Page 42 of Wicked Believer

Now I’m not sure what he feels for me.

Now that I know he was just as trapped by fate as I was.

I shake my head, casting aside those insecurities before they can go any further.

Lucifer loves me. Of course, he does.

In his own twisted way.

I take a fast shower and head upstairs to dress, trying hard not to look toward the cracked glass of the bathroom mirror as I leave. I’ll have to ask Ramesh to call someone to replace it as soon as possible so that Lucifer doesn’t notice.

I glance at the date and time on my phone. The CFDA Awards, the Oscars of fashion, are less than a month away, and with Lucifer and me hosting the awards show, I’m supposed to meet Xzander at his studio in an hour for the first of several fittings.

If the apocalypse holds off long enough for us to see the end of the year, our next big event after that won’t be until February. When we head across the pond to Paris. Thank God.

I smile, a bit of lightness filling me. I’ve never been abroad before, other than a few misguided mission trips on this side of the Atlantic, and the idea thrills me, even if the thought of walking the red carpet honestly seems insurmountable. A few months ago I could barely manage a regular pair of heels, though these days, they’ve basically become my standard footwear, thanks to Xzander and Imani.

Once I’m dressed, I head down to breakfast like I usually do, Ramesh and the other members of the staff greeting me. I like to take my breakfast on the first floor near the head of the room-length dining table on the off chance Lucifer decides to join me.

The dim light from the nearly three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view—overlooking Midtown and Madison Square Park—and the accompanying fireplace warm me. Even on a chilly autumn morning like this, condensation from the penthouse’s heaters fogging the glass, the sight is breathtaking.

I sit in my usual spot by the window, this morning’s paper and breakfast already waiting for me. Normally, I read the headlines on my phone first, considering that even in PR, everyone knows print is practically dead, but this morning the bold type of theNew York Timescatches me.

This Generation’s Jonestown: 1666 Dead in Mass Church Suicide.

I snatch the paper up from the table, scouring the article and the horrific picture accompanying it. Dozens upon dozens of bodies slumped over the megachurch’s pews.

Not New Life Nexus, my Father’s congregation, but one of its sister churches.

Mark’s church. Hope Alive. Another Righteous stronghold.

I scan through the article, the contents of my stomach souring with each additional word.No children.My breath shudders out of me.No children, at least.

My hands are shaking so violently that by the time I put the article down, I can’t bring myself to look at any of the other coverage.

Over a thousand dead. Another Jonestown.

This can’t be what he meant when he said he would handle—

No.

No, this is . . .

This is because of me. What they did to me.

It has to be.

My stomach roils, and I run for the nearest bathroom, not caring that I knock over my chair along the way. As soon as I reach the porcelain bowl, I vomit up the few bites of breakfast I’ve eaten along with what remains of last night’s Chinese food.

When I’m finished, I can hardly bring myself to stand, the sight and smell inside the bowl causing me to dry-heave all over again. But this isn’t the kind of mess I would ever leave for the maids to clean, no matter how generously Lucifer pays them, so I flush several times.

Still shaking, I clean myself up, washing my mouth out and stumbling back to the dining room table a few minutes later.

I stare down at the headline again.

It’s not a surprise to see the Righteous on the front page these days. Ever since the bombing at the Met Gala, speculation about them and the role they played has been all over the media, though so far no official arrests have been made.

America doesn’t tolerate religious terrorists.