Page 44 of Demon Sworn
When I find something I want now, I take it and protect it with all my might.
Like my murder. Like Katrina.
Obsessive. Possessive. Stalkerish.
Is there really a difference?
Does it count as stalking if the person I’m stalking isn’t aware of it? I mean, I’m not sure how happy Cherry will be if she discovers I take pictures of her when she’s sleeping. But obviously, that’s not stalking. It’s…artistic freedom, am I right?
“Let’s get this over with,” Raz grumbles, striding towards the nondescript house in a shady section of town. The roof at the top is caving in, numerous cracks and holes dotted throughout. Graffiti covers each of the exterior side walls, the vibrant splashes of color a stark contrast against the drab, gray, peeling paint. Two unwashed windows frame a door that is constructed out of distressed wood. Even the slightest gust of wind would be capable of blowing it away.
When I discovered my uncle lives on Earth only an hour away from where Katrina’s old house was, my curiosity piqued. As did my anger.
It’s too much of a coincidence that Doth would be on Earth for the first time in a thousand years…at the same time my demon murder is under attack. And for him to live in the same area as well?
My spidey senses are tingling. Or that could be my balls. They always seem to know when danger is approaching. I swear my right one gets slightly heavier than my left, but that could be my own arousal at the prospect of violence. Or it could be super spidey ball senses.
Either, or.
I’ve come prepared with a brand-new axe I just bought on eBay. It’s customized with dozens of cherries etched into the wooden handle. And on the blade itself, Katrina’s name glints back at me.
Because when I fuck people up, I’m doing it in Katrina’s name. Duh.
There’s nothing more enticing than my sweet little cherry covered in blood.
Raz unsheathes his own dagger, holding it at the ready as we stalk towards the house—though house is too generous of a term. Maybe shed?—and pushes open the door. Unlocked, of course, because Uncle Doth is known for evoking fear in the poor humans. We don’t bother to knock.
By now, it’ll be shocking if Doth isn’t aware of our presence.
I’m immediately assaulted by the acrid scent of piss and unwashed bodies. Maybe something decaying? I’m not surprised. My sources told me that Uncle Doth, a fellow pain demon, has become a crucial part of the underground in this town. I don’t know if he’s the head of the gang yet or just an enforcer, but there’s no doubt in my mind that there’s probably a few murder victims hidden somewhere in this house.
The bastard better hope that none of them are young girls or prostitutes. I can deal with a lot of sick stuff, but not that. Not when I think about my cherry in place of them, getting kidnapped off the street, raped, tortured, murdered…
Red coats my vision, but I force myself to take deep, calming breaths.
Look at me, getting ahead of myself. Calm your titties, Akor. If you don’t end up murdering your uncle, I’m sure you can find a drug dealer or rapist to take out your frustration on.
With that mental pep-talk, I follow Raz through a room that was probably once a kitchen, but is now sparse and covered in holes, and towards a living room. The carpeting is a hideous, putrid shade of green, though that color does little to hide the blood stains soaking through. There’s a musty couch against the far wall, but that’s it. No TV. No coffee table. No weapons.
Fun fact—my living room in Hell was made entirely out of weapons. Like, my couch? A bunch of swords melded together.
It felt good on my butt.
I truly believe weapons should be a staple of every household. For one, weapons don’t ever die, unlike flowers and shit. Why put daisies in a vase when you can easily do mini swords instead?
Hmmm. Maybe that should be my anniversary gift for Katrina. A bouquet of mini swords. I’m sure she, unlike a lot of these uncultured swines, will appreciate it.
Though for which anniversary…?
We have the day I first saw her, the day I started stalking her, the day she looked at me, the day I licked her nipples, the day I—
The creaking floorboard is the only indication that we’re not alone. I turn, just as my uncle rushes towards me, his face distorting in a hideous sneer and a wickedly sharp blade raised in his hand. His dark hair is wild and frazzled behind him, like maybe he’s been playing with electricity, and his eyes have that sultry ring of red that I love to see other demons get in their fury.
Us pain demons? We prefer not to use guns and shit like that—though I’ll be the first to admit that I have a soft spot for my grenades. Particularly my bedazzled ones.
We much prefer the hand-to-hand thrill of a kill, where you can slowly watch the life bleed from your victim. Sometimes, I’ll put my hands around a person’s throat and squeeze until their eyes roll back in their head and their faces turn an unnatural shade of blue. Other times, I’ll carve my name into their flesh, relishing their screams. I even carved K + A with a heart around it on one of my victims.
Fun times. Fun times.
