Page 34 of Cry for Help

“How long ago was this?”

“Before humans had the concept of fire.” Murmur shifted, sitting down on the bed. I moved my legs so he could get comfortable.

“Fallen angels. Demons?” I clarified. The sign for demon was kind of like air quotes on either side of the head, forminghorns. Demon, devil, and evil all melded into one word, but I hoped Murmur understood my intent. I didn’t think he had suddenly turned evil by falling to hell, just that he had become a demon by definition of the word.

There really needed to be a better ASL word for ‘demon.’Mainly because I was quickly learning that demons weren’t as evil as I’d first thought.

Maybe.

“Lucifer didn’t know what to do with us,” Murmur explained. “We weren’t devout to his cause, like Abaddon, Lilith, or the other Sovereign of Hell. Stolas and the others, myself included, didn’t want to fight—and that’s all it was initially. Pride is its own sin, but it shares the same circle as Treachery in Hell. It didn’t used to, but there was a war. Lucifer killed the ruler of Pride and took his kingdom for himself, making the First Circle. We were punished for our insolence. For refusing to take up arms against the Iblis. We were turned into stone statues of Betrayers and placed in Lucifer’s garden for all to see. Stolas. Caim. Malphas and I.”

“For how long?”

“How long is a piece of string?” Murmur shook his head. “To be honest, we don’t know. A few thousand years? The stone broke around us when the devil left this world, but Hell spat us out when the golden gates opened. We had been stone too long and couldn’t access Hell’s magic anymore.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you are an outsider.” Murmur held my gaze. “Just like us.”

Murmur’s story spun in my head.

God. Lucifer. Hell. Pride.

I knew snippets of demonic history; most people did. When the golden gates of Hell had opened, people had sucked up every piece of gossip about demons to be found. I remembered the day the US government and the demons signed the treaty, and the Red Cities were born. I’d been a child at the time. Coddled and shielded from the true nature of demons.

I’d played ‘demon catchers’ at recess, laughing as children ran from me with hooked fingers as claws. Blissfully unaware of the realities of demons.

Demons were known for a love of shiny things. For making deals and for having vast and impossible magic.

I wanted to trust the demons. Caim, Stolas, Malphas and Murmur. After all, what choice did I have?

I could try to escape them and find another home in the human district, but I couldn’t leave the city. Would I even want to? Knowing that the justice system had denied my appeal, yet again, and I’d go to death row—if they didn’t shoot me on sight.

Just like us. Murmur had said.

Maybe we were more alike than I’d first thought. My kind, the Bean Sídhe, had run from the Aos Sí—the home of the Fae—just like Stolas and the others had left Hell behind.

They’d told me I’d been bought to be a maid. To clean up after them.

Even if it was a lie, that was what I would do.

With a new goal, I strode out of my room and to the kitchen to gather cleaning supplies.

I’d half expected Malphas to be there, guarding the fridge or building some fancy charcuterie board with a face filled with thunder, but I was alone.

The demons had disappeared once again. Leaving me in the house.

Pure-blooded demons didn’t sleep, so I knew they weren’t in the house. The single story had paper-thin walls; I would have heard a TV or someone moving about.

I ate a bunch of grapes—the only fruit I’d eaten in days- and gathered my cleaning supplies, even if the demons only had dish soap and bleach. I could make it work. In prison, I’d had to clean my cell with sanitary pads.

There wasn’t much to clean. I’d taken the layer of dust from the furniture and corners a couple of days ago, and not enough time had passed for more to gather. Malphas kept the kitchen clean. The dishwasher was empty, and the fridge was pristine inside.

I vacuumed the rooms but felt wholly inadequate. What kind of demons cleaned up after themselves?

Growing up, my mom had constantly nagged me about my cleanliness. She’d often joked about the trail of old coffee mugs and chip packets I left around the house like Hansel and Gretel trying to find their way through the forest.

I stuck to the common areas, but I felt useless. I needed tocleansomething, not because of OCD or a desire to feel useful, but purely out of spite.

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