Page 52 of Wicked Believer

It would have been me.

Shouldhave been me.

The room spins, and I try hard to think clearly, but my vision blurs, my eyes watery.

Olivia.

All those people. All those people.

All because of me . . .

The temperature in my body drops, a cold sweat coating me, and before I fully recognize what I’m doing, I’m running toward the back door.

Fight-or-flight takes over, and apparently, I choose flight, my thoughts stuck on repeat.

All those people. All those people.

This can’t be happening. It can’t. But I know from the anthrax that was sent to the penthouse before that it is. Itishappening. And this time, people have died.

People have died because of me.

I slam through the back entrance to the studio, the door nearly coming off the hinges from my newfound strength. I don’t have time to register the flash of panic that sparks in me as I stumble into the back alley just as I hear the first paparazzo reach the front door.

My chest starts to tighten to the point of pain, but I don’t stop, don’t hesitate.

I run down the back alleyway, wherever my feet will take me. I don’t care where I’m headed. I just ... need to escape, need to keep moving. When I come out onto another street, losing one of my heels as I go, I push past the sea of morning commuters, colliding with several of them, unaware of my surroundings.

My breath comes in ragged pants as I struggle to breathe, my vision blurring.

All those people. All those people.

And now . . .

My fault,that ugly thing inside me starts to hiss, rearing its monstrous head.

My fault, my fault, my fault.

I clutch at my chest, trying to slow my heart rate, but the sounds of the city, the glow of the traffic lights, the morning sun—all the sights, all the smells and sounds, are too loud, too much. I don’t stop. I don’t stop running for several blocks until I feel myself stumble; until suddenly my lungs give out, my vision turning black at the edges.

Until the monster inside me wins.

And I collapse to the ground, feeling nothing.

Chapter Eighteen

Lucifer

I’m out on the platform of the New York Stock Exchange, overlooking the trading floor, a poorly mixed Harvey Wallbanger in my hand, as I pretend to hobnob with the other executives before the opening-bell ceremony. The press is out in full force, and the sea of too many white men clapping one another on the shoulder and shaking one another’s hands congratulatorily bores me, but the celebration of the initial public offering of one of our latest subsidiaries is exactly the kind of distraction the media needs this morning.

I take another sip of my drink, frowning slightly at the weak, watered-down taste.

“Lucifer.” One of the subsidiary’s human executives approaches, his hand extended to me, but before I can even deign to consider if I want to debase myself enough to take it, my attention is quickly interrupted by an unexpected touch upon my shoulder.

“Sir.” Dagon stands before me, looking winded and a bit red in the face. Like he jogged all the way up here from the street.

I wave a dismissive hand. “Not now, Dagon.”

Whatever it is, it can wait.