Page 59 of Wicked Believer

I wake to the sound of my alarm clock a moment later, quickly realizing, even through my half-awake haze, that I must have slept for nearly twenty-four hours and I’m going to be late to my coffee date with Imani. I roll over, groaning and pulling my pillow over my head like somehow that might hide me.

I don’t want to see all the notifications on my phone. To face the outside world.

The media. The paparazzi. Lucifer.

The concerned texts I know I’ll have from Jax, Evie, and so many others.

Imani will have drafted a statement for me by now, to address both the tragedy at Mark’s church and Olivia’s murder. All I’ll have to do is read it—look convincing—but I ... can’t seem to bring myself to face it just yet.

I roll onto my side, peeking out from beneath my pillow and trying to push all thoughts of that strange dream from my mind, only to find a fresh bouquet of white tulips waiting for me. I smile. The card beside it, scrawled in a familiar flowing script, only says two words.

Forgive me?

Followed by a few scribbled music notes. The melody of the song Lucifer wrote for me.

Forgive him?He must mean for leaving again.

I sigh, deliberately cutting off the desperation I feel whenever he’s away. My limbs grow heavy, and I chew on my chapped lower lip untilit starts to bleed. How are we supposed to find our way back to one another when the chaos of our lives keeps getting in the way?

My heart thumps painfully.

Finally, when I can no longer avoid it, I throw on the nearest set of clothes I can find. A pair of leggings and an oversized T-shirt that, thanks to the designer labels, cost several thousand dollars, though to be honest, my old ones that were off the rack are just as comfy. I couldn’t care less about what I look like right now.

Not when Olivia will never take another breath.

Not when so many others have lost a part of their family.

I trudge down the stairs, my legs feeling wooden and like I’m barely managing to put one foot in front of the other, until I find Imani waiting on the bottom level for me.

“I thought it best I bring the coffee to you, all things considered.” She nods to the floor-to-ceiling window.

My gaze darts toward it, to Madison Avenue below, as all the wind rushes from my lungs like I’ve taken a punch to the gut. There’s a huge crowd outside, large enough they’re blocking the road, their protest signs extending for several blocks.

Daughter of Babylon. Satan’s whore.The usual. Followed by an even more horrible one that reads:God hates fags.I cringe. Another far-right hate campaign.

And the largest by far.

Hell hath no fury like Lucifer’s wretched queen.

The Righteous. Among others like them.

As if this situation couldn’t get any worse.

“They’re not wrong,” I whisper, stepping closer toward the glass. “About me, I mean.”

I press my hand to the chilled window, trying not to notice how it feels less solid beneath my newfound strength.

Imani doesn’t say anything. She joins me at my side and pushes the coffee she brought into my trembling hand.

I stare down at it blankly. Normally I’d suggest drinking on the balcony, or maybe in the sitting room considering how cold it’s been getting outside, but all I manage is a weak “I ... think we might be safer inside this morning.”

She nods. “Good call.”

We end up sitting alone together inside the empty kitchen. Lucifer’s private chef, Farouq, and the other waitstaff have been paid to stay home for their own safety.

The stainless steel industrial-size refrigerators gleam.

“How are you holding up?” Imani says, shutting one of the kitchen doors behind us so that the distant sounds of the crowd are sealed away. Her wig is rumpled, and she looks even more concerned for me than usual. Like she’s afraid I might break at the slightest sign of trouble.