To Hell and Back, page 21
“Stay away from me, Samael!” she glares dangerously at him.
“Why? What is it about him that you can’t find in me?”
This only annoys her, and she grabs his neck to prove the seriousness of her words. “It’s always been him,” she says. And then she disappears.
I see a mixture of sadness and hate filling Sam’s eyes before I disappear as well.
She’s outside the hotel room now—teleportation explains how no one freaked out over seeing so much blood on my old clothes. She knocks three times before Michael opens the door.
Shirtless and wearing only boxers, he looks amazing even in my memory. He was waiting for me, even though I came later than promised. He glances at the bloody clothes but isn’t shocked—just worried.
He takes a step away to let her in. “I did something terrible today,” she says after he closes the door.
“I can see that.” He sounds so calm. “Drink or shower first?” he asks, as if it’s not the first time he’s seen someone covered in blood! Well, he is REALLY old—ancient, perhaps—so I assume that no, it’s not the first time.
The worst problem with these memories is that I don’t get them back. Instead, I just press play and watch from the sidelines. This is annoying, as half of my actions aren’t explained. They would be if I could remember what I felt at the moment it all happened, but instead it’s like I’m watching a reality show. It’s only getting me frustrated.
“I know everything.”
“I wish it was true.” Michael reaches to touch her bloody cheek. “You can’t imagine how much I’ve wanted to tell you.”
She gets even closer to him, and it seems Michael doesn’t mind that blood and piece of someone else’s body are now on his bare skin as well. “My father is Lucifer.” She sounds as if she’s in disbelief of everything she learned and did earlier, as if all of it was a dream. It would’ve been a relief if it were a dream, but it’s not.
He nods and embraces her. “You should definitely take a shower first,” he chuckles. My past self smiles a little.
She steps back, and I see tears flowing down her cheeks—even I start crying from watching this. “Please, don’t leave me.” He nods.
“If you want, I can help.” He points at the bathroom.
He doesn’t hint at anything sexual; he’s just concerned and wants to help. My past self understands that, too. Michael isn’t Sam—he would never use bad circumstances in his favor.
She smiles but shakes her head as she walk to the bathroom.
Before closing the door behind herself and me—I sneak in right as she opens it; I know I need to follow my past, no matter where—she says, “I hope you don’t snore.” Michael smirks, and she closes the door. That’s where it’s coming from!
I’ve already forgotten how big the bathroom is: at least twenty people could fit. She walks to the mirror and looks at her reflection. I’m behind her.
I don’t remember what I felt this moment, but I can see it was mostly fear of what’s coming next. Not the fact that five people (or whoever they were) were killed (by me), but the feeling that it’s only the beginning. “I wish I could forget what’s happened today,” she whispers.
I know that I would’ve wanted it then, just to forget all the bad and live with the best memories, but it’s not life. Life consists of good and bad. We can’t get rid of our burden; we must carry it until the end of our days.
Abruptly, the light stops working. The room is enveloped in darkness.
She tries to find the exit—a big minus for huge bathrooms—but is unsuccessful. She screams for Michael, and I hear him try to open the door from the other side. Someone has locked it so that even an angel can’t get in or out.
Michael calls her name, and she moves toward his voice until she find the door. She tries to open it from the inside, but nothing: it’s not even locked. “You summoned us.” The voice is unfamiliar to me, which is very unusual, as if someone’s echo is speaking to my past self. “Your wish has been granted,” the same voice says. The lights flash back on, and she falls unconscious to the floor.
Michael runs in and falls on the floor beside her. “Lucy?” He checks her pulse. The second he realizes she is alive but unconscious, he exhales in relief.
His face is puzzled, as if he has no idea what just happened—neither do I. He looks around before grabbing her unconscious body and raising it to a seated position.
I hear him cursing multiple times, calling her stubborn for not accepting his help, and mostly blaming himself for what’s happened.
I have no idea how, but it seems that I have erased my own memory by asking some monster…permission? For some reason, it feels like the voice agreed rather than obeyed. That only raises more questions.
Michael carefully removes her bloody clothes and tosses them on the floor. To my relief, he leaves her underwear on. I certainly don’t want him to see her, or me, naked is such a terrible situation. And I love him even more for accepting my boundaries.
With a wet towel, he cleans the blood from her body. He’s so focused on what has happened that he doesn’t linger on any part of her. It would’ve been very hard for me to resist if I was in his place.
When he finishes, he gently positions her face up against the side of the jacuzzi and tenderly washes her hair. Then, he dries her and carries her to his bed. Covering her with a blanket, he places a quick kiss on her lips and whispers, “Sleep well.”
Michael dresses in jeans and shirt and then disappears. I’m puzzled for a second before I realize this is when he went in search of the bodies. Why would he leave when I clearly asked him to stay!? Well, at least he left the lights on.
I blink and go even further into the past.
Still unable to process what I just saw, I face another memory. I thought I was only missing two of them, but apparently, I’m wrong. As always.
