Page 7 of Graveyards & Greed

The girl let out a long, broken sob. “It hurts.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” I awkwardly wrapped my arm around her as she buried her face into my side. Her hollow-eyed father came out of Ezra’s office a few moments later.

After the somber funeral, I trudged up to the apartment I shared with my two roommates, Luna and Alexa, who were both still at school. A package lay on the doorstep addressed to Harley Quinn, and it took me a second to remember telling Drakos that was my name. I brought the package into the apartment and sliced through the tape with a steak knife. It had been two months since we buried bodies in the desert together, and I still dreamed about that strange night. Anxiety and a warped sense of anticipation ran through me as I opened the box.

An expensive-looking contraption designed for massaging feet and legs lay nestled in bubble wrap. The small card tucked inside read, “I’m a heel. Jack Napier.”He’d been more like a cruel asshole, but the gift and the stupid pun made my lip quirk.

When I plugged it in, the machine whirred to life, the weird tentacle-like appendages beckoning invitingly. It was an odd yet thoughtful gift for someone who spent hours on their feet.

I thought about sending it back in tiny pieces but then shrugged. He’d never know whether I actually used it anyway. Sitting back on the couch, I slipped my feet into its embrace. The sensations were borderline sexual, each rotation pressing against my arches with precision. The nodules kneaded and caressed, working out knots I didn't know existed, and I couldn't help letting out a little moan.

Leaning back, I closed my eyes and silently thanked Drakos Creed for brightening my otherwise sad, gut-wrenching day. He was still an asshole, though.

Later that night, I received a text from an unknown number.

This is Jack. Did you get my package?

I stared down at my screen, wondering how Drakos Creed got my cell phone number.

Sylvie: Why are you sending me stuff? And texting me?

Drakos: Because I still want to shower with you

Sylvie: OMFG-get over yourself. Good night, Satan

Sylvie: And thank you for the foot massager. I needed it today

Holy Mother of Christ, Drakos and I had texted each other. No more.

A few days later, Alexa and I wandered through the eclectic, second-hand antique shop called Vegas Vintage. My favorite antique store, which smelled like mothballs and unwashed clothes, was located in a rundown strip mall with a dollar store on one side and a vape shop on the other. It carried a strange collection of castoffs and treasures, and I loved the place.

Absently, I flipped through the old paintings and pictures propped against the back wall and stopped on one that caught my eye—or, more accurately, assaulted it. The small plaque on the bottom of the frame read “Dante'sInferno.” It was all garish colors and disproportionate figures writhing in torment, a painting only a Dante enthusiast could love—or maybe tolerate.

“What the hell is that?” Alexa asked.

“A depiction of Hell from Dante’sInferno.”

“That’s ghastly.”

“It’s perfect,” I countered. I pictured Drakos’s face when he unwrapped the monstrosity.

“You’re not going to hang that in our apartment, are you?” she asked, slightly horrified.

“Even better. I’m giving it as a gift.”

“Ah, like a white elephant gift. I take it you don’t like this person.”

“Exactly,” I grinned.

I sent the monstrosity via courier with a short note:“Lucifer, this reminded me of you. S.”

When a week passed and I didn’t receive a response, I figured we were done—until another package arrived, the size of a long jewelry box, only a little heavier. It was also addressed to Harley Quinn.

As I opened it, reluctant curiosity curled in my belly. My thoughts trailed off when I saw the exquisitely crafted scalpel, its handle engraved with my initials, nestled in felt. The instrument was beautiful, making my chest tighten. It fit my grip like it had been made specifically for me.

He’d personalized the handle, and it was such a thoughtful gift my stomach squeezed. I didn’t want to like anything about him.

“Damn it.” I knew without a doubt I should send the scalpel back, but I wouldn’t. It was one of the most thoughtful gifts I’d ever received.

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