Chapter 2: Wake Up and Welcome to Hell

[https://i.postimg.cc/Hs4ykJDx/58da5bdc5f58be1227aec91d.png]

I’ve been hit by a truck.

There is no other explanation. A truck rolled through my apartment, over my mattress, and flattened me into my feather-down comforter. Everything aches. My aches have aches. When I roll over onto my side, muscles I didn’t even know I had berate me with the nerve-frying version of you bitch!

I groan. My alarm is beeping at me, that horrible blaring sound that says wake up and welcome to hell. I reach out to try and smack it off, but the ache becomes an intense pain down my back, so acute that I gasp and collapse back on the bed. My god did it hurt. I’d certainly had my fair share of back pain — bending over a lab bench for hours will do that to you — but this. This is like. Like.

Like I’ve been stabbed.

Every hair on my body stands up. My breath catches in my throat. It was a dream. Surely it was a dream. If it wasn’t, I’d be dead. Completely dead. The whole thing was so absurd — there’s no way it really happened. Just a nightmare of bad horror movies tossed together with yesterday’s leftover lasagna. I shouldn’t have eaten it. It was over the two-week line.

I move my arm — cautiously this time. The alarm is still blaring, but it’s white noise now. I hardly notice. The throbbing of the sharp pain is still there. It isn’t as deep as I remember the dagger going — there was no dagger, I think, you dreamed that shit. Get some therapy — but it’s still there. Muscle-deep, like someone had taken a scalpel to me. Maybe I pulled something. Probably started thrashing around while I was sleeping, given that my lizard brain thought I was in mortal peril. Maybe—

My eyes flick towards my desk, set against the wall near my window. There’s a book on it. A very old book, with a cracked leather cover and aging yellow pages.

My heart slows, then kicks back in double-time. I stare at the book, my mouth going dry. Clenching my eyes shut, I count to ten, then slowly open them again.

The book is still there, sitting in a shaft of bright, cheerful sunlight, as real as a heart attack.

Which I’m pretty sure I’m about to have.

“Ah, good!” a man says brightly, his voice drifting from the doorway of my room, “You’re awake!”

Scratch that. I’m having a heart attack, 100%.

I bolt to my feet. It hurts so bad I feel a brief urge to vomit. The room spins. By some miracle I remain standing, but barely. Lucas — ritual-sacrificing-supermodel-Lucas — is standing in the doorway watching me. He’s holding a plate of steaming eggs. He’s wearing my apron. It’s got a silhouette of Spock on it making the Live Long and Prosper sign.

“Hungry?” he asks brightly.

My reply is an inarticulate gurgle.

“Do you mind if I turn that racket off?” he asks, wincing. Before I can respond, the alarm stops. It just stops. He doesn’t move towards it, doesn’t smack the button. It just stops.

I stare at it. I stare at him.

“Cold eggs are very unpleasant,” he says. “You really should eat, you know. Especially after the night you’ve had.”

He takes a step closer. I grab the lamp off of my nightstand — it’s a touch lamp with bison drawn on the shade — and hold it like a club. The lamp, confused by the prolonged contact, proceeds to cycle on and off and on and off again. I’m too scared to look away, so I don’t bother trying to unplug it. He stands there, watching me, one eyebrow slowly lifting.

“Get out of my…” I begin. Then I stop. Wait. Wait. How did he find my apartment? It’s not on my ID. I never bothered to swap that out from my parent’s address when I moved for college. How did he bring me here?

My brain catches on another thought. Why am I alive?

Lucas strides smoothly across the room towards the desk. I pivot with him, aiming my lamp at him all the while. It continues flicking on and off, on and off. The shade wobbles, then clinks to the floor. He sets the eggs down beside the book, studying it for a moment, before peering back at me with a look of great amusement.

“I cannot, I’m afraid. Get out of your house, that is. That is what you were going to say, yes?”

I blink. I nod, slowly. My eyes flick towards the book, then back up at his face again.

“My dear,” he says, the words coming out as a low drawl. What is that accent? Irish, maybe? It’s faint, barely there. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

I just stare at him blankly. My mind fumbles about like a limp fish. I wonder where I left my phone. I don’t have a land line — who even does anymore? But where did I leave my cellphone? I could call the cops, maybe call the landlord’s office and ask them to send someone—

The book lifts up into the air. Lucas isn’t touching it. He hasn’t hurled it at me. It just lifts, smooth and sure, as though raised by invisible hands. He makes a twitch of his fingers and it slowly begins to drift towards me, pages lightly ruffling as though by an unseen breeze. Once it reaches me, it just hovers in front of me, adrift on nothing. My first thought is oh, it is actually in Latin. My next thought is holy. Fucking. Shit.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

I drop the lamp. The bulb smashes to the floor. Its light sputters out.

I stare at the book. I’m not actually reading it — I doubt I’d be able to read Doctor Seuss at the moment, let alone Latin — but I can see the images. Horrified faces, screaming and leering in equal measure, all rendered in pretty golden filigree.

In the corner, on the page, I can see a bit of blood. Fresh blood, still red. Maybe some of mine.

“You see, my dear, you interrupted a ritual of sorts last night. At a rather opportune moment as well.” He pauses, tilting his head. “For you, at least. I assure you Mister Hallowsworth is not particularly happy about this development.” He places a hand on his chest, patting softly at the space over his heart.

I begin to back away from the book slowly. The room is spinning. Don’t pass out, I tell myself. Stay awake. Stay awake.

The book drifts closer to me with my movement, and I stifle the urge to scream.

