Sancte Diaboli: Part Two (The Elite King's Club 7)

“Where am I?” I ask again, though I feel my patience waning. “Where is Hector?” That traitorous bastard.

“Ah.” She stands from my bed, and I almost shrivel in the spot from how tall and dominant she is. She exudes confidence and deviance. “So many questions.” She busies herself with a potted plant that’s sitting on the windowsill on the other side of the room. Her fingers touch the leaves of the ZZ. “You were brought here.”

“Last night?” My confusion is displayed all over my face, no doubt.

“No,” she whispers, and it’s as though wind sweeps through the bedroom and rolls straight down my spine. “Three days. You’ve been healing from the bullet that grazed you.”

My hand comes up to touch the Band-Aid. “Where is Lucan?”

She winces, finally releasing the leaf and turning to face me. “He is away, for now.”

“Brantley?” Saying his name out loud feels like a dagger being dragged up my throat.

“Hmmm.” Her head tilts to the side, causing her hair to lengthen. “Enough questions for now.” She gestures to the closet once more while walking back the way she came in. “I will meet you downstairs in eighteen minutes, Hecate.” And just like that, she was gone as quickly as she arrived. I take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves.

I woke up in here not ten minutes before that knock on my door.

So why do I feel like I invited her, not only into—what I’m guessing—is my bedroom, but my mind, too.

I take a hot shower. The water pelts down over my body relentlessly, but I can’t seem to find the usual solace that I would from the warmth around me. I liked showers. I liked them a lot. They gave me comfort, release, companionship. I’d sing, talk, cry to myself during them, and once I’d get out, I’d feel a sense of relief. As though all of my troubles simply washed down the drain along with my soiled water.

I sit on the floor, squeezing my eyes closed as water runs over my head and my face.

Nothing.

I need something. A single tear? An ache in my chest? The will to sing?

Nothing.

I turn the faucet off and wrap the soft towel around my body before finding my way to the closet. No light switches. As soon as I enter, the light comes on. It softens after a few seconds, as though it senses it is too bright. It isn’t the lighting that is too much, it is this closet. Rows of clothes hang, with shoes lining the walls and handbags, sunglasses, and hats upon caps.

I gulp.

Fashion. I like it. It has always been a familiar addiction that I feed on regularly. Why does this closet in particular feel so empty? It isn’t any bigger than the one I have at home. Maybe it is the unfamiliarity. Yes. Yes, that’s it. It is unfamiliar.

I clutch the hem of my towel while reaching for something simplistic. Boyfriend jeans with gashes on the knees and thighs and a crop top that hangs comfortably off me. Now with fresh eyes, I take in the bedroom. The sheets have already been changed—probably while I was in the shower—and the music has changed now. I recognize Beethoven and Jeno Jando’s “Moonlight.” I played it when I was a young teen. It’s Brantley’s favorite.

The four-post bed is on the left side of the room, diagonally to the door, and perfect for the aesthetic of the bedroom. There’s a fireplace at the foot, large windows that hide behind lavish lace curtains, a simplistic office desk, the ZZ plant—convenient since it’s literally the one plant you can’t kill—and a small bar fridge.

Modest, yet candidly elaborate. Everything feels strategically placed for style. What is this place?

I know that once I leave this room and go downstairs, everything is going to start changing. In the back of my mind, I know that.

But I open the door anyway, with that infamous gaping hole in my chest throbbing. The hole that I’m not interested in refilling anytime soon. I guess I don’t know much about who I am. I still don’t know if I died, or if my body is stuck in a hospital and I’m playing in the third realm of life. I feel like a ping-pong ball, being whacked back and forth between the human realm and this—this place of uncertainty. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m dead and I don’t know it yet.

You’re not going to like this journey. Not one bit. I’m going to bend you, twist you, and break you until you’re begging for an exit.

But that’s the way it has to be.

Fog swam around my legs so thick I couldn’t see my feet. It had begun to rise higher and higher, starting at my ankles to now above my knees. There was an archway made from twisted ivy that clawed its way over metal. Dead flowers wilted over crusted leaves, though I was sure they once looked beautiful.