Page 118 of Anathema Codex

I nod and wrap my arms around myself. I may not be on my A-game right now, but I’ll do whatever he needs me to do—especially since that will eliminate someone else that he cares for.

He nods as he places a cigarette between his teeth, then lights it. When he inhales, I anticipate the exhalation of his healing power, but this time it’s not shimmering or golden.

It’s black and cancerous, and that’s how I know that the evil inside of him isn’t gentle at all—it’s rawer than that. He’s like a tiger, absolutely beautiful to look at, but incredibly dangerous. Lethal. Unforgiving.

It makes me wonder, though.

If the beautiful exterior is the Lakyn Meyer that he presents to the world, what does the one underneath that look like?

I’ll find out once and for all when we get back to the desert. I’ll feed his hatred and disdain for being second best to Trixie again and I’ll finally get to see the real Lakyn in all of his glory.

Then he’ll see that we’re not so different after all.

TEN

Hell is Here

ICHABOD

I can’t sit still.

It’s not that I haven’t tried, but there’s only so much shitty television I can watch while this cancerous hope eats away at my insides.

I shouldn’t believe him. It’s so damn stupid to keep believing him, but I know that Lakyn feels for Bea in his own way. They were connected long before I met him, and they’ll probably be connected long after he finally gets bored of me and I end up in that tub as an oozing, stinking puddle of something that used to be a person.

Not like I feel like a person anymore.

But… I always did when Bea looked at me. There was something about the way her eyes reallysawme, the way her entire face lit up when she smiled at me that made me feel like I was worth something. Like it fucking mattered that my heart kept beating from one second to the next.

It’s just been so goddamn long since I felt that way and thinking about it makes the lack of it hurt all the more. It makes the waiting around even more impossible, and it’s why I keep checking out the front curtains even though there isn’t a chance in hell they could be back yet.

“You better keep this promise, Lakyn,” I mutter to myself in the dead silence of the house.

Heh.

Dead silence.

The phrase brings a bitter, hushed laugh out of me and I turn around to look at the door to Lakyn’s little workshop of horrors.

When I was on the streets, I thought that was hell. I thought the drugs, and the humiliation, and the filth were how the demons chose to torment me… and then Bea had been my angel. No matter what choices she made, no matter what snide comments Lakyn has made about her, she reached into hell to give me comfort. To show me kindness.

Love.

I just want to feel it one more time now that I’ve really found hell—because Lakyn is absolutely the devil and this house is his throne. The central point from which he causes so much pain. Kills, tortures, destroys, all while laughing or singing in that way that makes him impossible to look away from despite how terrible it all is. He’s as beautiful as an angel, but filled by so much darkness, and that’s why I need Bea back.

Whenever I was drowning in darkness, she was always able to pull me out for a little while. A hug, a smile, some warm food, and I would get a sip of fresh air, a hint of light, and then I’d be alright for a bit.

I know that if I can just see her again, have her look at me andseeme the way she used to… I’ll be okay. I’ll be able to survive however many days I have left here in hell.

Sitting down in Lakyn’s chair, I can’t help the fidgeting, so I light a cigarette and take a short puff of it before setting it in the ashtray. The way the smoke curls upward is hypnotic, and I wish I could say it’s relaxing… but it isn’t.

Nothing about me is relaxed right now.

I’m drawn tight, like a string about to snap from being tuned too far, which I’m sure would entertain Lakyn if he were here. He always likes to wind me up, to see if I’ll grow a spine instead of suffering in silence and emptiness.

Which is why the smell of the goddamn cigarette smoke shouldn’t be comforting, and I hate myself because it is.

Somehow, being alone in hell, without the devil, is worse than anything else, and the scent of the smoke is enough to make me just a little less shaky.

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