My mother, Margot, used to tell me how easily I'd trod into the flames of Hell without looking. She'd say this at night when I brought a woman back to our estate. And she'd remind me in the morning, when the woman would be dead in my bed, blackened and bloodied, all the while I sat at my window as though it hadn't mattered. She'd clean up the mess and scold me for not thinking of the consequences. I didn't care then, and Margot had done nothing to fix me.

But Charlotte had, she tried; she wanted me to be different. She'd done everything in her power to change me, even if there were times she partook in my sins.

I knew she would try again when I took Abigail's hand; her nod in my direction held a look of determination. She saw the source of my pain and I felt the pit of hers.

I'd get revenge for us both.

"I'd always wondered when you'd return to me," Abigail said, but I didn't listen to her. I looked past her as she led me down the pews and over to the statue of Lucifer.

Or, as she addressed him, Lord Almighty.

She touched the statue, stroked the lines, and spoke again. Still, I didn't listen. I eyed the back of her neck, her shoulders. I heard the blood coursing through her veins and smiled to myself—I could end this with one swipe of my hand. All I'd have to do was yank her hair back, expose her neck, and with one quick pull, I could sever her head.

Simple. Easy.

There were mops and buckets present to clean the blood.

"There aren't any ill feelings between us, right, John?"

That caught my attention. My eyes shot up and met her hard stare as a hand wrapped around my own. It was Charlotte's and her grip was tight, reassuring, but it wasn't the reassurance I needed. I wanted a dagger, one sharp enough to slice Abigail's throat in one stroke.

Abigail blinked. "John?"

"Hard feelings about what exactly?"

She pursed her lips. With her hands on her hips, she leaned right, then left, and looked at me with her brown eyes. At her side, Nathan and Victor appeared like shadows. "You don't remember?" she asked.

Unfortunately, Abigail, I didn't, but I had a good idea what it was about. "I couldn't possibly have hard feelings." I squeezed Charlotte's hand. "I'm alive, aren't I?"

She smiled, and I felt sick. The pain returned between my eyes. I shifted one foot forward to keep standing. She didn't notice or bother to care; not that thought she would. She spun, her dark hair whipping around her shoulders, and with both hands, she tapped both Nathan and Victor on their arms. Victor followed her as she left the space; Nathan made a face. "You, Boy," she called to him as her hips swayed left and right. "Name?"

Before he could even open his mouth, I stepped towards him, pulled him, and shook my head. "Don't," I warned. "It's better if she doesn't know you."

When he looked as though he wanted to ask why, Charlotte's hand reached for his. With her thumb, she stroked the bruise that colored his skin and shook her head. "Listen to him," she told him, "his memory may be bad, but he's got good judgement."

Under his breath, Nathan muttered "yeah, sure," but listened nonetheless and followed us as we followed them.

We were given a proper tour, one I accepted willingly. I was able to see every turn and corner of the tunnels built beneath the manor; I painted every inch of the walls and floors into memory. At times, Victor looked back at me, concerned, but I'd only nod at him. It was all going according to plan—his plan—and oh, did she walk into it willingly.

Before the moon faded behind black clouds, Abigail had led us up into the manor that centered the rest. This was the manor from books, from movies. Once we broke past the candle lit hallway that enveloped the stairway, my eyes were welcomed with hues of yellow, white, and gold. Elaborate curtains shielded the windows from the night's light, and the floors, swathed with rugs of deep red, beckoned me to step forward with silent words. Honestly, the sight left me in awe, and Abigail knew it. She stood at the end of the hall, under an archway made with decorative stone, and stared at her red fingernails.

"Are you alright, John?" she asked.

Everyone stopped, myself included. I shifted a curtain to look out at the stars. In the skies I counted three and looked at Charlotte with a narrowed gaze. "A bit of a headache," I said, honestly. "Otherwise, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

She grinned at me, the dark of her eyes brightening with a golden glow. I knew the look—a silent threat. I'd done it to many men in the past and returned the gaze just the same. The blue of my eyes warmed my cheeks.

She laughed as Victor took his place beside her. "I thought you'd be surprised," she said, licking her lips. "We've come a long way. Far from the days of stone churches and sewers."

