Page 39 of Corrupt Shadows

He winces. “Deep inside, you know you need this.”

I shake my head, tears trickling from the corners of my eyes. “I won’t do it again,” I plead, but we both know it’s a lie. I can’t stop my magic, no matter how much he wants me to. I’ve tried. I do everything he tells me to. When I feel it coming to the surface, I dig my nails into my skin. Sometimes I even make myself bleed. The pain helps, but it doesn’t get rid of it.

“You’re a witch.” He makes a face, as if the word tastes bad on his tongue. “But the demonic darkness in you can be exorcised.” The same determined look crosses his expression, the one he’s worn since he started these experiments when my powers first emerged. We’d both hoped they wouldn’t surface, but when puberty hit, there had been no denying my witch heritage.

Before I can protest, he gags me again. I yell into the fabric, but he doesn’t meet my eye.

He presses the scalpel against the skin on my breast, and pain sears through me. “When we are naked,” he mutters, as if he’s no longer talking directly to me, “we are more vulnerable. Nothing else has worked.”

He pushes the scalpel deeper. I choke on my screams, and he goes harder than ever before.

Shadows coil from my core, no matter how much I try to keep them in. They wisp around like glittering, dark clouds. I look at the mirror beside us, and my eyes are black.

It’s taking over again.

He pulls the scalpel back and finally brings his bloodshot eyes to meet mine. “Pull them back or I’ll cut you again,” he warns, unaware of the shadows taking the form of ghostly fingers grappling closer to his neck.

My magic wants to hurt him, to see how he feels with a scalpel slicing his skin.

“Evie.” His voice is tender again, as if I’m no longer a witch he hates, but his daughter. My brows furrow, confusion flitting in my mind. “Do you want to hurt us?” he asks. “We’re the only family you have. You must try, or we’ll all pay the price.”

My stomach knots. I tug on the shadows, and they rebel against my desire to suppress them. The scalpel is moved to my thigh, the cool blade spreading goose bumps up my body. He lets out a disapproving sigh, then cuts deeper.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m used to the physical pain by now, but emotionally, it’s hell. The thought of ruining the only family I have tears me apart from the inside.

He slides the scalpel downward, slicing my skin into fresh wounds. I barely keep my magic from destroying him, although it craves to.

The scene distorts, and a masked man appears behind my dad. The room darkens, and he grabs my father by the throat. Shadow fingers reach into his mouth and down his throat until he’s begging for air.

His green stare pins me from where he stands, and I watch in horror as my dad suffocates, choking on shadows until his eyes bulge and blood runs from the sockets. Then I remember… that face… this room. I’m dreaming.

I look away, closing my eyes to the mirror at my side. The smell of blood tinges the air, the sound of my dad choking in my ears when the room finally falls silent.

A whisper of a breath runs along the top of my ear. I flinch, and a voice pierces into my mind. “So this is why you hide from your power, little witch?”

I jolt awake, sitting up in bed. Gomez flaps his wings and catches himself before he rolls to the floor. I suck in a deep breath and look at the mirror at the end of my bed.

Gomez nuzzles against my side, feeling my unease. I stroke his belly, and his feet and claws curl around my fingers, grounding me. “It was just a nightmare,” I tell him, but my skin crawls anyway. It was more than that; it was a memory. I was sixteen then and believed everything Edward told me.

Lorcan’s last words haunt me as I reach for my cigarettes. He’s stalking my fucking past now too. I shake my head, pissed that the memories I’d spent so long burying are resurfacing. It’s all the demon’s fault.

I stand and walk to the door. Gomez falls back to sleep, and I hurry to the balcony. The cold night air hits my face, drying tears I hadn’t noticed until now. I light the end of my cigarette, then breathe in that first delicious inhale and hold it in my lungs for a few seconds before exhaling a cloud of smoke. I take a second drag, then another, until I’m finished. I grab a second from the packet and light it.

It’s the only thing that helps. I haven’t taken a benzo since last night. I’m certain the demon stole them when he came into my room. I shudder against the cold, and bursts of irritation climb through me. The doctor can’t give me a refill until tomorrow, and I couldn’t find anyone willing to sell. Fucking typical.

My free hand clenches into a fist, and I smoke the cigarette in my other hand until it burns the tips of my fingers. First he stalks me in mirrors, then in my dreams, making me relive things I don’t want to.

If the evidence of his saliva against my pussy wasn’t enough when I woke up yesterday, then the fact that I haven’t been able to come since is proof enough that he was physically here.

I hate him.

His command is embedded in my damn mind. I think about going inside and smashing every mirror, but I know he’d only enjoy it.

I put the cigarette out and head inside. I slide the doors shut after stepping back into the living room, then head toward the kitchen.

I told the demon to get out, and he taunted me to make him, clearly getting off on the chase. I shouldn’t have teased him, writing his name against my skin. I always did like to tempt the darkness, but I was delusional to think the consequences wouldn’t be worse than I anticipated every time. Yet I liked the idea of him using me, because a demon won’t question or judge but instead fulfill my darkest fantasies.

I grab a bottle of wine and uncork the top. I pour a glass, watching the off-white liquid fill to the top, and take a long gulp. I close my eyes, hoping it will help numb the withdrawals running like shockwaves along my skin. The wine ripples as my fingers shake against the glass.

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