I wake up to screams.
I don't realize I've fallen back asleep until I startle upward, my ears ringing with the cries of pain. It's so stark to the dreamy, warm embrace I'd dozed off in that my first thought is that I'm stuck in a nightmare.
The voice is deep and bellowing—definitely a male. I rub the chill off my skin as I pull the blankets from my body, hesitantly padding into the center of the room.
"Sin?" I call out, gooseflesh raising on my arms at the eerie silence that fills the room between howls.
The quiet doesn't last for long. It sounds again, muffled by the door but somehow as sharp and loud as if the man were just a few feet away.
I creep over to Sin's dresser, opening the drawer that usually holds his shirts and staring at the array of fabrics in astonishment. His shirts are pushed off to the side, the majority of the space filled with women's T-shirts and sweaters. I rip open the drawer underneath, picking through the new pairs of jeans folded next to Sin's collection of black pants.
I poke through the linen until I find a dark pair of jeans and a gray hoodie. Both are a little big but otherwise fit well enough that I can't complain. It's better than wearing oversized T-shirts and borrowed boxer briefs, not to mention they're comfortable as hell.
I walk over to the door that leads to the stairway downstairs, hesitantly testing the doorknob and frowning when it refuses to turn. I grip it tighter, jerking it as if it'll make it somehow unlock. The noise falls silent for a few beats and makes me question if it'll pick up again.
A chill runs down my spine. Are they dead?
There's only one way to find out and there's no way I'm going to sit here idly until someone comes up to tell me what's going on.
I take a few steps back. This is a terrible idea and I know Sinclair is going to have my head, but I proceed to charge forward and aim my foot at the locked wood nonetheless.
My foot twinges at the force I put behind it but the pain is immediately forgotten as the door swings open. The frame is pretty splintered but not beyond repair. It gives me hope that Sin won't be angry with me...at least, not as much.
Quiet chatter comes from downstairs. I frown, tilting my head to catch their words. To my annoyance, nothing is comprehendible, mostly due to the fact that the baritone voices overlap each other.
I slowly tiptoe downstairs, wary to even breathe until I make it down to the last step and step out of the doorway. Several sets of eyes turn upon me, the hushed conversations drawing to a close as they stare at me in grim surprise.
I vaguely recognize some of the men from the night they brought Sinclair back when he was barely hanging onto life. Others are new, the only identifiable person I nearly miss out of being overwhelmed by so many unfamiliar faces.
Sinclair steps forward and my chest lightens with relief. I start to smile unsurely until I notice the crimson on his fingers, a blade gripped in his hand.
Another flash of red catches my attention behind him. I almost don't recognize the salt and pepper hair, the square face and cruel-set mouth. Capponi's head lays limply against his shoulder, his body unnaturally still in the chair he slumps in. Both of his wrists and ankles are tied with rope to the bloodied wood, nearly a dozen knives sticking jaggedly from his flesh. Where steel doesn't meet skin are wounds so raw and deep and festering it makes bile rise in my throat.
Sinclair curses then turns his eyes upon the stoic forms around him. "Out," he orders, turning his gaze back upon me as his men file out of the door obediently.
I don't know what else to do but stand there and balk in horror. "What are you doing?"
He turns the knife between his fingers, eyes cold. It's hard to imagine the warmth that sparked within them merely hours ago. This is the Sinclair I met what feels like ages ago; the Sinclair that makes people quiver at the mention of his name.
I stride forward, chin raised. He's a scary motherfucker but damn if I'll ever let him know it.
"Punishing him." His face is strangely intense as he stares at the doorway I emerged from. "How did you get out?"
My throat bobs. I almost don't respond before reminding myself of the promise that I'd never submit to him. "I kicked down the door."
His jaw clenches, fingers tightening around the blade at his side. He sees the way I fixate the movement and forces himself to relax, setting the knife with the rest of the assortment on the table beside him. "Relax," he says, face softening as he reaches up to brush a strand of hair behind my ear. "I'm not going to hurt you."
