i. They don’t give her a knife at first because they’re not sure she has the strength to make knives count. They give her a bat, a gun but both are too bold for her slender fingers. They give her a wire to twist around her enemy’s neck, thin and dangerous, but this doesn’t suffice. The first time she tries it, she’s transfixed by the spurt of blood, the colour of a man’s throat on the palms of her hands, her arms and face, and she pulls with a manic flash in deep eyes. She always pulls too hard. In the end, she finds she likes knives the best. There is something brutally poignant about the whistle of soaring metal and the thud of a honed point into flesh and bone. Back before Lucifer found her she’d felt lost and waiting for something more. For someone to pull her out. She sleeps with a knife in her hand at all times.
ii. The others start to talk about her in the corridors. The girl he brought. The lover. The child who once dug her nails into a man’s eyes and ripped his eyeballs right out. The girl with nothing to lose.
iii. She tries to breathe, you’re not dying, it’s not your blood, it’s not your blood. She stares at the mirror, panic written clearly all over her face. Stop crying. Amon leans in the doorframe, tall and dark and slender and there’s a gleam of amusement in his face, perhaps even respect. You look like a predator. When she raises her eyes to the mirror again she thinks she looks more like the prey, barely escaped from a poacher, drops of blood still clinging in the coat. Maybe that’s what Amon means.
iv. A passing-through salesman approaches her. The man laughs. A slash and warm blood is spilling over her hands again. The moment his body goes slack she closes her eyes and savors the moment.
v. Later she stands in the bathroom, her brown curls hanging loose and wet beside her face. Leviathan stands right behind her, hands and fingers on her shoulders and wow, Leviathan’s beautiful, all black curls and full red lips. You look like a child. She thinks she looks like a demon freshly born out of God’s womb. Maybe that’s what Leviathan means.
vi. It’s a week later and she can’t move because there’s a bullet in her shoulder. There’s movement out of the corner of her eye and the moment she spots dark hair and a handsome face she lets out a breath. Lucifer kisses her right there, suffocating and bruising, digging the bullet out of her body with her knife. She screams.
vii. He kisses her again, half a week later, she rubs at the bandage, and tries to hide the pain that still stirs in her eyes. She kisses back and her mind tells her that this is what she signed up for, this is where she belongs, entirely, always. He bites her when she smiles.
viii. Knives and weapons draw blood but she’s been bitten and shot and cut a dozen different times. That’s the beauty of being immune - all those wounds don’t do much.
ix. She returns after her mission enters the kitchen. Belphegor sits on the table and drinks a cup of coffee and flashes her a smile. You look like a butcher. She thinks she looks like Ishtar, Babylonian goddess of war and blood. Maybe that’s what Belphegor means.
x. Hours later when dawn nearly breaks they lie on Lucifer’s bed, her hair wild and legs open, his arm around her waist, hand on her hip pressing deep in the flesh. Lucifer shoves his face against her throat, up under her jaw where he’s discovered it tickles, sucks on her skin, bites with his teeth. She knees him in the ribs though, reflex, and he groans while she moans and laughs and laughs.
xi. Asmodeus is in the bath, covered in countless scratches and rags that were once clothes, and he says her name, says again, “Give me a hand?“ She doesn’t answer, tries to clean away the red to see if it’s pouring from his body and she feels the way he watches her from under his eyebrows, with eyes too dark and dangerous. You look like a queen. She turns around to have a look at the mirror and she thinks, no, I’m not a queen, I’m barely Countess Bathory, enjoying the blood moistening my flesh and bones. Maybe that’s what Asmodeus means.
xii. In France, she snaps a man’s neck with the ease born of a lifetime’s experience.
xiii. At night, she stares at the mirror in the hotel room she’s sharing with Mammon, bruises on her cheekbones and arms, love bites from Lucifer on her throat and thighs where the meaning is literal, little blood splatters that paint her skin in different shades of red and pink. You look like you. She thinks she looks like Persephone, bathing in pomegranates and the juice of Hades’ adversaries. Maybe that’s what Mammon means.
xiv. ”Forever?“, she asks and turns her head to tug it under Lucifer’s chin, his hand heavy possessive around her frame and there’s a movement from his shoulder, a deep breath and she can hear his heart beating strong and steady. tha-thump, tha-thump. ”Do you think you can handle it?“ She grins and puts a kiss on his collarbone, a bite, a bruise and she watches his skin turning red from scratching teeth and sucking lips. ”I think I can, I’m a big girl.“
xv. In the end if they should ever die, at least they will die together. Nothing says forever like a headstone with two names on it.
xvi. She stares at the mirror, the girl on the other side with wide eyes, bright brown and a dangerous glint behind chocolate walls, her curls streaked with blood and rainwater, her skin pale in the dim light and the blood covers parts of her face and fingers like honey, thick and warm. Lucifer stands right behind her, and their eyes are alike, the same glint, the same blood dripping from both of their bodies. She licks inside her blood-smeared mouth. Mine. You look like you’re mine. She recognizes herself. Finally. Someone’s blood drips off the tip of her nose.
The Awakening of Lilith
r.m | published in Tales | buy me a ko-fi
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