Page 106 of Hell Hath No Fury
"You don't need to worry about that," Prez reassures her.
“No,”–Layla takes my hand and turns her attention from Tank to me– “I want to see him.”
“No women are allowed in the dungeon. It’s not a place for ladies,” Prez explains.
Layla laughs, and the room goes silent.
“You think I’ll see anything worse than I’ve already experienced over the last ten years?”
I can’t argue with her on that score. But shit can get pretty real down there. We’ve painted the place red with blood on more than one occasion, and I’m not sure she should see it. It’s not my decision anyway. I look toward my boss.
“I’d want answers if I was her.” Ebony pats her father on the arm.
He sighs heavily. “Okay. I’m not good to go down there, yet. My emotions are running too high, and I have to leave the kill to your real father. If I see Snake again, that’s not going to happen. Iron, go warn Heat. Caim, you good to take her down there?”
“Yeah.”
I know, if I go down in the dungeon, I won’t kill Snake with Layla at my side. That doesn’t mean I won’t make him scream for mercy, though. I allow the darkness I carry within me to settle before taking Layla’s hand and leading her toward her chance for retribution.
CHAPTER FOUR
Layla
‘He’s not my real father,’ keeps repeating in my head.
He did all those terrible things to me. He raped me, cut me, beat me, and degraded me until I was unrecognizable as the happy little girl that I now remember I used to be. He told me he was doing it because he was my daddy, but he was a demon—the sort that hides under children’s beds at night to scare them.
When he was taken out of the room, I knew he’d be dead by the end of the day, and a part of me felt sorrow because, after all, I believed he was my only family. But now, knowing the truth, I want to end him myself. I'm fucked up, and it's his fault.
Caim holds my hand tightly. I can feel his hunger for blood radiating off him as he leads me down into the dungeon, and I think everyone we walk past can sense it as well. They look away from us—two devils stalking toward our prey. The door to the dungeon is open, and the smell is familiar. It wraps itself around me like a comfort blanket—fear, piss, blood. Everything I’ve lived with for ten years. I savor it.
Caim leads me down some steps, and into the dungeon where I come face to face with my torturer. Iron has him on his knees, and another man, who must be Heat, is pulling rubber gloves from his hands. They’re covered in blood. I look at the man who made me call him ‘Daddy’, and I can see he has a number of injuries. He has several fingers missing with the stumps covered in crusted blood, his face is bruised, swollen, and covered incuts, and he’s holding his side as though his ribs have been broken.
I shake my head, and my thoughts turn to Uncle Tank—it feels weird remembering him like that. Then, suddenly, a vision of my mother and my father comes into my head. I'm four, maybe five, and we’re playing in a park together. My father’s pushing me on a swing,
"Higher," I scream, and he pushes me so far I think I'm going to make a loop over the bar. I squeal with delight.
"Gunner, careful," my mom chuckles as she finishes laying out the picnic for us all.
My father brings the swing to a halt, lifts me off, and puts me on top of his shoulders. He's strong, tall, and covered in elaborate tattoos, the biggest one being a willow tree curving around his side with my name and birth date below.
The memory fades as a tear pools in my eye, and I see the corners of Daddy's lips curl up into a smirk. No, he isn't my daddy. He's Snake, a reptile who abused and tortured me. He stole me from my parents and is going to die painfully, tonight. I wipe the tear away with my finger and bring it to my mouth before licking it. It's a gesture he did to me often.
“They’re mine, now,” I tell him, and the room goes so quiet you can hear his breath rasping, probably as a result of his damaged ribs.
I take the opportunity to look around. I can see a gas stove and sink in one corner, but I quickly realize Caim wasn't kidding when he called it a dungeon. It looks just like the ones I’d imagine finding in an English castle. A wooden rack sits in the middle of the room, and knives and chains adorn the walls. Several other devices—I'm not sure what they do but they look painful—are lined up on a carved oak table to one side of the room.
I run my tongue against my teeth in anticipation. Looking toward Caim, I see he’s doing the same. I don't know why he has darkness in him, but I make a vow to learn his story one day. Right now, this is about me ridding myself of the demon who has terrorized me for so long. I go to the table and run my hand over several of the devices. I pick up what looks like a giant pair of scissors.
"A tongue trimmer," Caim informs me.
I put it back.
“I don’t need that, yet. I want him to be able to talk when I ask him some questions.”
Caim smirks and steps up to the table.
“May I suggest this?” He picks up a metal device that consists of a small ball on a handle. The ball has holes in it.
