Sancte Diaboli

“What the fuck are you wearing, Dea?”

Oh, that’s what the snarl was for.

“Why are you bleeding?” I ask, finally bringing my eyes up to his. Everyone who is around us silences. “Take your shirt off.” I grip at the bottom of the hem, but he doesn’t budge.

“Tillie, I will kill you.”

I tear off his shirt and toss it onto the ground. My hand flies to my mouth, and it just so happens to be the one that was covering his chest, so the slap of blood on the tip of my tongue hits hard. “Brantley!” I’m about to tell Tillie to help me find a first aid kit when someone stops me in my place.

Hector is standing behind me, his hands in his pockets. There’s a woman beside him dressed in a tight red dress with soft brown hair.

My mouth closes. It’s too much.

I turn back to face Brantley. “Get inside so I can clean it up.”

Lena stands from her chair. “I’ll go grab my bag.” She brushes past Brantley and punches him in the abs. “Fucker. Could have told me that she was with you.”

I grab his hand and drag him inside, into the kitchen. My mind is moving at speeds I can’t keep up with. Hector is here. My father. I have questions, so many questions, but not enough energy to ask them.

“Saint…” Brantley says, leaning against the counter casually. “It’s just a bullet wound. It didn’t hit anything important. Chill. It’ll heal.”

“What?” I screech so loud that I’m almost certain the windows shook. “What do you mean a bullet wound!” I yell at him, taking the final steps I needed to come face-to-face. I slap him against the chest—the good side—“How could you get shot!”

He ignores my question, but keeps his eyes locked on mine. Silence spills between us as I fight to keep my eyes upward and not get distracted by his body.

“Sit down, bro,” Lena interrupts our stare down, dropping a large leather suitcase onto the table and unzipping it. “You can continue your fight after I fix you up.”

Brantley shuffles over to one of the kitchen chairs, spreading his knees wide and kicking out one foot. His eyes stay on mine and I have to remind myself to breathe. He’s intimating. His stare burns fire inside my belly. I will not get distracted. I am upset with him for multiple reasons, but the fact he got shot trumps them all. I suddenly forget that we had sex last night and everything was awkward between us.

“Are you a doctor?” I ask Lena, finally dragging my attention away from Brantley and making my way to the chair beside him.

Lena pulls out a small bottle filled with liquid, a metal bowl, a coil of string, and a case of various sizes of needles. She never takes her eyes off her task. “Med student, but a good one. Surprised?”

“No,” I answer honestly. “Why would I be surprised?”

Lena finally pauses for a second and looks directly at me. Her tattoos are everywhere. A couple of smaller ones around her face. “The tattoos, and the fact I don’t look like someone who would be saving lives.”

“I wouldn’t know what a doctor is supposed to look like.”

Brantley clears his throat, tapping my leg with his. “Can you grab me a bottle of scotch?”

I glare at him, my mouth snapping closed. “No.” I push off the chair and get to my feet when fingers co

“What’s your fucking problem?” His breath brushes the side of my neck, tantalizing me. It shouldn’t. But memories of last night flash behind my eyes and I can’t stop them even if I tried. “Hmmm? Oh, come on. Been waiting for you to go silent for years, don’t stop talking now.”

I turn to him, finally. We’re so close that my eyes need to cross inward just to maintain contact. I fail and they fall to his mouth. “You could have died.”

“That’s why you’re mad?” he whispers, leaning forward and pulling the flesh of my neck between his teeth.

I push him away from me, but he sinks his teeth into my skin and sucks it into his mouth. “Fine, I’ll get your scotch.”

He releases me, and when I stand, his hand lands on my ass with a slap. “Good girl.”

I ignore him, making my way toward the cabinet in the kitchen and reaching for a bottle that has the word Scotch across it, bringing it down onto the table. Lena is already diving into the wound with a pair of pliers. Brantley’s resting his head back against his chair. His eyes are closed, but other than that, he doesn’t look to be in pain. He looks asleep, peaceful even, completely oblivious to the fact someone is stabbing a fresh wound with a set of pliers.

“Did you give him an anesthetic?” I ask, twisting off the lid to the bottle of scotch. “He looks asleep.”

Lena snorts, finally pulling out a silver bullet. “No. I didn’t. That’s what that is for.” She points to the bottle in my hand and I jolt forward.

I bring the bottle to my lips and take a small swig, allowing the burn to settle on my tongue. I take another swill and slowly lower my lips to his. I don’t know if he’ll take it, but I’ve had a little too much to drink tonight and I’m feeling overwhelmed with my emotions right now, so I’m acting erratically. His lips touch mine, and for a brief second, I think he’s going to leave me hanging, but he doesn’t. His mouth opens, and I relax my jaw to allow the liquid to pour from my mouth to his. Once he’s taken it all, I sink my teeth into the cushion of his lower lip and slowly drag back.

“Don’t get shot again.” Then I hand him the bottle and turn, leaving him and Lena to it. I don’t know who Lena is or how she came about being a part of this world, but I can see they’re good friends. I’m almost at the threshold to the patio when I hear them both laugh. It’s so foreign that I find myself turning around just to catch a glimpse of Brantley’s smile. They’re joking with each other while Brantley takes long drags of alcohol between each gasp.

“She’s one of the Swans that was freed after the whole Madison ordeal.” Bishop enters my space, and I turn to face him, crossing my arms in front of myself. “Brantley saved her. They’ve been close since.” Bishop smirks. “And to be clear, if it’s not obvious, she likes girls and is more one of the boys than a delicate little Swan.”

I nod my head, because I can’t seem to get the words to come out. Everyone has entered the tent out the back now, so Bishop holds out his arm to me. “Ready to party?”

I hook mine into his. “No.”

Ambient lilacs and gloss white fill the space, with lights flickering in every corner. There’s an ice statue carved in the middle of the room, where red liquid pours out of her mouth, into a pool beneath her.

Bishop gestures to the fountain. “Cosmo? My mom is fancy as fuck and a

“This is an adult party?” I ask, confused. I was under the assumption it would be a party with rebellious and hormonal teens.

Bishop follows me closely, a smirk on the corner of his mouth. He now has a face painted with a skull like Tillie’s, only slightly different. “Just for the first hour. After that? It’s free game.” He hands me a glass with the red liquid inside. “Listen, I know you might not want to hear him, but just know that when you’re ready to talk, so is he.”

I ignore Bishop’s words, sipping on my cocktail. I lick my lips, sugar rushing through my bloodstream. “Oh, this is good!” I drink faster.

Bishop stops the glass from going farther. “Not that much.”