My eyebrows draw together as I search his harsh features. His eyes are dark with bloodlust, a smear of crimson cutting through his brow. The ghost of that blank and uncaring look hovers under the gentleness on his face—the same expression I know he'd been sporting until I stepped through the door.
"How can I know that's true?" I gawk pointedly at Capponi's impaled body. "How can you say that to me when I'm looking at all of this?"
Sin sighs, looking uncharacteristically tired as he reaches to push me out the door. He glares at me as I step out of his reach. "Go upstairs, Calli."
"No," I snap, startling as Capponi weakly raises his head and leers at me. "He's not even dead yet?"
"Calliope," Sin warns, stepping in front of his butchered body. "Upstairs. Now."
I scoff. "Not before you put an end to this."
"How noble," Capponi mumbles, hands clenching restlessly over the arms of the chair. Besides his face and neck, they seem to be the only part of him left untouched. "Your whore begs for you to grant me mercy."
Sinclair's face slackens into a chilling calmness as he steps forward and wraps a large hand around his neck, watching contently as Capponi's face takes a purple tint. "The next knife will be going down your throat."
"Jesus." I tug at Sin's arm, forcing him to drop his impossibly strong grasp. "Stop it. You're acting like a monster."
Sin's face darkens as he drops his grip to glare at me. "Don't speak to me as if you don't have blood on your own hands," he says, hand already reaching for another blade.
I stop the movement with my own. "Never have I killed for my own enjoyment, Sinclair."
A dry laugh rumbles from his throat as he pulls his wrist away. "Do you know what this man has done in his time? How many people he's killed? Women he's raped? Children he's punished when their parents fall short?" His eyes narrow at the faintly hungry expression etched upon Capponi's face as he looks at me. "Do you have any idea what he would have done to you?"
"Do you want to torture him because of all the terrible things he's done or because he's made you angry?"
He scowls at me.
"Right," I snort, reaching for a long blade. Capponi watches me as I approach him, his face etched with pain. He's a piece of shit and he's received his punishment—he's ready for it to end, I can see that much in his weary gaze.
I raise the knife to his throat. He doesn't struggle. "How do you kill an incubus?" I ask him.
"I'm not like him," he nods his head at Sinclair, causing a small bead of blood to trickle down his throat as my blade grazes his skin. "I'm not an upper-level descendant. I don't heal as he does."
Out of curiosity, I ask, "How do you kill an upper-level demon?" I've gathered that they can die as long as they don't feed off of sexual energy—but what if they're as strong and dangerous as Sinclair is now?
He smiles. A few of his teeth are missing and the rest are stained pink with his blood. "It's all in the heart, darling." He pauses, waiting until my hand is already in motion before glancing at the concealed skin of my arm and muttering, "Say hello to your leader for me, will you? She always was particularly effective when it came to business."
The blade rips through the soft skin of his neck like butter. I turn before I can see the red gurgle from his mouth and leak from his throat, his words echoing in my head.
I resist the urge to rub the inked scrawled into my arm. It's been a long time since I've let myself think of the angel bloods. The knowledge of their betrayal doesn't cut deep anymore, instead leaving a permanently bitter taste on my tongue.
I've no doubt they're not what they claim to be and the knowledge that they might have worked with Capponi is hardly shocking. I sigh, pushing the thought from my brain. As sick as it makes me feel, I left that life behind the moment Sinclair bound my soul to his.
Sin eyes the knife that dangles at my side as if he expects me to turn it upon him. Instead, I step forward and press the handle into his blood-slicked fingers. "I haven't forgotten who you are and I hope the same goes for you. Don't expect me to praise you for your cruelty, Sinclair."
a/n:
Calli isn't having a baby. This may or may not be appreciated depending on your preferences lol but pregnancy trope isn't really my thing