Page 12 of Tortured Soul
He shrugged. “It’s not really a question asked. I can write it down, but you don’t have to specify it. I’ll just need your year of human birth and the year you became a demon.”
“I’d rather people don’t know about that. And I’m…old.”
He arched a brow, his fingers hovering above the keyboard, waiting. “Define old?”
My throat bobbed. “Really old.”
“I’m going to need more than this.”
“I was born 1,598 years ago. On Møn Island. Which would make my year of birth 499.”
He gave a shake of his head as he typed. “Møn Island?”
“It’s part of the Danish Islands now.”
“And when did you become a Succubus?”
I hesitated. Not long, but just enough for him to lift his eyes from his screen to focus on my palling face.
“Not long after I turned twenty-one.”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything, just resumed his typing after a few seconds of silence.
“What about you?” I asked awkwardly, uncomfortable from the sudden quietness of the room.
He smiled but kept typing. “I was born in 1543 in the Kanto region of Japan, and I became a demon when I was twenty-four. It was a difficult time. Lots of conflicts and wars. Demons were everywhere back then.”
He talked about it in a very detached tone, like it didn’t really matter to him. Like becoming a demon was an obvious choice.
“You're an Archdemon, so I’m guessing you didn’t die in the wars after making a deal.”
He grinned, casting a quick glance toward me. “You’re guessing right. Sold my soul to join their ranks and climbed the ladder. Never regretted it.”
We all had different stories, motives. I knew he wasn’t going to tell me—I rarely did. Demons didn’t like to talk about theirbefore. About the time we were still humans. About the time we were stilldeeply connected with our souls. Even though most demons were still supposedly tethered to it, it felt foreign after a while. Sometimes I wish I knew what it felt like to still be whole. To own that missing part of me.
“Did you come here to escape something?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I was recently freed. Although I got attacked twice in the last week by humans, so maybe…”
“Doesn’t count.” He shook his head in return. “Unless you think they attacked you because an Immortal commanded it?”
“I don’t think so.”
Forcing a smile, I was careful not to mention the little tracking device the humans had pointed at me. I’ve never seen it before, and I doubted I’d encounter one of these again.
He typed for a while in silence, filling some questions that didn’t need actual answers. I took advantage of his focus to study him a little more.
He was only wearing dirty black jeans, and I was almost certain his shoes were mismatched. He didn’t bother to put on a shirt before heading here, showing a large collection of scars and tattoos on his lean chest and arms. His monolid eyes were a dark brown, nearly black—like most demons—and hair was a thick, dark ruffled mass on top of his head.
I wondered what could have caused these scars as Hellrisers and Divines couldn’t die of any injuries. Our blood was toxic and could fight any blade or bullet. Poison was non efficient, and fire burned but did not melt our skin.
For something to leave scars like these ones, it must have been done before he became a demon. Or maybe if he was being held and tortured for decades.
“How often do you need to—well…feed?”
“I’m guessing you’re not talking about pepperoni pizza?”
“Again, you’re guessing right.”
