Page 29 of Devil May Lie

The blood all over his hands, streaked up his arms, was already partially dried, and he started to rub at it desperately. However, as soon as he managed to get rid of some of it, more would appear, wet and fresh, instantly spreading as he scrubbed.

Berga sucked in a sharp breath when he realized his shirt was sticky, the material damp. He tore at it, popping buttons as he raced toward the cabinet where the paper towels were kept. It was all over his chest, and he wiped at it, growling when that did nothing. He tossed the used wad of towel to the floor with a sickening plop, then tore off more from the roll to try again.

There was too much blood. Too much. If anyone saw him—

Someone laughed, a sharp, grating sound that had his head snapping up. His sister was still standing there watching him, only now there was fear in her eyes. She took a step toward him and opened her mouth, but before she could make a sound, the laughter came again and the curtain in the far corner of the room was flung open.

They hadn’t been alone after all.

Each of the three cots had privacy curtains that could be closed to help conceal patients, and apparently the one in the corner had been in use. A male cadet stepped out, still grinning ear to ear, giving one last passing comment to the female who was seated at his back.

Neither of them appeared to be injured, though their lips were puffy and their uniforms slightly off-kilter.

Berga barely registered these details, unable to do anything but watch as the careless male took three steps forward and walked directly into the younger girl in the pink dress.

She came apart instantly, bursting into a million tiny pieces, like the delicate petals of an uda blossom tree. They scattered and dissipated, gone before Berga could so much as blink.

Gone, like she’d never been there in the first place.

Like she had never existed at all.

A sound tore out of him, something strange and wounded and livid all at once. It was enough to finally catch the attention of the cadets, the male practically missing a step as he looked at Berga.

The rest was a blur.

There was motion and sounds, sometimes the annoyance of pain, but Berga barely registered a thing, his mind too far gone to be rooted in reality. Instead, he thought about tulle and cliché picnics in the park.

About stolen crayons and mixed-up lunches.

About morning cartoons and wrestling for the remote.

About losing.

And losing.

And losing some more.

He hadn’t been strong enough then. Or tall enough. Or articulate enough. He’d been the shadow to her already too bright light, and what happened to a shadow when the source of that illumination was taken away?

They didn’t disappear as well. No.

The shadows grew.

The shadows expanded and became something black and twisted.

Only monsters thrived in the places eyes couldn’t reach.

He wasn’t a Devil, not really. Devils had autonomy. Devils had form and consistency. Berga was a thing. A mass of darkness that couldn’t be contained. That couldn’t find root. He was a shadow without a light source. Abandoned and abhorred.

He—

“There’s blood on your shoes, Butcher,” a voice cut through his thoughts, strong and clear. Clearer than even the ramblings in his own head, vibrant enough to strike him at the core.

He was covered in blood?

Yes.

No.

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