Page 25 of Unholy Night
“Can I touch your horns, Mr. Lucifer?” Mandy asks. The request gives me pause. No one has ever asked me this.
“Mandy, that’s impolite,” Lyla rebukes her daughter.
She is always on as a mother. That must be so exhausting. And to do it alone. I make a mental note to look into this ex of hers. Will he be one of my less honored guests someday? I daresay I hope so.
A taste of my own malicious delight taints the air and I smile. We shall see what kind of man could hurt these two pure souls and I will make sure he pays for his sins.
I feel their underlying pain, raw and ugly, a deep wound for both of them, though it’s already fading for Mandy. The young are quite resilient when given love and support.
Lyla, though, isn’t there yet. She’s still healing. The taste of that wound induces a violent rage within me that I force down. This isn’t the time.
“Sorry Mr. Lucifer,” Mandy says, a bit of sulk in her voice.
“‘No need for sorrow,” I say, brandishing my most winning smile. “Better to ask than assume.”
I would have let her, but I don’t want to contradict her mother in front of her. I would never undermine Lyla’s authority as a parent.
“And you,” I say to Mandy, “look like a proper elf-girl. Are you ready for a trip to the North Pole?” I ask.
Her face beams, all sulk gone as she nods her head. “Yes! I’m so excited I could scream!”
“You’re in Hell,” I tell her. “We encourage screaming here.”
Her eyes widen and I nod, giving her permission.
A glint of delight lights her eyes. She opens her mouth and screams as loud as she can. It’s an impressive sound for such a little thing.
I throw my head back in a full body laugh, then I join in, screaming into a roar of demonic glory.
Lyla looks at both of us like we are mad, and certainly we must appear so, but then she laughs softly and surprises us both by letting out her own furious primal scream. It starts soft but crescendos soon enough, channeling so much pent up pain and rage I feel almost drowned by it. The scents wafting from her are a mix of bitter pain and the sweetness of liberation.
But the release in the room is also palpable. We have each been holding onto something that only a good scream in Hell can properly exorcise.
Mandy flops to the ground, giving up first and collapsing into peels of slightly manic laughter.
Lyla lasts longer than I expect, and when her voice goes raw, she finally stops, breathless and red-cheeked, flush from the emotional outpouring.
“Wow. That was…” her voice is scratchy.
“Awesome!” Mandy finishes before looking at me. “That was awesome. You must scream in here all the time!”
I think about it a moment and shrug. “Not in a very long time, actually,” I say. The truth of that weighs heavy on me. I’ve become too numb to the pain and suffering around me. Too anesthetized to it all.
But tonight I can feel it again. The burn. The bittersweet pull between the dream and the nightmare. The raw urgency of my role in this domain. I may not always be pleased with my job, but this reminds me of how important it is for the world.
A knot forms in my stomach even as something in my soul loosens and breathes again.
I am simultaneously pulled under the weight of it and renewed by my own tie to humanity—a kind of tug of war I haven’t felt in far too long.
Needing something to do, I move to the corner of the room where I keep a full bar and I pour myself and Lyla each two fingers worth of scotch. For the little one I cheat a bit and use my own power to conjure a hot chocolate. She’ll need a little sugar to get through this night.
Mandy’s eyes widen when I call her over and hand it to her. Then I carry mine and Lyla’s drinks and join her on the loveseat. Our thighs touch as I sit and I know she’s as keenly aware of me as I am of her.
“A toast,” I say. “That our future be met with fortune and fortitude.”
She clinks glasses with me then takes a sip. “Oh this is good. Very good. Strong peaty flavor. Smokey and robust.”
“You know your scotch.”