Page 2 of Tempting Azagoth (Angelic Shorts #1)
DEVIL’S GAZE
DELILAH
S he shot awake, sweat coating her skin, and blankets tangled around her limbs. She threw them off in a rush, jogging to the bathroom.
Her hands gripped the porcelain seat of the toilet, stomach dry heaving. Her eyes burned, mouth open to expel her sins. In her mind’s eye, blood spread across a white altar, symbolizing the stain of death upon life’s purity.
She sobbed, forehead resting against the lip of the toilet seat. Two years passed since the night law enforcement invaded the compound, putting a bullet between her father’s eyes before he could take her innocence.
Exhaustion tugged at her, reminding her she’d only gotten maybe three hours of sleep and was due at the diner, nearly forgetting she’d signed up for a double. If she didn’t hustle, she’d be late for the morning shift. Not for the first time, she considered calling in sick, but Agent Richard’s voice cycled through her mind.
“We’ll protect you, but don’t make yourself an easy target. Don’t stand out. Don’t draw attention. And for the love of whatever deity you worship, do not contact anyone from your family. Let them believe you died beneath your father. Do you understand, Honor?”
A shudder erupted, shaking her frame. She was Delilah no more. Protected by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, she became Honor Smith at their insistence. Satan’s Chosen invaded every field of work in the United States. The FBI couldn’t afford her name or features getting recognized by a devout member.
Weak limbs gave out, refusing to support her weight, and she collapsed against the wall of the bathtub at her back. Bare legs stretched out in front of her. She stared unseeing at her slender, unshaved legs. Bile crawled up her throat at the idea of allowing anyone to see her undressed. She’d forever correlate nakedness to helplessness. Phantom chains scrape at her wrists and ankles, spurring tears to drip down her face.
Trembling hands brushed errant tears from her hollowed cheeks. She’d spent the past two years waiting for them to find her, peering anxiously into every dark corner, stepping cautiously around any strangers looking at her for longer than five seconds. She ate when the gnawing hunger wouldn’t allow her to go another day without food, sleeping when her body threatened to collapse whether or not she willed it.
Her hands pushed, weak legs taking on her weight. She stumbled back into her bedroom, feeling as unsteady as a newborn foal. Nothing appeared out of place in the sparse bedroom, but she checked regardless. Her twin bed kept its position, shoved up against the far right wall. A chipped and scarred cherry wood dresser rested against the wall to her left.
No light emanated from beneath the crack of the closet door. A chair still barred the entrance to the bedroom door, placed beneath the locked doorknob. An uneasy breath left her in a whoosh. She forced her legs to carry her to the dresser, blindly pulling out her uniform for the day. She wished the FBI’s protection included an allowance, but she suspected they knew she’d never leave her one-bedroom apartment if enabled to mooch off of them.
She smoothed her hands down her uniform after dressing, avoiding looking into the mirror for as long as possible. Dark strands fell to her waist and she glared at the ones invading her line of sight. She yearned to cut it all off, resisting just barely, remembering she needed to not draw attention. People tended to stare at bald women, as if it was society’s business what a woman did or did not do to her hair.
She straightened her spine, girding herself for a glance at her reflection. Nibbling her lip, her eyes searched for a hair tie. She cried out at the boon offered to her when she spotted one. The mirror could wait. Her hands hastily pulled her hair up into a bun, uncaring if some strands teased her neck and ears. Satisfied with her appearance, she proceeded to snag a tooth brush from the bathroom sink, putting toothpaste on the bristles without looking up.
It was a ridiculous superstition, neglecting the mirror to avoid the devil’s gaze. Surely, his Lordship possessed more interesting subjects than herself. But sometimes she swore another pair of eyes roamed over her skin, trespassing into her home and feeding her paranoia. She shook the fear off, rinsing out her mouth once her teeth were cleaned. She smoothed spare drops of water onto her hair, hoping the moisture would keep the bundle on top of her head from spilling out of its confines.
Her fingers flexed, anxiety swimming in her veins. It was time to exit her apartment, opening herself to the prying eyes of strangers. Taking a deep breath, she marched to her bedroom door, sliding the chair out of the way.
Satan preserve me , she prayed to the Lord below.