Page 33 of Not Today, Satan
Those are reserved for the demons who fell with Father—the unredeemable ones. Not me.
Panting, I push myself off the floor and stare down my reflection, willing my new accessories to retreat. “Go away. I’m not my father.”
“But you are,” the voice taunts. “Don’t you recognize yourself? Look closer.”
An invisible force propels me to the mirror.
Fingers that no longer belong to me undo the strings of my cloak and let it fall from my shoulders. Wings unfurl behind me. Crimson, like the severed ones above Father’s bed, and large enough I could wrap them around myself twice.
Something dark tugs at the lips of my reflection. Something sinister.
I can’t move.
Whatever’s taken hold of me has me frozen in place. I push against it, but my body doesn’t budge. My eyes won’t close, no matter how I try to force them.
“No wonder you don’t have a mother,” the voice says. “She saw what you really are and wanted nothing to do with you.”
The words, my deepest fears, slice into me sharp as the glass of the mirrors. A tear slips down my cheek, doubling on my own reflection as it trails to my chin. “That’s not me.”
“Look again.”
The mirrors vanish, and I’m standing in the throne room before a crowd of souldiers. There’s a pitchfork in my hand. I frown.
Even Father doesn’t use those. He says it’s too much of a stereotype. “This isn’t real, this isn’t real.”I try again to clamp my eyes shut, but nothing happens.
Instead, I stare as a shadeling is marched toward me, covered in blood. I can barely make out his features under all the red. But when I see the eyes, I know who he is. I’ve spent so much time looking into those eyes already.
Nate.
I struggle against my invisible bindings, but it’s no use. I’m no longer in Lot Eleven. I’m back in Dominus in the throne room, and I can’t control my body.
The souldiers before me scream out words like “murderer” and “traitor.” I glance around, helpless. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.
Father occupies the throne behind me. He leans forward, his substantial shadow blocking out most of the light in the room. “Do it, Devica. Claim your inheritance.”
“No,” I whisper, a second tear slipping down my cheek. It’s salty as it passes my lips. “I won’t. I’m not you.”
“You’re my blood.” His voice shakes the floor and rumbles my chest. “This is your destiny, Devica. You can do it. Finish him.”
My father finally believes in me. Now’s my chance to prove him right.
I tighten my grip on the pitchfork. Heat threads between my fingers, and the metal tines of the weapon light like candles.
Father smiles. “That’s it. Look how talented you are, Daughter. You are as much a part of this place as it is of you.”
The pitchfork is hot in my hands, the sting calming my thoughts. He’s right. This is why I was born.
I descend the steps of the throne room and stand in front of Nate.
Not Nate.
Nathan Reynolds.
A shadeling. A sinner. A murderer.
“Devica.” He pleads with me through dripping blood and tears. “Don’t do it.”
The pain in his voice breaks through the trance. My arms shake as I struggle against the desire to plunge the pitchfork into his heart.
