Page 95 of Wicked Believer

Since Lucifer cast the aurora borealis over the city.

I smile, the memory bringing with it a happy, joyful effervescence that I’ve been missing for what feels like a lifetime. Like hope in a bottle.

I open my eyes, only to find Azmodeus’s wide, devastating grin aimed at me.

“Dance with me,” I shout, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him out onto the floor.

The music overtakes us both, the beat of it coming alive inside my skull, each pulse in time with the sway of my hips and the wave of sweat-covered bodies pressed against me.

I lose track of all time, the rhythm and sway of the crowd eclipsing everything. It could be days, weeks even, as Azmodeus moves against me, the heat of the crowd and our collective joy erasing everything.

But I don’t care.

Not when I’m realizing how to keep the whole world from burning.

Not when I’ve finally figured out what my role in all this is supposed to be.

Somewhere during the light show the ceiling opens, and it begins to rain stardust, or glitter—I’m not sure which—until I’m giggling like a schoolgirl, Azmodeus laughing right along with me as we struggle to hold each other upright.

“I’m going to get us more drinks, lovey,” he shouts to me. His eyes lock on to the large Black man—er ... demon? Maybe?I’m not sure what some of these beings are—behind the bar as he weaves his way across the sea of dancing bodies.

I fold my arms over my head, closing my eyes as I sway, and try to catch my breath a little. The stardust is starting to wane, finally.

This isn’t so bad. This is fun, actually.

I can do this.

I can stay the course. Make Lucifer see how much this means to me.

But it isn’t until I open my eyes, my gaze snagging on the edge of the crowd, that the relaxed feeling of freefall into the abyss abandons me.

A large handsome figure looms at the edge of the dance floor, my gaze latching on to him.

He’s the only one whoisn’tdancing.

I lift a brow.Where have I seen you before?

He stares straight ahead at me, his shadowed face unmoving, until someone walks past like they don’t even see him, and I freeze as his features shift.

Instead of a face, a skull leers back at me. Like those freaky masks guys wear on social media, only real.

A chill runs down my spine, an unsettled, familiar feeling. I’ve seen that face before.

Cold arms wrapped around me. Never-ending and infinite.

Death.

Suddenly, someone grabs my arm, and I jump, knocking into the drink Azmodeus just extended toward me. The glowing pink liquid of the raspberry lemon drop pours down the front of my shirt. “Fuck! I’m so sorry.”

I take the now-empty glass from Azmodeus, completely off kilter and feeling like I’m being watched, but when I blink and glance toward the edge of the crowd once more, the figure’s already gone. Like I imagined the whole thing.

Leaving me with a feeling of deathly dread.

“I ... think it’s time to go home,” I stammer.

Azmodeus and I decide to call it quits shortly after that, and the next thing I know, the cold night air is hitting me in the face as we both stumble, more than a bit drunk, and possibly still rolling, out onto the street.

I don’t see the paparazzo until the lens of his camera is practically on top of me.