Sancte Diaboli

Brantley

Fourteen years old

Dea was what I called her when she walked into our house for the first time. She was a child. Toddler. But different. Her voice had a tone that I had never heard. I sometimes wondered if it was because of her first years being spent in some fucked orphanage.

“Brantley? Are you home?” There was a knock on my door, but my mouth slammed closed, my fingers flexing in my palm. I didn’t hate her, but I should.

Fuck, I should hate her. She’s a Swan.

The door opened, spilling the hallway light into my room.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to. My body was aching, blood spilling from my nose, leaving the toxic taste of metal sticking to the back of my throat.

What the fuck did she want?

If I don’t answer, she’ll obviously go away.

But she didn’t. She took the few steps into my bedroom and kicked the door closed behind herself, cutting off what light was coming through.

I held my breath. Did she know I was in here? Probably not. What the fuck is she doing.

The mattress sank beside me. “Can I sleep in here?”

Okay, so I was wrong.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Every time I moved my mouth, pain shot through my gums. Motherfucker almost knocked my fucking teeth out, now I’ll send his in a cute little package for his mother to wear around her neck. Here’s your pearl necklace, bitch. Signed, TEKC. Everything stung. Pain. And still, that was nothing compared to what I had lived through tonight, but the pain reminded me that I survived.

She obviously laid down beside me because I could feel her body weight sink into the mattress, her hair splaying out over my arm.

“Why does it smell in here?” she asked softly, and I held my breath again.

I wanted to say, why the fuck are you in my bed? No one comes in my room, let alone on my goddamn bed, but I didn’t. I remained silent because I was afraid if I said anything, she’d see straight through the words I used and snatch the ones I was trying to hide.

I flexed my fingers, but electricity shot up my arm, spreading out through my veins. It was worth it.

The thing about Saint is, she talks. A fucking lot. You would expect her to be quiet, because she looks demure and carries herself with a rare kind of grace that is usually only captured by something fucking celestial like a seraph. She’s not. She’s bold enough to be inquisitive about every-fucking-thing in this world, and I think I’m partly to blame for that. I have always hovered over her like a monster, ready to tear anyone apart that comes near.

“Brantley?” she whispered. Her voice had a direct fucking line to every switch inside my body.

I hated it.

“Are you bleeding again?”