Page 47 of Not Today, Satan
This isn’t happening.
“Devica.” Nate claps his hands in front of my face, and I jump. “I know you’re freaking out, but unless you want to learn how to swim real fast, we need to find something to plug these holes.”
I nod slowly, searching the empty dinghy. All we have is the oars and us. With trembling fingers, I undo the strings of my cloak and slip it off my shoulders. “What about this?”
“Worth a shot.”
He takes it, and my stomach lurches as we rock while he spreads the fabric over the bottom of the boat, shoving it into the small holes. I hold my breath as my beloved cloak disappears under a sea of red.
Well, fuck.
“We’ve taken too much damage.” Nate peers over the side of the boat. “It might be time for you to learn how to swim.”
“Even if I could, we can’t go into these waters.” I point to the dark shapes below the surface and the grouping of fins angling toward us in the distance. A pair of bright white teeth gnash at my fingers, and I snap them back to my side. “They’re guarded by Father’s water demons.”
“Of course they are.” Nate rolls his eyes and lets out a long groan. “Well then, we’d better get ourselves to land. And fast.”
We row like our lives depend on it—which they do. We head for the lot ahead, the water thickening the closer we get to the island.
Warm liquid pools around my feet, and I wrinkle my nose when it seeps through my skirt and swirls between my legs. That’s going to stain.
The creatures flock around us, gnashing their teeth and snarling with every inch that we sink.
Nate yelps as one of the creatures jumps out of the water and narrowly misses locking its jaws on his nose.
Father once told me that he shaped these beasts after sharks on Earth, except these creatures are black, their bodies etched with scars. Their eyes glow yellow, helping them traverse the waters with ease. On their backs, mangled fins break the water’s surface, drooping over themselves with age.
We hit the shore with a jolt and leap out of the boat as it splits in two. The creatures grab the pieces and pull them under, growling and squealing until everything disappears beneath the surface.
Nate wipes his brow with a bloody hand, smearing scarlet across his forehead. “That was close. Sorry about your boat.”
“Not mine.” I wave his apology away and focus on the gate in front of us. The door to the lot is solid gold, etched with tiny designs—various symbols for money used all over the world. The metal glints against the bright orbs circling overhead.
My insides twist like the trees in the distance. There are only three ways off this island: the bridge above us that leads right back to the souldiers we just escaped, the second bridge on the other side of the lot, and the water full of hungry creatures.
Only one option is the obvious answer.
I reach for the handle but stop when Nate touches my wrist.
He nods at my shoulder. “You’re bleeding. Are you okay?”
I peer down at the spot where the arrow sliced my skin, then wrench the door open with a loud crack. “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with. Nathan Reynolds, welcome to Lot Eight: Greed.”
XXI.
We both jump as we enter the lot and the doors clang shut behind us.
Here we go again.
“Greed?” Nate asks. “Like billionaires and stuff? This should be easy, then. They’re not exactly known for violence. They’re more pay-someone-to-do-your-dirty-work kinda people.”
“Humans desire more than money, Nate.” My toes squelch in my boots as we leave the door, and I look down at my red-stained legs and grimace. Well, that’s certainly a look. I reach for my cape to cover my current fashion disaster and encounter only my bare shoulders.
Right, my favorite cape is at the bottom of Lake Sanguis now.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
Wrapping my arms around me, I clutch my waist, mimicking the way the fabric enveloped me like a velvet embrace.
