Page 26 of Filthy Little Witch
“Thank you,” I said, meeting her timid gaze. “For healing me. For your…amicable bedside manner.”
Marta grinned and gestured toward the dresser. “There are some clean clothes in there. You know where the shower is. Other than being alone, it seems like everything else is exactly as we left it.”
She left, and after I ambled to the shower, I stripped and got under the heated spray. The water stung the wounds on my chest, but washing away the sweat and grime from the last week of bedrest made me feel better. Of course, there was the problem of the ache in my cock, which hadn’t let up since Marta had called me a good boy in that silky tone of hers. I palmed the thick length, telling myself it would be okay just this once…just to let it out… to deal with the problem so it didn’t escalate.
No.
No, it wasn’t right. She deserved better than some fucking creep like me lusting over her.
The sight of a demon bursting from my chest had the problem deflating as I hung my head under the spray and supported my weight on the wall. It was just a dream. Just a bad dream. That’s all.
After I got my shit together, I dressed and limped down the hallway to the parlor, where Atlas sat on a loveseat, hovering over the coffee table in front of him. Parts of his guns were spread out across the wood grain next to a glass of amber liquid, rags and brushes at varying degrees of dirty. He’d obviously been cleaning them for a while.
“Hey.” I grimaced, plopping down into the seat across from him.
“Jesus, man,” he said. “You look like shit.”
“Have you seen yourself?” Like Marta, he had dark circles under his eyes and his hair stood on end, like he’d been running his hands through it for hours.
“You should be in bed,” he said.
“I’m fine,” I said, leaning forward to grab his glass and bring it to my nose.
Whiskey.
I took a deep swig and set it back down, letting the burn soothe away any lingering effects from the nightmare. Atlas went back to stuffing a brush down the barrel of his pistol and raised an eyebrow at me.
“What do we know?” I asked. “Any luck getting in touch with the Harlots?”
He shook his head. “Without her magic and without the bond, we’re hanging on by a thread.”
“This is my domain, my realm. Your witch made it for me.” The sound of the demon’s voice rattled around in my brain, making me wince. I pushed it away.
“I want to go back to Biltmore Forest,” he said. “There’s got to be a clue there somewhere. Maybe in the woods. Maybe?—”
“You think that’s safe?” I raised an eyebrow as he ran his hands over his face and reached for the whiskey.
“I don’t know, man,” he said. “It beats sitting around here, waiting for something to happen. That fucking witch has been holed up in the library since we got here, and the longer we wait, the more likely it is that we might never get back.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone bringing a demon back from a liminal,” I said.
“But we’re not demons,” Atlas countered, and I conceded that fact. The implications of it were mind-numbing. Was it just our souls trapped here? Or had our physical bodies fallen into the trap? That Asmodiean fucker had been nothing more than black smoke and metaphysical energy. How then did we live through the spell? Was this all in our heads? And if so, how would the Harlots get us back in our bodies?
“If we’re trapped in a liminal, then none of this is real. It’s a made-up reality, a ripple between realms,” he continued. “If she can summon demons from hell, I have to believe she can figure out how to get us out of this.”
I glanced down at the gun parts again. “You planning on helping her or?—”
“I am helping her,” Atlas growled. “By staying out of her way. That witch is a pain in my ass, and?—”
“I’m sure the feeling is mutual,” I added with a small laugh.
“You’re taking her side?” He scoffed. “Typical.”
“What?” I blinked at him.
“One pretty girl bats her eyelashes at you, and you fall ass over teakettle.”
“Fuck off.” I grabbed a pillow and threw it at him, but he caught it before it could hit his face.
