “It is ‘Sam’, right?”
“Yeah?” I glare at him.
He holds up his hands. “Making sure.” Looking out at the street with a heavy sigh, he shakes his head. Frustrated, he takes a long time to consider something before he finally caves. “Okay. Know what? What the f*ck is going on between you and Stolas?”
Really? He wants to talk about this now? “Nothing.”
“Oh." Blitz taunts, "You’re right. I’m so sorry, little Sammy. My little darling Sammy. Is this—” Blitz pulls out his phone, opens a picture and shows it to me “—what you call ‘nothing’?”
A picture taken from the window of the Petersen Estate library—of Stolas holding me in his arms next to the open grimoire, what was supposed to be a private, intimate moment between us. I gape at Blitz. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?”
“He’s. Gay. Sam.” Blitz looks me straight in the eyes. “You know that, right?”
What? Every interaction I’ve had with Stolas rushes through my head, specifically his constant hesitation towards touching me, and his admittance to his former loveless marriage with a woman.
Noting my silence, he elaborates, “Look, I don’t care what pile of sh*t he fed you last night, but I’m telling you, the first chance he got, that f*cking bitch was begging me to rail him.”
“Stop it.”
“But you know, let’s pretend for a minute that he’s got some buried fetish for tit*, because, let’s face it, that’s a fun idea, right? He doesn’t know the first thing about how to start a relationship. Every ‘relationship’ he ever had was f*cking handed to him a silver platter—how do you think he even met me? I was sold to him as a kid as one of his damn birthday presents, Sam, like a good little house slave, because he couldn’t make any real friends. Yeah, bet he left out that little detail, didn’t he? He’s messing with you, Sam. This is all just a big, sick game to him. And this time, you’re the unlucky winner. I mean, come on, he discarded you into your own bed the moment you fell asleep. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“I said, stop.”
“And don’t think I didn’t notice that little carnival prize.” Blitz flicks his finger at my teardrop necklace. “A little something to keep his 'darling little Sammy' hanging around? Now that you’re outta work, what do you think’s gonna happen? Favors like that keep on coming. He will offer you…everything. Food. A place to stay. A posh little lifestyle. His big, soft bed to sleep in, right there next to him." Eyes tearing up, his voice cracks. "And what happens when he decides to make you pay up for everything he’s ‘freely’ giving you? Do you have any idea what kind of freaky stuff he’s into? What gets him all hot and heavy? How method he gets into his role-playing? That’s all you are to him, Sam. Another player to pick from in his box of toys for his big, elaborate, power trip of a sex life.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Blitz—stop it.”
“And Christ on a stick, Sam, it’s a f*cking owl, that whor* doesn’t even have a co*ck for you to—”
Shocked, I slap him.
Hard.
Surprised by the sting still fresh on my palm and not wanting to stick around for his reaction, I pick up my box, standing to head for the sidewalk.
“Fi—Sam, wait, I didn’t—”
“Don’t follow me,” I choke through my threatening tears.
Ignoring his own wide, watering eyes, I leave Blitz sitting on the stairs. I could care less whether that last comment was true, that is not Blitz’s place to ever mention. And what impression had I given him that made him think I only care about the sex in a relationship? And to bring it up in such a sudden, vulgar way? After all the other uncalled for, insulting things he spouted off? Right after I got laid off? Stolas was right to cut him out of his life. Stolas may have his reasons for not forbidding Blitz from protecting me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try to get rid of him myself.
Wanting nothing more than to lock myself in my room for the next week, I run towards the closest shuttle stop, hoping to catch it—but it’s already leaving by the time I get there.
Hearing someone calling my name, I hurry away from it, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes, trying to create as much distance between me and that harsh voice as I can. He’s. Gay. Sam…Messing with you…Handed to him on a silver platter…That’s a fun idea…Discarded you into your own bed…Power trip of a sex life…Little Sammy…He’s lying. Blitz is lying. Stolas isn’t like that. Stolas is kind. He wants what’s best for me. He said he wants what’s best for me. I’m not being manipulated. I’m not. I’m not.
Not caring where I end up, not caring about my life, not wanting to be seen or to even exist, my feet carry me deep into twisting alleyways surrounded by old buildings.
After several turns, I find myself completely alone inside an abandoned building, leaning my back against one of the interior walls.
No one followed me. Silence. The smell of stale dust floating in the stagnant air.
I lost him. Please, tell me I lost him.
I’m alone. I’m all alone.
Sliding to the ground, not caring if anyone ends up hearing me, I let my tears flow.
Covering the back of my neck with my hands, I duck my head as my shallow breath starts to shake within me.
