Page 8 of Not Today, Satan
My cheeks heat, and I clench my jaw against a reply. He’s not wrong. The proof is all around us—singed bunnies on the wallpaper and piles of ashes where desks used to be. But I’d never admit that he’s right to his face.
Mr. B. pries the photo off the board and drops it on his desk. “Besides, your father stopped using touch to judge a long time ago. This is just as accurate.”
The face of the boy I sent to Lot Thirteen flashes across my mind. How insistent he was that he’d been sent to the wrong place. I’d bet anything he’d have some words for Father about the accuracy of this new method.
“Maybe we need to go back to that,” I mutter.
Mr. Bellum turns from the chalkboard, midway through pinning up a new photograph. His body goes rigid. “What?”
“Nothing.” I twirl my pen between my fingers, then shrug. “He must get a judgment wrong once in a while. If a photograph isn’t as clear as touch, maybe he’s missing things.”
Mr. Bellum’s eyes dart to the door. “Devica, your father’s been doing this forever. He doesn’t make mistakes. It’s not possible. Now, we need to get back to our lessons, so it’s not possible for you, either.” He points at the photo of a middle-aged woman tacked to the chalkboard. “What is her sin?”
I know when I’m beaten. Mr. B.’s nothing if not stubborn when it comes to these classes. I exhale a long sigh.
Closing my eyes, I clear my mind of anything but the room. When I open them, I narrow my eyes at the image, grimacing when it blurs slightly, but it never wavers from the age-worn face peering back at me.
I sigh again as Mr. Bellum prompts me for my answer.
“Cats,” I say. “This one definitely owned too many cats.”
IV.
A siren blares as I exit class, and I stifle a groan. That sound means that someone’s escaped their lot.
Again.
It’s pretty much standard that, at least once a day, someone gets it into their head that they can get out of here. What they don’t anticipate are the sirens, the fact that we can track them, or the agony that follows when we add “fugitive” to their punishment.
One of Father’s souldiers barrels down the hall, and I slip into the closest room to get out of his way. My body unclenches when I find I’m in the throne room.
A smile curls my lips. This is my favorite place in Dominus.
Shimmering crystal makes up all four walls, so thick it blurs anything beyond it. Colors trickle throughout the glass as though melted into it—sparkling reds, vibrant oranges, and bright yellows imbue visitors with the sense that fire resides within, threatening to consume anyone who dares enter the chamber.
I follow the plush red carpet that runs between rows upon rows of black chairs and up five stairs to the throne at the front of the room.
The throne itself is massive.
Made of pure gold, it appears to be melting in the flames of the room. Gold drips from the back to the floor, and although it appears liquid, it’s solid. It’s as though someone blasted the chair with heat before shoving it into a freezer.
Circling the throne, I trail my palm along the ruby-embedded armrests.
My index finger dips into the small hole where one of the gemstones is missing.
I glance down at my ring, my insides flipping at the knowledge that the magicked ruby on my finger fits the hole perfectly. Once I’m eighteen and insert it back into its place, the Underworld will belong to me.
Leave it to Father to choose this as his gift—a piece of the throne to remind me it would be mine in one year’s time. Like I could forget. I’m forever bound to this place, paying the price for his sins instead of forging my own future.
Using the step stool in front of the throne, I launch myself into the seat, still in awe of its size after all this time. The chair’s so wide that I could lie sideways on it and still not touch the other end with my toes.
When he’s in true form, the velvet upholstery can barely contain my father. He never appears to me alone at his full size, but he has no problem using it to lead the souldiers from this room or to sentence wayward shadelings. As a kid, I thought it was a cool trick. Now, I see it as intimidation, one more way Father controls things. The same way he’s controlling my future now.
“It suits you.”
I almost fall off the seat as Attero walks in, managing to keep myself upright by gripping the armrest. My jaw juts out in a scowl, the memory of what he said to me only a few days ago still pulsing like an open wound on my skin. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you hanging out with your new bestie?”
“I didn’t want to leave things like that between us. I feel awful.” He studies the carpet intensely. “Please accept my apologies, Your Highness.” He bows at the waist, his eyes still trained on the floor.
