Page 3 of Delivered to the Devil

I straighten and pick up my tray, too shaken by the small yet very consequential encounter to let Izsák get to me. His stance is demonstrative as I pass him—arms crossed and eyes glaring, telling me in no uncertain terms that I’m a lowly waitress who serves the single purpose of being at his beck and call.

I don’t need to look at him to know how his eyes glide up and down my curves with an animalistic hunger. I feel it all too clearly. But he’s far from the majestic lion that rules the savannah. He’s the frothing hyena that has to settle for other’s scraps—harmless, as long as you don’t tread into its den and provoke it. He’s not the one I’m afraid of as I leave the kitchen with my heart pounding in my throat.

My lungs expand with an audible sigh of relief when I find the table by the panoramic windows empty. Never has someone scared me so much so quickly. Actually, I don’t think anyone hasever scared me like that. Something about that man set off all my alarms, and I’m pretty sure it’s not just paranoia.

My heart keeps pounding as I make my way around the restaurant, collecting dirty dishes. It’s only when I’ve made a whole round, inside and outside, and I’m back in the kitchen without having seen the man that my heart regains a steady rhythm.

“Did you see that Istvan Gabor was here?” The small, chubby chef is practically bouncing on her feet while stirring the pot in front of her.

“Istvan Gabor? You mean, the politician?” I say.

She bobs her head up and down, her stirring picking up speed. “The Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

Suddenly, the pieces fall into place. I thought I had seen him before. But why the hell would a man like him come here? We might be only a few blocks from the parliament, but there are surely plenty more upscale cafés closer by where a man like him can get his coffee.

As Hungary’s Minister of Foreign Affairs and right hand to the Prime Minister, Istvan Gabor is one of the most prominent faces of Hungarian politics—and Hungary in general. He’s part of the reason for the corruption that bleeds deep into the system of this country. As with many dictators, the people neither can nor want to see it even though it’s glaringly clear. I didn’t have to know who he was to sense the danger. A single shared glance was enough. And knowing who he is only adds to my wariness because he’s not just a dangerous man anymore. He’s a dangerous man with money and people in his pockets.

But he’s gone now, so I try to forget about him—write it off as the chance meeting I’m sure it was. But as the evening wears on, the anxiety keeps gnawing at my stomach, and I can’t shake the feeling that he wanted something from me. The way he watchedme wasn’t an accidental glance or a man lingering on a pretty waitress. There was more to it. As if he was sizing me up.

I remember the way he noticed my fleeting submission, and a bone-deep shiver shoots through my body. He ignited something in me, and my reaction ignited something in him. Something wild and dangerous aimed directly at me.

* * *

It’s long past midnight when Izsák finally lets me go, and I find myself on the small detour that takes me past the parliament a little farther down the river.

I never go here during the day. Only when darkness has swept its heavy cloak over the city, leaving every nook and corner shrouded in shadows, do I venture here to see the beast. I’m not sure why. The enormous white building has me shivering as I stand at the foot of its mighty façade.

It must be some kind of masochistic desire that brings me here. I’ve always had this reckless gravitation toward danger even though I’m both jumpy and scared of the dark.

I rub my arms as I watch the spotlights on the ground, casting their lights upon the monster like a fearful crowd bowing down in forced reverence. It’s a terrible symbol of everything this building houses. Tyranny and oppression. And it all just gets to stand here, out in the open, lit up for everyone to see. Lights should soothe my nerves, but these are only here to intimidate.

An icy shiver runs down my arms, and I turn my head to look behind me. No one’s there. It’s just my paranoia.

Fuck.Why did I come here?

I pull my jacket tight and hurry on.

Even as the parliament disappears behind several blocks of buildings, it keeps breathing down my neck. The sensation is worse than usual, and as I walk through the streets, mymind conjures fears of people stalking me, eyes lurking in dark corners, and a predator ready to jump.

When I’m finally home in bed, I toss and turn for hours before I fall into a restless sleep. Then I startle awake to a metallic clank. With a hand to my chest, I reach for the lamp on my nightstand and breathe a ragged sigh as the soft glow lights up the room, assuring me I’m alone.

It must have been a sound from the courtyard. Some drunken idiot coming home and feeling the need to bang something against the iron bars on the ground-floor windows.

Nevertheless, I wrap a blanket around myself and pad through my studio apartment to check the front door in the small hall. It’s locked. And the door chain is still connected to the doorframe. I put my eye to the peephole and see pitch-black darkness. No one’s there.

Feeling somewhat reassured, I move on to check my small kitchen and bathroom before I go back to bed.

CHAPTER 2

“Celestial Violence”

by Ihsahn

Rebecca

The unease keeps prickling for the next few days, and whatever little sleep I get is restless. Checking the apartment and peering through the peephole becomes a nightly routine.

After a week, I decide enough is enough and refuse to succumb to my anxiety anymore. Who would break in here anyway? I’m on the fourth floor in a shitty apartment building in a calm neighborhood where the worst passers-by are drunk people headed home.

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