My fingers press against the delicate chain around my neck.
Instantly, I feel the almost forgotten ghost of my father’s hands caressing my thighs, rubbing across my back, his sweet whispers in my ear, saying I don’t need any other toys, offering me to let him play with me instead…
Frantic, swearing that the chain now feels slimy, I fumble the clasp open and remove it.
I ready myself to throw the chain across the room.
The teardrop jewel—it’s black.
A cold wave washes through my veins. How long has it been open? Feeling somehow slimier, I fling the necklace onto the concrete floor at my feet, wiping my hand on my knee.
Closing my eyes, I curl in on myself, those ghost hands always touching, always near, always waiting. Patiently.
Just block him out. Just block him out. If I block him out, he can’t see me. Right? He said he wouldn’t be able to see me. Please. Don’t see me. Please, don’t look at me. Don’t see me.
The teardrop jewel clicks back to white.
Who do I believe? Who am I supposed to believe? Who do I trust? I want this nightmare to be over. Everything was simpler when these bumps and bruises, these disembodied whispers, these moving shadows, these fallen objects, were nothing except a faceless demon—a symptom of my own guilt and paranoia for allowing myself to mess with a Ouija board as a stupid teenager, my payment for my negligence catching up to me.
“Hey, there, poppy.” A low female voice croons, “You lost?”
My head raises to find a strong woman crouched in front of me, with a partially shaved head and a nose ring, dressed in grungy street clothes, which somehow still look a little too expensive.
Behind her stands two other men and women from the group of rough-looking people I passed on the way to work. A second woman carries a metal baseball bat. A man carries a set of handcuffs. The last man, and the largest of the group of four, stands between me and the only exit at my side, wrapping strips of cloth around his hands.
“What’s your name?” The woman leader's words come out slow and calculated. She pulls out a folding knife, sliding the blade out with her thumb, casually pointing the sharp tip towards the ground with an apathetic smile. “Or should I give you one?”
Behind my fear, I feel an odd sense of relief, sending a different wave of fear through me. I should be more afraid of this; at the same time, at least this is something that makes sense to me, with an outcome I can understand. I know why they’re here. I know the foolish, reckless choices I made that got me into this situation. And just how in-deep that I am. But that’s the problem. I can’t let myself be so complacent with this situation now that I’m in it. Keeping still, I respond, “It’s Sam.”
“You seem like a nice person. Sam.” The woman relaxes her head to the side, her eyes drinking in every inch of my body, lingering a little too long in certain areas. “I’m also a nice person. So…how about, we help each other out?”
I likely deserve whatever is going to come from this, anyways. I shouldn’t be thinking so hard to try and fight it; besides, someone like her has already planned ten steps ahead of any possible way I could try. “How?”
“A car ride…” She weighs her knife in her hand. “A nice car ride…Then, you’re free to go. How’s that sound?”
A few grim scenarios cross my mind of what exactly this ‘car ride’ will entail, and what ‘free to go’ will look like. And no matter what I do, this encounter will not end well for me. At least if I go along with it, I might have a chance to stay alive a little longer, until they can finish whatever they have planned. It’s only a slim chance, but it’s the best chance I have.
“Oh, thank Satan—there you are!” From the doorway, Blitz slips around the man beside me while wearing a forced smile, holding his hands up as he observes the man’s wrapped knuckles, giving them a few quick taps. “Love what you’re doing. Great taste. Could be a little looser around the fingers—unless you want them to fall off.”
The leader stands, her shoulders loose with her blade at her side. “You are?”
“Call me Blitz.” He takes her free hand in both of his and shakes it. “Trust me, we’ve never met. You’d remember.”
“You have business here?” she asks, taking back her hand. “Blitz?”
“Oh, no, no. No money in it for me.” Keeping his eyes on her, he folds his arms and nods towards me. “I’m just here to pick up this little sh*t-ugly brat from daycare.”
I furrow my eyebrows. Should I be offended?
The woman glances at her two members behind her, eyeing Blitz in closer detail. “You don’t belong here.”
“Yeah?” Blitz smiles. “What gave me away?”
He beckons to me. “Come on—up, up, up! You heard her!” He grabs me by my upper arm, helping to pull me to my feet. “Time we get you back home, little lady.”
Bending to pick up my box of things, Blitz places it in my hands—then gives my upper arms a firm, tight squeeze, looking me dead in the eyes while lowering his voice to a serious, shaky, pained whisper. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. C-can we please talk?”
“Neither of you are leaving.” The leader and her three members adjust their positions to a healthy distance from Blitz and each other, while tightening their grips on their items, the man with the handcuffs producing a revolver.
