A Hand in Hell

Chapter 7

I was on the stairs by the time I heard the tinkling of her bell as she trailed along behind me. "I don't know," she muttered, and the top step creaked beneath her weight. "What do you have to eat here? Do demons even eat people food?"

I chuckled darkly. People food — as if she was the cognizant being and I was the cattle. "Technically, no, we don't." I shot her a bright smile, showing all of my pearly whites, when I reached the bottom of the stairs. "We eat people as our food."

Her lip curled, and I turned from her as I crossed the soft white carpet of the living room. "So what do you have here, then?"

"A little bit of this, a little bit of that." I shrugged, my bare feet finding the cool tile of the kitchen floor now. "You'll just have to take a look in the cabinets." I clunked my tumbler down on the counter and unscrewed the cap of a bottle of Jose Cuervo to the rhythm of her fingernails drumming on the center island counter behind me.

"Just choose something," she said, and I glanced over my shoulder to find her looking around the room. "I just want to eat something, and the sooner I can, the better."

"Want an omelet?" I asked as I turned back to my glass and filled it nearly to the brim with tequila. "I've always had a bit of an affinity for eggs, so I know I have enough of those to make you a quick meal."

"I hate eggs," she said flatly, and as I turned to face her now, recapping the bottle of good ol' Jose, I found her perched on the edge of a barstool at the counter across from me.

"Good, good," I said with a wry smile. "Wouldn't want us to have anything in common, now, would we, dollface?" She rolled her eyes, and I plopped the bottle on the counter and immediately took up my glass. "I think I have some bread, butter, and cheese. Will grilled cheese work for you?" I leaned against the counter, tucking my left arm beneath my drinking arm as I paused to take a sip. "I'm not particularly fond of it, if that'll influence your decision at all."

She smiled, and the sardonic edge to it reminded me of myself. "That'll be perfect, thanks."

I put my tumbler down and opened an overheard cupboard, pulling out a barely touched loaf of bread and a plate, then crossed the room to pull a bowl of butter and a couple of slices of American cheese from the top shelf. All the while, I could feel her eyes on my back, nearly burning a hole into the back of my skull, and I finally cracked a smile as I put everything on the counter by the plate and opened a drawer to fish out a butter knife. "Have you ever considered that you might have a staring problem?" I asked teasingly, picking up my glass and taking another sip before I'd even put the knife down.

Without missing a beat, she retorted, "Have you ever considered that you might have a drinking problem?" I was a little taken aback by her boldness, but I didn't let it show on my face as I turned toward her, picking the knife up again from where I'd lain it across the plate.

"Oh, come, now, sweetie," I laughed, rounding the island counter to stand before her. She stared boldly up at me until I touched the dull edge of the butter knife to her cheek, her features tightening into what she was likely hoping she could pass off as anger but that we both knew was only fear. "I've got plenty of problems," I started in a low voice, a voice that bordered on seductive, as I drew the blade lightly across her skin, "and alcoholism is the least of them." I watched her throat shift as she swallowed, and a sick desire to watch her squirm sent a warm tingle through me, familiar and enticing.

Her body went rigid as I guided the knife down her jawline and along the side of her neck to the top of her collar, and I could almost hear it as her heart hammered in her chest, as her breath stopped, as adrenaline pulsed through her veins like the most potent drug. "I'd think you'd be a little more grateful, considering I let you out of the basement," — I maneuvered the knife over the collar and across her collarbone, my eyes on hers as the blade made its slow descent along her chest — "considering I let you shower, considering I'm even offering to make you a meal." I set my glass quietly on the counter and gripped the edge of the stool beside her thigh, the knife never leaving her skin as I turned the seat to force her to face me fully. My face was closer to hers now as I bent over her, and I could hear her trembling inhalation, feel her quavering exhalation, as the blade dipped between her breasts. "I even brought clothes for you from your apartment. Isn't that nice of me?" I murmured, guiding the knife over the top of her left breast, a twinge in my groin urging me toward darker motives.