I’m in an operating room in the hospital where my parents work. The room has only four people: my mom, who lies unconscious on the surgical table; the person I’ve always thought to be my father; a man of about seventy, unknown to me, who is working to get me out—I mean, it should be me…who else would it be? But the fact that the room contains only four people (including the patient and the emerging baby) makes me very worried.
Oh, my gosh! The baby the old guy pulls out is a beat from another universe, with small black wings and eyes nearly as red as blood. Right, this beast is me. I had already forgot about that. “What’s now?” asks the person who used to read me fairy tales when I was small.
“She is too young to control her own powers.” I don’t know what this old man does, but the baby changes to a normal human being: no wings and amber eyes (rare but normal). “I placed a shield on her mind to hide her powers from her own mind. She is extraordinary strong, and I don’t know how long the shield will hold, but I guarantee you that he won’t come after her until it begins to fade away.”
One sweep of the man’s hand and my mom whole again: no unusual cut that reminded me of something Jack the Ripper would do. “I need you to guard her. Report to me if you see or feel any changes in Lucinda.”
William (my adopted dad) tests my name, repeating it over and over. I take my words back; I would prefer to have a sibling now.
Like a soldier on duty who has no choice but to follow orders, he promises, “You have my word, Father.”
The old guy turns to face…me!? I mean, not my past-self, but me, the one looking on my memory as on a horror movie on TV. But how would that be possible? “You are your own worst enemy,” he says before the image disappears.
I remember now.
I remember everything.
Chapter 24
“Lucy?” I hear Michael’s worried voice as I come back to reality.
I know that I’m in the present now: I can feel the pain in my abdomen, which I shouldn’t have if all these bullshit powers would work when I need them! I have a terrible headache and nausea, as if I’ve just stepped off a roller coaster.
He’s afraid to touch me, but I can see how eager he is to embrace me, to soothe my pain, so I lean toward him. “I remember everything.” His arms encircle me as I weep into his chest.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy.” He keeps holding me, and I don’t mind. In fact, that’s what I need: to be in the embrace of a person who loves me. Who really does, not like Sam.
I don’t know how long we sit like this in each other’s embrace. Just breathing each other’s scents, relaxing in each other’s heat. I love him so much.
“No, don’t go,” I plead as he take his hands from my back.
“I’ll be back, my love.”
I can’t hide my smile. It’s not that a seventeen-year-old teenager knows anything about love, yet I think I do because Michael has shown me how to love and how to be loved.
He is back with dark liquid in a mug. “It’ll help to restore your energy.”
I take a tentative sip and grimace as I swallow. “That’s the bad soul?” He nods. I take another sip and give the rest to him.
He places the mug on the floor. “Are you okay?” he asks, wiping my tears.
“Yes,” I lie.
I look at him for a little while before I decide to ask, “What do your wings look like?” Surely, they are beautiful and are not terrifying like mine—which I don’t even know how to use.
“I don’t have them.”
“How is that?”
“Only high-ranking angels have wings, and I’m no longer one of them.” I see that speaking about it is painful for him, so I don’t press on this topic—not when it’s so shitty already.
He kisses my forehead and walks back to the kitchenette.
“Do angels age?”
“No.” He finishes the black liquid he gave me and then goes to the refrigerator for something to eat.
But if angels don’t age, who was the old guy? And why did my dad not seem as young as Michael or Sam? Or Lucifer, for that matter?
And then I understand it—part of it. “I saw your father.” His face is unreadable. “He used something to hide my powers.” I’m not even sure if I understand what I’m talking about.
“He has plans for everyone,” he says matter-of-factly.
He puts something in the microwave and reaches for a plate. “I’m not hungry.” I doubt I will be anytime soon.
“I know. But when your parents ask if you ate, you won’t have to lie.” When did he become so honest? I raise at him my eyebrows. “Come, I owe you some good feeding,” he says with a grin.
Oh, boy. How have events changed so rapidly? My body tenses in anticipation as I walk to the kitchenette. He places reheated fries and marinara dipping sauce on the breakfast table.
“Are you coming, or will you stay there?”
“I’m good here.” I lean on the wall as I focus on his lips and the memory of how good they feel on my skin.
He shrugs. “I guess it’s gonna go to waste.” Without using a fork, he picks up a single fry and dips it into the sauce. He brings it to his mouth and sucks the sauce from his fingers.
How dare he do this to me? It’s not strawberries and whipped cream, but pretty much anything can become a new thing.
Defeated, I walk toward him. With a slight pinch in my abdomen, I manage to sit on his lap. “So, you’re hungry after all?” His cocky expression is focused on me as he takes fries with his fingers, dips them in the sauces, and places them in my open mouth.
I stop chewing the disgusting reheated fries—I hate reheated food, but for the sake of this moment, I intend to tolerate it—grab his palm, and lick his fingers one by one like lollipops.
Slight groan rumbles in his throat. “My turn.” His eyes blink open as I take fries myself.