Turning his back to me while raising his hands, Blitz eyes the revolver with an eager smirk. “You know—Sam here is just a little sensitive, I don’t think letting off bullets is such a great idea.”
The one with the revolver checks the chamber for full rounds. “Then don’t make this difficult.”
“I’m trying not to.” Blitz passes a glance over the member with the baseball bat. Narrowing his eyes, he fixes his sights on the leader. “This will be a lot cleaner if you let us go. I’m giving you a chance.”
“A chance for what?” the leader asks.
“Mm, well.” Blitz shrugs, drawing a breath in through his teeth. “How about your dignity? I mean, one of you needs to come at me first.” Considering something, a cheeky grin spreads across his face, and something dark. “But I’m also having one monster of a bad week. If you want to do this the hard way—f*ck me if I don’t cum from plowing each one of you straight down into Hell like the good little group of naughty boys and girls you are.”
“Enough—take him, too.” The leader snaps her finger at the larger man with the wrapped fists.
With his fists ready, the man takes a step closer.
Raising his shoulders, Blitz grins. “Ooh—I like me a big one.”
The large man draws back his fist.
Tapping his crystal, Blitz opens a portal under the large man's feet—making him fall through.
The other end of the portal opens on the ceiling above the man with the revolver. The large man falls on top of him in a heap.
Taking advantage of everyone’s shock, Blitz rips the baseball bat out of the next woman's grip.
With a full body swing—Blitz smashes the metal bat straight into the same woman's face with an echoing crack.
Her limp body falls to the ground.
Overwhelmed, the woman leader takes a step back.
On his stomach, the member with the revolver manages to take aim at Blitz—and fires.
Blitz opens a portal to intercept the bullet.
The other end of the portal opens behind the leader. The bullet lodges into her upper back. Crying out with a hoarse voice, she drops to her hands and knees, coughing up blood.
Laughing, Blitz taunts the man with the revolver. “Yeah! This difficult enough for ya yet, c*nt?!” He runs at him.
Eyes blazing, Blitz drags the end of the baseball bat against the concrete floor in a shower of sparks and swings it upward—chopping the bat downward with his full strength onto the back of the man’s head with a sickening, wet crunch.
The large man scrambles off his dead companion.
Swiping up the discarded handcuffs, the large man stands, regaining his focus while backing away from Blitz, open hands ready in a defensive position.
Blitz tosses the dripping bat to the side, grinning at those handcuffs as he stalks towards him, slapping the inside of one of his wrists in invitation. “Oh, yeah. Come on, baby—give it to me. Show me what else you can do with those fists.”
With raspy breath, still coughing up blood, the leader dismisses her discarded knife. She shoots a vicious look at Blitz.
Spying the revolver on the floor, she fights against her pain as she crawls towards it.
Spurred on by some adrenaline in me, I take quick steps forward and kick the revolver, sending it skidding across the floor towards Blitz. I call his attention to it. “Blitz!”
Blitz looks back and spots the revolver.
With Blitz distracted, the larger member collects both of Blitz’s wrists behind his back, clamping him in the handcuffs.
“Oof—you know how to make things f*cking tight, don’t ya, big fellah?” Blitz leans his back against him, looking him up and down, deviously grinning. “I wonder what else I can find in you that’s a little tight…”
While the man loses his composure, in a blink of shattering glass and light, Blitz reverts to his smaller imp form, slipping out of the handcuffs.
Before the man can react to the transformation, Blitz collects the revolver, steadies himself on one knee, and takes his aim at him.
Blitz fires off two clean shots into the large man's chest and head—causing his body to slump to the floor.
Catching his heavy breath, Blitz notes the way that the large man continues to squirm on the ground while bleeding out. Standing, Blitz walks over to him until he’s right by the man's side, aiming the barrel of the revolver at the dying man's forehead.
Pulling the trigger again and again, Blitz unloads the rest of the chamber of bullets, ceasing his squirming.
With barely a glance at the empty revolver, Blitz drops it next to the man, into the collecting pool of blood.
The leader lies on her side, motionless, her breathing growing more labored from the blood filling her lungs, where the bullet entered her upper back.
Letting out an exhausted sigh, his face and body speckled in blood, Blitz walks towards the suffering woman.
Too tired to bend over as he walks past, Blitz uses his triangular-tipped tail to pick up the leader’s discarded knife, bringing it into his clawed hand.
Kneeling behind her, Blitz plants one of his hands against the side of her face, holding her head steady, as he lines up the tip of the knife with the nape of her neck, right below her skull.
With one solid thrust, Blitz embeds the blade straight through, cutting off her breathing, her eyes glazing over.