Sewers? That's where demons lurked. I hid within them for a week in France before I escaped. I pretended to remember what she said as my hand found Charlotte's again. "We've had every right to come up, haven't we?"

The light from her eyes faded as her face brightened with glee. She looked at her brother as she strode over towards me and ripped my hand from Charlotte's. Though she gingerly led me through the archway that led into a dining hall, her voice couldn't mask her excitement. "Oh, John, it's lovely to hear you say it. You remember it all."

I pursed my lips as she stopped us beside a dining table meant to seat twenty. Her long fingers pulled out a seat and motioned me to sit. I didn't; instead, I leaned my hand on it to keep steady. The longer I looked at her, the deeper I fell into a blank reality. It was faint but edged over my eyes. Mentally, I sought Charlotte's touch.

"Of course, I remember," I lied, faking my smile as she walked around the table, over to a statue that stood at the end of the room. "You've come this far."

"Me?" She touched the statue's chest—another carving of Lucifer himself. Around it, covering almost every bit of the wall, were beautiful portraits—men on horseback, angels hovering in the skies. I kept my eyes on them as she continued. "It wasn't justme, John, no! We were all a part of this. Every one of us. Even you!"

I pretended to look at her but looked at the space behind her. "Me?"

"Yes!" she beamed, overcome with giddiness. "You're the most important of them all!"

Is that why you tried to have me killed?

"Why?" I leaned both hands against the chair. "Why me?"

"Oh, aren't you humble?" From the statue, she pulled a dagger sheathed on its side. I hadn't noticed it had weapons and wondered if the large one in the basement was just as equipped. "Can't you see how important you are?"

I laughed. "Actually, I can't." I'd never been more honest. "The way I see it, I'm just as important as your average man."

She stepped towards me as the sound of her feet echoed behind me. The quiet murmurs of Charlotte and Victor were just within earshot. I could make out their words: "Just let him do it tonight."

"You are not average." I inhaled sharply as Abigail's cold hands grabbed my face. Her fingers dug into my cheeks, her eyes burning into mine. "We are not average. We are blessed by the Lord himself. Granted eternal life to retrieve his soul from the pits of damnation."

My nostrils flared as I took in another sharp breath. "You know that isn't the case," I said through gritted teeth as her nails left indents in my skin, "you know very well we can die."

She released her gripped and tapped the red of my cheek. "So, there are hard feelings."

Enough for me to wish you dead. "No," I sucked my teeth as I lied, "there aren't."

"Good," she leaned away from me, shifting one foot back, and then the other, "because he wished you to leave to do something greater. Something none of us could ever achieve. You alone can hasten the cure of the sin that destroys this realm. Believe me, I've tried countless other men."

My breath hitched at the sound of Charlotte's voice behind me, "Lamont."

I never let my eyes leave Abigail's, even as she pushed the chair back into place, and started her pace around the table beside us. "You are not average," she said.

My hands had balled up into the tightest fist, my nails left cuts in my palms. 'Countless men,' she'd said. 'I achieved what no one else could,' she'd said. I knew what she meant, but I needed her to say it. I needed the words to leave her mouth and grant me the verbal permission to grab the second dagger from the hip of Lucifer to end her immortal life.

"Tell me why," I commanded, and Charlotte's hand found the tips of my fingers. I pulled away. "Please, Abigail, explain."

She parted her lips, a sound bubbling up on the tip of her tongue. I heard it, as quiet as a gasp; the air formed the first letter of my name: John—John, what?

Tell me. Tell me, you fucking Bitch. Say the word and I'll send you right to hell with your Lord Almighty.

"It's me."

I wanted to fall where I stood. My heart stopped, I couldn't breathe. Charlotte's perfume hit me as she slid past and in front of me. It was Victor's hand that fell on my shoulder, tugging me back. My eyes fell on a figure at the end of the room. A girl—the pale skinned teen that changed my life.

"Lamont." Nathan's hand found my other shoulder.

"It's me, Monty." Rosie smiled weakly at me as she fixed the front of her white gown. Her red curls were brushed neatly around her hair. "I'm the one being no one could create, but you."