Page 14 of Ladybirds

Salt.

It’s an easy remedy, and a hell of a lot cheaper than hiring an exorcist. She knows she has a large container in her cupboard—she remembers unpacking it—but she also has to get to it.

Sara doesn’t really know if she believes in God, but as her hand folds around the doorknob, she mutters a quick prayer under her breath, anyway. Just in case. There's a creak of the hinges when it opens. It’s tiny, barely noticeable, but every sound feels twice as loud as it is, despite being masked by the drumming in her ears.

The kitchen. She only has to make it to the kitchen. The apartment is silent as a grave—he’s probably not even there. What kind of lunatic would wait hours for her to come out of the bathroom?

Two steps into the hallway, she stills—heart in her throat. He’s still in her apartment, studying the framed pictures hanging over the couch.

Before she can quietly retreat, he spots her—his dark eyes pinning her in place. “Ah, I wondered how long until you came out of hiding.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I admit, I hadn’t expected you for a few more hours yet. Bravo.”

Sara swallows, eyes flitting to the kitchen and back. The temptation to make a run for it is heavy on her chest, but she quells it with the memory of how he effortlessly blinked from one end of the room to the other. Outrunning him would be impossible.

She moves around him until the kitchen is at her back, each step measured. Careful. His brows raise, and she realizes he expects a response. She scrambles to find something to say, but the only thing that falls out of her mouth is, “You’re still here.”

“How terribly perceptive of you.”

Her face burns. At her side, her hands fist—nails imprinting crescent moons on her palms. “I thought you left.”

He hums, appraising her. “Yes, I’m sure you hoped for as much.”

“I’m boring,” she blurts. “You should find someone else.”

“Come now,” he croons, his crooked smile dimpling in the corner. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m certain you will prove quite entertaining.”

“You should find someone else anyway.”

“Souls are a tricky business, I’m afraid. The deal is done. There are no refunds, returns, or exchanges.” His eyes gleam, wicked and dark. “You are mine, Sara. That truth will stand until you draw your very last breath.”

She stiffens, hands trembling as she stares at him. “I’m not yours.”

Seth’s head tilts, his gaze traveling the length of her before meeting her eyes. “You truly have no concept of the value of what you’ve bartered, do you?” He shakes his head, smile cold—cruel. “Tell me, what do you think a soul is?”

Sara doesn’t know. She has absolutely no idea what souls are, what they mean. Before today, she wasn’t even entirely sure she believed they were real. But she isn’t anybody’s. Let alone some supernatural jerk that has the audacity to not only twist a flippant dismissal into acceptance and gift her with a curse instead of a miracle, but to insert himself into her life uninvited. She feels cheated. Used. “I hate you,” she hisses, eyes burning with frustrated tears she refuses to let fall. “I’ll never stop hating you.”

It’s supposed to be a threat; a reason in a long list of reasons for him to just leave her be. He only smiles as if it were a challenge.

“Oh, Sara,” he soothes, a false pity curling around the syllables of her name like smoke. “That isn’t the threat you think it is.”

A retort—a scream—rests in her throat, burning hot, but before she can spit the words, he disappears. Gone between blinks without ever even having to raise his hand to snap.

Sara doesn’t know where he’s gone, or when he’ll be back, and the anxiety that comes with not knowing is almost as bad as him being there. She scrambles for the kitchen, pulling the container of salt out of the cupboard. It’s full, only just opened to fill the little salt shaker on her little two person bistro table. She thanks whatever higher power that might be listening for small miracles (before cursing them for putting her in the situation to begin with).

Muttering under her breath, she takes the salt and lines the thresholds and the windows with a trembling hand. She has no idea what she’s doing, not really, but she’s careful to make sure the lines she pours are straight and uninterrupted—wall to wall, frame to frame—before pouring a fistful into her palm.

In theory, the salt should be enough to keep him from entering the apartment, but (in theory) none of this should be possible at all, so Sara doesn’t push her luck. Pulling the ratty wingback chair into a corner where she can easily see the rest of the apartment, she sits. Her fingers close around the granules, adrenaline making her pulse thrum as she waits.

And waits.

And waits.

She doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare let her guard down for even a second, because she knows the moment she does is the moment he’ll appear.

When he finally arrives, it’s hours later and the sun is just beginning to descend over the horizon, casting long shadows across the apartment. He appears, back to her and fingers straightening his cuff, in the center of the living room.

Sara doesn’t give him time to turn around.

With a shrill cry, she throws the salt at his back—

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