Page 190 of Evil Hearts

I can feel her goodness, the pureness in her soul. The darkness in me wants to consume it, but what logic I still have left, what humanity that has yet to wither up and die, craves to shelter her spark and keep it alive. To feed it and her.

She is the one who is meant for me, so perhaps I am not damned after all, not entirely at least.

There are things to be said about the corruptive nature of my magic, but there is also a matter of intent. I would never turn my influence toward Zenith.

The bright beams shining down on us cut and people bustle around in all directions, scattering like roaches in the light. I force my focus from her, from the place I can see her soul gentlyfloat and bob where it resides inside her, to take note of the other souls within the room.

The mothman is unremarkable, for me at least. He walks the line between good and evil, but the technicalities make the edges so hazy I bother not to pry into it further. The demon on my other side has a soul the color of hellfire. He blazes with both good and evil acts, more of the latter than former, which he has committed in the name of keeping earthly balance.

Judging from the sly grin on his face and the air of nonchalance, he isn’t here entirely because he wants to be. I return my focus to the little gray bug as he turns toward the demon, his lips parting to speak before he begins gnawing at them. The way he fidgets and fitters makes my skin begin to crawl. He is soalivethat it’s unsettling and, at the same time, too nervous to exist.

“Stop.” The word is out of my mouth before I can force it down. “You’re exhausting me.”

“Exhausting?” His antenna jerk back, nearly flattening to his skull like a disgruntled cat.

“The man here can read souls and gods know that yours is always so twisty,” the demon supplies, crossing his arms over his horrendous “tea-shirt”.

I jerk my head in a quick nod, tipping my attention to the audience. Now there is a sea of sludge. Blues and greens, violets and oranges, just the wrong colors all swimming beside each other. I swallow, the lack of saliva in my mouth making my throat tighten.

“You know how I always make you chill the heck out before we hang out?” the demon continues.

“I suppose,” the moth grumbles.

“It’s because you can give me a headache sometimes. Your nature is at war with itself.” He chuckles.

“And that is my fault because?” The antenna flick up, standing erect as if scandalized.

I snort.

“Well, looky there, it laughs.” The demon leans over and smacks my shoulder.

I twitch, forcing my shadows to stay curled around me and not rip his throat out. “If only you were to say something funny.”

The demon’s grin widens, and he nods his head. “Yeah, sure thing buddy. I think you’re getting soft in your old age. What’s that accent anyhow? It’s gotta be some empire that fell.” He pauses, cupping his chin and tapping a finger along his lip. “Byzantine?”

I shake my head. If it were so simple to be named in earthly records, I could write and publish hundreds of books to spit on its memory.

“Dante, let him be,” the bug says, waving in front of me toward the demon, as if to brush him off.

“Leander, you goin’ soft too? Well, I knew you were soft, but still, softer,” the demon says.

“Octavius.”

“What?” the demon asks, looking at me as if I’ve grown a second head.

“Octavius is my name. As yours is Dante and his Leander. It is good to know the names of our competition,” I say, eyes trying hard not to focus on the way those souls pulse within the meat sacks they call home. The audience would be one satisfying gulp for the darkness inside me. My stomach growls low.

“Have you eaten?” the moth questions, going to stand from his seat.

My arm whips out to stop his movement.

“No, and be glad of it,” I murmur.

“Glad? That you’re hungry?”

“You can’t be serious. Do you not know what this guy eats?” Dante asks, leaning back in his chair and letting his arms drape over the backrest. His shoulders pop and he lets out a contented sigh. “Souls of the damned and the innocent. It’s a good thing the guy is skinny; he must starve himself.”

“It’s not a good thing that anyone starves themselves,” Leander scoffs.

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