Page 130 of Like Grim Death: Part One
I wonder if she’s still…alive. My memories of her are so fractured, I am not sure I will even recognize her when they give me what I am promised. I am not sure where it is, exactly, we existed together in this life. I only know she feels warm to me, inside my memories.
I hear something at my back then, causing me to startle. When I twist around to look over my shoulder, I see a girl with red hair and porcelain skin. Green eyes. Beautiful. Adam Medici told me about this one. Dropped her photo on the table inside the church when I was being taught what I needed to know.
Ella Christian. Nineteen. She is only one year younger than I am.
“She is inconsequential. Be nice to her all the same. They do not like when you play with their toys.”
I have seen her in person too, she just doesn’t know it yet.
I clear my throat, turning away from the girl.
“You should not be here.” I don’t want to say the words. I want to keep her here. I too, have always been inconsequential.
I want to hold her hand, like Monday held mine when I was younger. I want to brush her hair behind her ear, like I did with the other girl. Or maybe she did it to me; I cannot remember. But I wish to run my fingers through the redhead’s strands and twist. Yet I don’t want to play with their toys. I only want to exist quietly here before I can get what I’ve been promised.
She’s silent at my back, and for a moment, I wonder if she is gone. But before I can turn to look, she responds.
“There’s nowhere else for me to go.” Her voice sounds sad, and I think of this dark house. Low lights. Covered windows.
And Lucifer Malikov.
Adam Medici said the boys share the girls and thinking of Lucifer touching her pale skin is kind of horrific. The look in his eyes over the days we spent together has been nothing short of murderous. But she seems too young for him. Not in years, but temperament. She is full of some kind of sadness, but I think I saw a spark of hope in her eyes when they met mine, seconds ago.
Twisting around to look at her once more, I see she’s wearing red lace up boots and a black dress, the skirt flared out a little, swishing and dripping with lace all the way down to her ankles. Frowning, I say the only thing I can think of. “Your hair…”
Her face turns pink as she reaches a hand to her ends, slowly twirling a strand around her finger while her throat rolls.
I realize she is uncomfortable. At least, I think so. I’m not so good at deciphering body language. It all jumbles inside my head. “It’s pretty,” I finally say.
Her startled eyes dart up to mine. “Thank you.” She drops her hand by her side quickly, like maybe I won’t have noticed she moved it at all.
She glances over the room. Gray walls. A four-poster bed, dark sheets. A nightstand, a gargoyle lamp. Softly, she closes the door behind her, her palms splayed over the darkness of the door, her back pressed to it.
She does not look at me. Instead, she watches the storm.
I look forward too, hands clasped in my lap.
“Why are you so dressed up?” she asks quietly.
I glance down at my black dress shirt, tailored pants. My sleeves are rolled up, exposing one tattoo along my forearm. A piano with a rose over the keys. Monday told me to get it when we had a day pass from our home, years ago. I was underage, but none of that seems to matter in my world. Madame Mora did not like it though. She said it would be harder for me to find a new family. It only made me get more tattoos, every chance I could, even when I was beat for it.
But I don’t know if I even like this tattoo. I am not sure what, exactly, I like.
“I’m not.” I say the words quietly, and I don’t think she’ll have heard me. Madame Mora always hated that. I spoke too low. I was too quiet. I did not… entertain well.
There are other things I do well though.
I lift my eyes to the storm.
“Well…” Ella pauses, and I think I hear something shy in her words. “You look nice, either way.”
I don’t smile or laugh or thank her. Looking nice always got me feeling bad, back home.And besides, maybe she is just paying me back for the compliment about her hair. It is pretty, I meant it. The flash of color is beautiful. It does not remind me of home.
Home.The word is strange inside my head. It never felt nice, but maybe home, sometimes, is horror, and you simply learn to sleep with your demons. It becomes painfully comfortable, in its way.
The girl is quiet, and thunder is our only companion in the silence.
Until she says, her tone hushed like it’s something forbidden… “Do you sometimes think they are planning to kill you too?”