“Your blood was supposed to hit the altar first. First blood is the sacrifice. The vessel, if you will. A happy little home for myself to dwell in. An anchor to this delightful mortal coil.” His words continue lilting, his tone low and even. I glance at him and notice his expression is vaguely concerned — am I wobbling? I feel like I am. My back hits the flimsy wooden doors of my closet with a hollow thud. “But you attacked him. Excellent show that, by the way. I do so approve. You got his blood on the altar first, and then your blood signed the deal.”

My eyes snag on the words at the top of either page. Incubus and Succubus. I slowly slide down the doors, feeling absurd laughter bubbling up from my chest. Sex demons, I think. The motherfuckers wanted to turn me into a sex demon.

Lucas has stopped talking. He watches me and I can see blatant worry on his face now. The book drifts away from me, settling onto the bed. I continue laughing. I can’t seem to help it. The sounds hiccup out of me. I’ve been strained to the limit, and now this man — this man who stabbed me, tried to kill me — is performing magic. Actual, live magic. Using the force to float books around the room.

I don’t know when the laughter turns into sobs. I’m just aware of tears streaming down my face, my chest heaving. I’m angry, mortified, terrified, and tired of being all three. Lucas becomes a blur in my vision, but when that blur is suddenly a foot away from me — just one foot, looming tall — I scream and scuttle away, wedging myself into a corner and raising my hands defensively.

“Hey,” he says, and is voice is surprisingly gentle. “I’m not going to hurt you, Lydia Grace. I can’t. It would defy the terms of the ritual.” I see him glance at the doors behind me, and his brows pinch for a moment at whatever he sees.

“I’ve gone insane,” I wheeze. “Oh, my god. I’ve actually cracked. I’ve lost my mind.” I flick my eyes warily towards the book for a moment — it isn’t hovering anymore, it’s settled on the bed, but I eye it like it might try to eat me at any moment. “What if I hurt someone?” I mumble. “What if I…”

“Lydia,” Lucas says. His voice is even and sure. “Look at me.”

I look at him. It’s like a chord tugs my head to face him. Some part of me is alarmed by this, shrieking foul. The moment I see his eyes, I want to look away. They’re black again — black rimmed by gleams of red, the eclipse from the night before. The urge to scream briefly rises up inside of me, crawling up my throat, riding the desire to flee, flee, flee…

He smiles, and my insides turn to jelly. A strange sensation of calm washes over me. No. Not calm, not quite. It’s something more than that. Languid. Like a cat stretched out in a sun puddle. I feel warm all over, flowing out from my chest into my fingers and toes. Like being high, I think. Am I high?

Lucas moves closer and scoops me into his arms. I don’t mind. He’s warm, so warm, and when my head falls against his chest I think I may want him to cradle me forever. He releases me gently onto the bed, rolling me over onto my stomach. In some distant part of my mind, alarm bells start screaming — some deep, animal instinct telling me I shouldn’t put my back to a predator. When he starts pulling my shirt up, the bells turn clarion. The warmth in my veins wars with them, pressing them beneath the surface — barely. Just barely. I feel my heart pitter-patter and then slow down again, confused.

But some part of my brain recognizes the strange pulling sensation against my back when the shirt is lifted. Like it was glued down. Lucas hisses, then tuts his tongue softly. “You’ve opened your stitches. You’ll need to be more careful, Miss Grace. I’m afraid my ability to heal you is rather limited at the moment.” There’s a tug at my skin — stitches, I think. Stitches? And I can hear faint clinking sounds, as if Lucas has brought out a bag of tools. My head is turned away from him, pressed lightly against the pillow. He presses his hand against my spine and there’s a pleasant tingling sensation, a rush of more heat. I let out a quivering breath, mumbling something, barely able to hold my eyes open.

“It’s true of course,” Lucas says. He speaks as he works. Stitching me up again, though I can’t feel any pain. Just warmth, and the distant feeling of gentle tugs. “They wanted a succubus. Dear Mister Hallowsworth here was quite keen on one. Usual reasons included, naturally — oh, he could play the field well enough, but he has a rotten core. Most women didn’t want to stick around after they took a bite. The taste was foul underneath the pretty skin, you know?”

I hum agreement. Fuck Hallowsworth, I think blearily. I hear Lucas chuckle.

“Indeed. Fuck him,” he says. The alarm bells flare again, just for an instant, briefly breaking the surface, but I can’t quite grasp what they’re saying before they sink back beneath the warmth. “Of course, there were other reasons for it. Succubi and incubi are useful creatures, if I do say so myself. They have a penchant for opening doors that would otherwise remain closed. We’re very charming when we want to be.” I feel his fingers brush over the space between my shoulder-blades as he reaches for something on my nightstand. There’s another burst of heat from the contact. I mumble something. It was supposed to be a protest, but it came out as a garbled sigh.

“There we are. Much better.” There’s a snipping sound — scissors cutting through silken string. Then he’s lifting me. I’m limp, I feel weightless, half asleep and half awake. He begins winding gauze around my back, around my middle. Some part of me registers that my shirt is gone. I’m topless, I think, and again some part of me wants to twist away, but it’s throttled by whatever feeling is moving through me. Lucas’s eyes are still black-and-red, pulsing faintly. I can see a tracework of dark lines around them. He doesn’t touch me inappropriately as he binds the wound — his fingers are deft and assured, only leaving light brushes along my collarbones, my shoulders, my ribs. “All finished,” he says with a sigh. My shirt is back again — I don’t remember him pulling it over my head. He lays me down against the pillows like I’m being laid out on a cloud.

“Thank you,” I mumble. It’s all I can think to say. He looks surprised for a moment, then smiles faintly, one corner of his mouth quirking higher than the other.

“Sleep,” he says. The word rings out, a gong, a single note that slips into my ear and suffuses my brain.

And I do.