I cast him an apologetic look as I drop some sauce on his shirt, but he couldn’t care less as he licks and sucks my fingers—slower than I did. I would never imagine that having suck my dirty fingers could feel so good.
He starts kissing my knuckles as a drop of marinara sauce on the corner of his lips catches my attention. “Should I get you a napkin?” I use my thumb to trace his lower lip, barely touching where the sauce is.
“No.” I can’t help smiling, as his response is something I’ve waited for, and he knows me too well to misunderstand my request.
Slowly, so as not to cause pain to my abdomen, I lean toward the corner of his lips. My tongue gently sweeps away the sauce as his body tenses as much as mine. It tastes way better when it’s on his skin. And then I get and insane idea—one of many in recent days.
I leaned back and use my index finger to scoop some sauce—no fries. His eyes burn with desire as I use the same finger to intentionally dribble some sauce on his neck. “I’m supposed to be the one doing that,” he grumbles at me.
“Maybe another time, big boy,” I tease, leaning toward his neck.
He shivers as with one swoop of my tongue I travel from his shoulder to his cheekbone. “So sensitive.”
“One day, Lucy, you will beg me to stop.”
“Can’t wait.” My lips easily find his.
I bite his lower lip as his hands slide to my lower back. He groans as the kiss deepens and my tongue presses past his teeth, exploring until it touches his own. “I love you, Lucy.” He stops the kiss and looks into my eyes as he waits for a response.
“I love you, too, Michael.” My words light up his eyes and bring the best smile I’ve seen to his face: the smile of happiness.
“I want you for myself tomorrow.”
“Don’t you have classes?”
“They’re irrelevant to me if you’re not there.” Right, I’m at home due to my trauma. I would never say that, but I hate missing school. Missing it with Michael, however, would be better than anything I could wish for.
“Okay. I’ll make a list of games we can play.”
“Is that a challenge, my love?” His eyes fill with amusement.
“Afraid to lose?” I bite my lip, knowing I’ll likely be the one to lose the game.
“Already running for the hills,” he says sarcastically. I can’t stop grinning.
How can he brighten every forked-up event in my life? It’s just beyond any logical explanation. Logic stopped working a long time ago in my life, though.
“Can you teleport me home? I need to speak to my parents.”
“Teleport?” he laughs as if I’ve said something bizarre.
“Fine. What do you call it, then?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never actually thought to give it a name.” I roll my eyes at him. “But no, I can’t. My powers need to restore. I’ll drive you.” I nod.
I go to the drawer and find a very classy white long-sleeved shirt with buttons. “You need to change. Take your shirt off,” I instruct while holding the white shirt in my hands, though no intending to give it to him.
He eyes me but does what I tell him, placing the stained shirt on a chair and walking slowly toward me.
“I’ll help you.” I tug the shirt closer to me as he reaches to take it.
As I close each button on his shirt, he gazes at me lovingly, asking for more as my fingers slowly brush his skin in the process.
“Do you like him?”
I look at him, puzzled.
He gently touches the small burns on my neck. “Lucifer.” Why does he need to ruin everything like that!?
I’m quiet, not even sure how to respond. My feelings toward Lucifer are seeded inside my head. My consciousness tells me that he is my father and the most terrible person in the history of the universe! Yet, my body betrays me when I think of how I would like to feel those kisses on more than just my neck. Crap!
“You like him,” he says.
“The feelings that I feel for Lucifer are not the ones I have for you. I love you, Michael, and only you.” I reach to cup his cheek, but he steps away from me. “Please, don’t let him come between us.”
He should care more about Samael and how close he came to raping me. But no, Michael is confident that Lucifer—whom I’ve met only once (in the dream, or whatever it was)—is what he should focus on.
He loses himself in his thoughts for a while before coming toward me. “I’m sorry, my love.” He kisses my hair and stays there, holding me.
He releases me and grabs his car keys from the table. “Let me drive you home.” I nod and follow him outside, my hand in his.
He thinks that my home is with my adoptive parents, but the truth is that it’s never been my home and has never felt like one. Hell is where I belong, and it’s the painful truth I need to accept if I want to survive and defeat my father. But I still can’t get used to the idea of Hell and Heaven as the same place.
I can’t stop wondering about Lucifer. Surely he hasn’t been like this all his life. He was kind, innocent…ugh! He can mess with my mind even when he’s not here. Okay, let’s just not to think about Lucifer…no, just not think at all.
We don’t speak in the car. He’s still in his own thoughts, and I’m unable to take my eyes from the man I want—the man I love.
“What are you thinking about?” I can’t bear the silence and the reason it’s my fault.
“How sexy you look in these sweatpants.” I roll my eyes at him. But at least he smiles while keeping his eyes on the road.
“But no, really, what are you thinking?” Even if I could somehow control my freaking ability to literally make people do what I want, I would never use it on Michael. If he doesn’t want to tell me, then I’ll accept it. Love is built on trust.
“Always about you, my love, always about you.” He doesn’t need to elaborate because I already know he’s thinking about me and Lucifer.
