Page 38 of Blood

Memphis is an ugly son of a gun.

I don’t consider myself a mean person by any means, and I’m always one to praise the underdog and look for the inner beauty in each and every creature, but Memphis...

I think he’d look more attractive if he placed a plastic bag over his head. And suffocated himself.

A pink centipede is pasted on his face, exactly where his lips should be. As I watch, horrified, the numerous legs skitter a fraction of an inch in what might be a smile. Maybe. Possibly. He has no nose that I can see, but his startling red eyes take up most of his pinball-sized face.

And his body...

Picture a normal man with crab claws. That... That is Memphis.

We stand in the living room of Lucifer’s apartment in Hell. Well, I stand—pace—while Alex reclines in one of the armchairs and Memphis pours us two scotches at the bar. When the hideous monster catches me staring at him, he winks.

“I would quit staring if I were you, luv. Your boyfriend might get jealous.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I protest at the same time Alex drawls, “Yeah, I don’t think we have to worry about me getting jealous.”

A frown tugs at Memphis’s lips. At least, I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s a frown. His centipede-like lips could just be getting restless.

“I know I’m an attractive monster, but it’s rude to stare,” he tells me seriously as he attempts to pick up one of the glass tumblers with his red pinchers. I’m honestly surprised when he doesn’t completely destroy the cup in the process. That takes some serious skill.

“Um...”

“Girls always fantasize about what it’ll feel like to have my claws up their pussies,” Memphis continues with a prolonged sigh, as if this entire conversation is cumbersome to him. “But it’s rude to proposition someone.”

“I’m not—”

“But if you really want to know what it feels like...” Memphis snaps his piercers mere inches from my face, and I stumble back, practically landing in Alex’s lap. His arms band around me, impenetrable iron vises, and I find that I don’t want to escape him as badly as I should. The heat emitting from his body is almost palpable. It’s like roasting in a warm, toasty furnace.

Not that I think roasting alive would be super pleasurable...

“What the fuck are we doing here, Memphis?” Alex asks with a familiarity that reminds me that the two of them once worked together. With Lucifer.

Just another betrayal to add to my betrayal board.

Note to future Violet—make a betrayal board.

Memphis moves to claim the couch, and I take the opportunity to study my surroundings once more.

Not much has changed since I’ve last been here. Everything that was broken has been painstakingly fixed—courtesy, I’m sure, of the grotesque monster sitting opposite us.

Everything is decorated in shades of white and black, the juxtaposition startling enough to make my head spin. In one direction, I see nothing but piercing white, while the other is a sea of obsidian. White tiles. Black leather couch. Black, granite-like coffee table. White walls. The living room bleeds into the kitchen, where an obsidian stone countertop takes up the majority of the space.

I honestly shouldn’t find this place as homey as I do.

Does it say something about my mental health that I enjoy the ambiance of my kidnaper-slash-bio dad’s home? Is it Stockholm syndrome?

Note number two for future Violet—look up the symptoms of Stockholm syndrome. And then add your own face to the betrayal board, because you betrayed yourself by feeling a sense of innate peace in Lucifer’s residence.

“I thought the reason you’re here is obvious.” Memphis claps his hands together. Correction—he attempts to clap his hands together. Since his “hands” are actually claws, he simply bangs his pinchers together repeatedly until the clacking sound reverberates through the spacious room.

“Explain,” Alex says, his arms tightening around my waist. I shift slightly against him in an attempt to get more comfortable, only stopping when I feel something hard press against my ass.

Unless he has a remote control in his pocket...

“You’re here to free the Fomorians, aren’t you?” Memphis says bluntly, and it feels as if an atomic bomb has just been dropped in my lap. My world shatters with that one, nonchalant sentence. It’s suddenly hard to breathe, as if all the oxygen in the air has been replaced with razor blades.

“How did you...?”

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