Devil's Plaything

Capabilities

"I was," she said. She waited for him to continue, but he seemed too taken aback by her honesty. "Are you going to use that?" She asked him, indicating the knife still in his hand. His grip was shaky now. He was trembling.

"I am," he told her.

She had never been stabbed before. She wondered how much it would hurt.

She met his eyes. "Okay." Her voice was soft. He blinked, startled. "It's okay," she told him.

"I was three months away, Alena. Three months, and I would have finished seminary. I would have been ordained."

Annoyance flickered within her again. She had always disliked the direction he'd chosen for himself: his pursuit to become a priest. That desire of his had manifested in high school, after they'd been placed together in their fourth shared foster home. Their foster mom, Mrs. Frazil, distracted herself from an unhappy life by spending her evening hours indoctrinating Aiden into Catholicism. Mr. Frazil, on the other hand, distracted from his unhappy life by pretending he'd forgotten about the broken bathroom lock when Alena bathed.

"There will be plenty of other cults for you to join, Aiden." There was no softness in her voice now.

"What, in Hell?" There was nothing soft about his voice, either.

Alena was tempted to smile, but she suppressed it. "You're not going to Hell, Aiden." He watched her expectantly, but she waited to continue until his anger was finally tinted by begrudging curiosity. "You're going to be like me."

He shook his head, his brow creasing. "I don't want to be like you."

She lost the urge to smile then. "You will," she returned. And it was true. It was inevitable.

He had sold his soul to a demon, so he had lost his right to whichever afterlife he may have otherwise earned. Now, instead, his afterlife would involve collecting the souls of others until he met a quotient that he could cash in for a new life, a chance to earn the eventual fate that a fellow demon had stolen from him.

And that fellow demon was Alena, who had been grappling with the reasons why she had taken his soul every moment since she had done it the day before.

It had been a compulsion. Perhaps it had been rooted in jealousy. Life had been difficult for them both, but always infinitely more so for Alena.

Or, perhaps it had been rooted in affection. She did love him, after all. He had been a constant companion to her. And he was the only person she felt might one day be able to understand her. Maybe becoming a demon like she was would be all that was needed to facilitate that understanding.

But quickly, the idea of risking death—however temporary—by the hands of the person she had loved and betrayed was losing its reflective appeal. It seemed too dark. And, even worse, it seemed too cliché.

Alena had always felt that the worst thing to be was a cliché.

"You're not here only because you're angry, are you?" She asked him.

Aiden raised his knife so quickly that the motion was a blur.

But Alena didn't blink. If he had truly lost his grip on control, he would have killed her before giving her a chance to react.

He held the blade inches from her neck. She could feel the warmth emitting from his hand, hear his teeth grind together. He was closer to her now, close enough that she could smell his aftershave.

So, Aiden had taken the time to shave before storming her house.

Clearly, this emotional display was more planned than impulsive. Because he must have thought about how this confrontation would unfold while he groomed himself in preparation for it. He had to have rehearsed what he would say, how he expected she would respond.

"No," she answered for him, her voice low. "You came here because you can't stay away from me—"

"Fuck you."

Alena laughed. "You'd like to, wouldn't you?"

Aiden touched the blade to her neck. It wasn't its sharpness that startled her, it was its coldness.

"I won't be seduced by you." His breathing was heavy. "You have no power over me."

"If that were true," Alena raised her hand slowly. "You wouldn't have given me your soul." She touched his hand that gripped the knife. His breathing hitched upon her touch. "And you wouldn't have taken the time to put on that aftershave."

His hand shook unsteadily, the blade grazing her skin.

His gaze was unfocused. He hadn't registered that he had nearly cut her.

"I hate you," he whispered, his voice soft.

"Oh?" She moved her hand down to his wrist, gently encircling it with her fingers. His lips parted. "Prove it," she challenged.

A lifetime of tension weighed in the air around them. Each inhale was a memory—each exhale, a desire.

The moment his gaze focused on her mouth, she knew she had won. She closed her eyes, savoring that victory, that relief.

A sound of desperation came from deep within him, and she felt it down to her core. Then, she felt his lips on her. Soft, at first. Tender.

His grip on the knife slackened. He released the weapon into her hand to reach desperately for her waist. He grasped at her, drawing her closer, kissing her more deeply.

He felt like something she had never experienced before.

He felt like home.

But Aiden's needful moan turned into a cry of anguish that made Alena's blood turn cold.

Her eyes opened, and she moved away from Aiden. His own hunting knife was protruding from his chest. His face was deathly pale, his eyes wide with shock.

Alena raised her trembling hands which were now covered in his blood.

Together, they registered what she had done.

I didn't mean to, she wanted to say aloud, but she couldn't.

She couldn't.

And before she could try again, reality was shifting once more.

This time, her surroundings warped and swirled around her. A distorted, disembodied scream filtered in through her senses, twisting her emotions and instincts.

Nothing was clear. Nothing was certain.

Then, once she truly realized that nothingness, she was Mira again.

When she turned, Aiden's prison cell was behind her.

It was the present again, and Mira was present again. But Alena was there, too—a shadow in her mind that had always lurked, that Mira had always ignored.

Aiden stood in that same position he had been standing before trapping Mira in Alena's head. Before showing her what Alena had done to him.

He was panting now. They both were.

"I didn't mean to," she whispered, surprising them both.

"That doesn't really matter now, does it?" He asked. His voice was soft. And, more alarmingly, she recognized for the first time that it was deeply familiar to her.

She wanted to respond, but she couldn't.

Because he was right.

It didn't matter now.

I can't wait to hear what you think about this chapter. It was a long time in the making, and I truly hope you enjoyed finding more pieces to this puzzle.

Please let me know what you think, and what predictions you might have.

And, as always, the warmest thank you for reading and supporting this story <3