Page 16 of Hell of a Thing

“This one is weak at best, Isra. A murderer? What human garbage have you dared to present me with?”

Frightened, I licked at my lips frantically. All signs had pointed to a medium-bodied selection that would be spectacular with the right flavor combination. We’d investigated everyone before delivering their flyers. Sure, the man’s wife had died two years ago, but it was supposed to have been from natural causes. I’d hoped his grief would give him depth. If he was a murderer, he must’ve killed her and made it resemble organ failure. How was I to know the man had committed murder and embittered his soul like all the others in Hell?

“I apologize, my King. Please, there are more.”

The Devil’s mouth twisted. His eyes promised pain for my mistake, and I caught my breath.

With a quick gesture, Claunid stepped forward, shooting me a look as he went to retrieve the murderer still on his knees before my King. With a nod, I let him know the man was to be given over to the eager ghouls behind the scenes. They were allowed precious few living humans, and I longed to be present when the little ones swarmed him like a school of piranhas, chewing and consuming until there was nothing left.

This continued for half a dozen more people. I badly wanted to present the kitten to my King, but she would go last. Oh, how I couldn’t wait to see her reaction. Would she fight? Beg? Offer a trade? By the way her eyes darted around the tent, it seemed as though she searched for an escape route. Unfortunately for her, therewere none.

Of all the sights I’d seen this night, the thing sitting on its macabre throne was the worst. Black horns shining in the dim light, the she-demon called it The Devil. He was all things wicked and cruel. The spider, the centipede, the horrible monster who had flayed a living man. They were nothing next to the thing, tasting humans and coldly prescribing ways to mutilate and torture them. And for what?

As much as I wished the screams from tonight had deafened me, so I didn’t have to hear the deep timbre of his voice, I heardeverything.

We were nothing to him, and he sought to improve our flavors before consuming us. Cold sweat forced a shiver down my arms despite the heat of the room.

I would die tonight, or maybe I’d died the moment my blood touched that cursed contract, but perhaps there was still a way to win.

With no time to spare, I tried to free my hands, but they were glued to the arms of the chair by an invisible force. Just when I thought I was able to lift my pinky a fraction of an inch, someone grabbed me under my arms. Hauled to my feet, the chair released its magic, but any hope of a rescuer was dashed when I saw who held me.

It was the clown with his patchwork face of horrors, and by his grin, he was no savior.

Despair washed over me as he pulled me forward, his thick fingers digging into my arm hard enough to leave bruises.

My familiar bulky camera hung from his neck, bouncing and bumping as he dragged me closer to The Devil. Seeing it sparked a new wave of energy, one that had me attempting to elbow his ribs and slip free from his grasp.

“That’s mine,” I snapped, trying to grab the strap where he’d tied the lanyard back together. His throaty chuckle was the only response he gave as we reached the stage, ever closer to The Devil.

The air grew stiflingly hot as I was pulled towards the lord of Hell, and I realized the oppressive heat in the room came from him, not some secret heater.

He was the heat.

Pain rippled through my knees as I was slammed to the floor on the sigils and locked into place. My voice stolen, rendering my demands silent.

“Hmmm, yes, this one smells pleasing.”

I shuddered, closing my eyes and trying to ignore the feeling of his forked tongue flicking against my cheek.

“She’s a hero. The one who stepped forward when others cowered, who took a moral stand at theMinedoor.” The grating voice of the she-demon caused The Devil to stop his exploration temporarily, but then he was all the more eager. His slimy tongue darted out to lick the corners of my mouth. Whimpering, I tried to turn my face away, but he laughed.

An invisible hand straightened my head. I kept my eyes screwed shut, certain all it would take was to stare into The Devil’s eyes and my mind would be completely lost. One look and I would succumb to the madness threatening to pull me under.

He gripped my chin roughly, and the scent of my own cooking flesh filled my nose even as I screamed into the silence consuming my voice. His tongue forced its way into my mouth, and I couldn’t manage even a strangled cry as something inside of me ripped open and pulled into him. The pain was unlike anything I had experienced—a stabbing, tearing, searing sensation that went beyond what the nerves of my body could handle.

He broke from me with a satisfied grin.

“A hero. Yes, this one will do for my special collection, but she needs some refinement. She is full-bodied but—” His lips smacked together and a drop of his spittle fell onto my face, burning like acid. Still, he held me in position so I couldn’t turn away, could only wait to hear what atrocities he had planned for me next. “There is a harsh finish that should be rounded out. Yes, she will make a fine addition once she’s been through the next stage of our process.” He turned my blistering face, his thumb stroking down my cheek, leaving a trail of agony.

“She’d do well to be placed on the hot plate. It’ll give a toasty edge to her essence.” His forked tongue flicked out to run along the seared flesh his stroke left behind. “She must be bloodied as well. Yes, well-bloodied to temper her fire and ensure she will go down more smoothly. Treat her to one-thousand cuts, then to the oak barrels. No flavor additions for this one. I want to taste her.” His tongue caressed my cheek, and I flinched away from the searing of my flesh. “What a bit of perfection she is, Isra. Your King is well pleased.”

He shifted his back to me, and I gratefully fell forward onto the floor, savoring the pain of smashing my elbows into the hard tile because at least I’d been released from the fire of his hand on my face and the crushing weight of his malevolence. I coughed, surprised when the sound was audible. My knees, too, were unlocked from the stage. My mind turned to escape, but when I looked up, all I found was the clown watching me with a twinkle in his eye.

He stood a few feet away, with my camera in his hands. New scratches marred the black finish, and his grimy hands left smears where they touched. Lifting it to his face, he offered a raw, stretched grin as he clicked the button. A single flash, along with the audible shudder of the lens. Usually, the sound was cathartic, bringing a wave of serotonin. Instead, it was like a knife to the heart.

Chapter 8

Pain was my world.

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