Page 47 of Devil in Disguise

The stench of rotting fish and stale urine clawed at my nostrils as I hauled Danny down the alley, his weight dead against my arm. His shallow breaths rasped like a dying engine. My fingers were slick with a mixture of sweat and something else as I fumbled for my phone, the cold metal a stark contrast to the clammy heat of my palm.

Torment. He was my last, desperate hope as I punched in his number, each digit a prayer whispered into the suffocating darkness.

“Yeah?” His voice was cold and sharp.

“Torment, it’s Dante.” My voice, even to my own ears, sounded thin, brittle.

“I know, Intern. What happened now?” He knew me too well and heard the cracks in my carefully constructed façade.

“Meet me at the motel near Pier 83.”

“Why?” The question hung, barbed and menacing.

“Just be there,” I snapped, the desperation a raw, exposed nerve. The order was a desperate gamble, a last-ditch attempt to cling to some semblance of control before the abyss swallowed me whole. I slammed the phone shut, the sound echoing the hollow ache in my chest.

A shrill, desperate whistle sliced through the greasy night air, a sound swallowed almost instantly by the city’s growl. Sweat slicked my palms, the taste of fear metallic on my tongue. It wasn’t long—a blessedly short eternity—before the yellow glare of headlights cut through the gloom. The cab, a battered behemoth smelling of stale cigarettes and desperation, lurched to a halt. No gentle tap, no polite summons as I ripped the rear door open, the metal groaning a protest against my frantic shove. Danny, his face a mask of terrified resignation, tumbled inside. I followed, slamming the door shut with the force of a condemned man’s last prayer as my heart beat a frantic drum against my ribs.

“Harbor Motel, Pier 83,” I said as the cab driver sped off into the night.

My skull thudded against the vinyl headrest, a dull ache blooming behind my eyes. I squeezed them shut, desperate for a sliver of respite, only to be jolted awake by the cab’s violent shuddering halt.

The motel’s lurid, blinking sign stabbed at my retinas—a cheap, neon promise of oblivion.

A wave of nausea rolled over me.

Slamming a crumpled bill into the driver’s greasy hand, I stumbled out, hauling Danny along in my wake. His silence was heavier than any argument. The air hung thick with the cloying sweetness of cheap perfume and stale cigarettes, a miasma clinging to the peeling paint of the motel. Each footstep on the cracked asphalt echoed the hollow ache in my chest.

Paying for the room felt like a surrender. Then, at the end of the dilapidated walkway, bathed in the sickly glow of the sign, he was there. Torment. Leaning against his bike, a silhouette against the bruised purple sky, radiating an unnerving calm that was far more menacing than any outright aggression. His eyes, dark and knowing, held a promise—or a threat—I couldn’t decipher.

Torment’s eyes locked onto Danny.

Before I could even register his movement, Torment was a blur of motion, a dark shadow propelled by something primal, something desperate. He scooped Danny into his arms. The groan that escaped Danny’s lips was a rasping sound that scraped against my own raw nerves.

“What in the hell happened?” Torment’s voice, usually a low rumble, was tight, strained, a barely controlled explosion held captive by sheer willpower. His touch, harsh yet strangely gentle, on Danny’s limp form sent a shiver down my spine.

My own hands trembled as I fumbled with the key, the cold metal biting into my palm. Each click of the lock felt agonizingly slow, the silence stretching between us thick with the weight of unspoken terror. The scent of pine from the air freshener, usually a comfort, now felt sickeningly sweet against the metallic stench clinging to Danny.

I pushed the door open; however, the stale air inside offered no respite from the storm raging deep within me.

The bed swallowed Danny whole, a pale island in a sea of crumpled sheets. Torment loomed, a thundercloud of fury, his voice a guttural growl. “What the hell happened, Intern? Spit it out.”

Ignoring the raw, animal rage radiating off him, I dropped to my knees, the cold, rough fabric of the carpet biting into my skin. I clamped onto Danny’s head, forcing his face towards mine, the tremor in his skull a sickening echo against my palm. “Danny! Where are you, goddammit?” His eyes remained sealed, lids fluttering like trapped birds. His body, a convulsing knot of muscle and bone, shook beneath me. A low, guttural whimper, a broken song of terror spilled from his lips. His gibberish clawed at my sanity. “Danny, come back to me.”

Nothing. Just the frantic, ragged rhythm of his breath, a rasping counterpoint to the pounding in my ears.

He recoiled as I rose and scrambled away, like a terrified animal cornered. His head in his hands, he rocked, a silent scream trapped within the confines of his skull.

The stench of sweat and fear choked me.

“Fuck!” I roared, clawing at my hair until my scalp screamed in protest.

This wasn’t just bad. This was a goddamn catastrophe.

Torment seized my arm, his grip like a vise, his face a mask of brutal concern. Hot breath washed over me, carrying the scent of his own fear. “What in the unholy hell is going on?”

The words ripped from me, raw and ragged. “I shot Sinclair.”

Torment released me, his gaze snapping back to Danny’s convulsing form. The harsh fluorescent light of the room seemed to amplify the stark horror of the scene.

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