One look over my shoulder sends all hope away. Those grotesque, horrible multihued-purple wings are still attached to my back, some of the feathers nearly matching the shade of my hair.
I always thought it was weird that I’ve been dyeing my hair purple since I was sixteen. I just...had to. I’ve always been drawn to it. My mom didn’t even mind it; she said it suited me. I can’t help but wonder if that’s because she knew I had wings to go right along with it. It’s like every time I got a purple box of dye, I was fulfilling some omen or giving fate a hand up. Maybe this is why I only have to dye my hair every six months. It takes to the color like it’s claiming it as its own.
Did my parents know that if these blocks on me were removed, this is what I would really look like? Was I born with violet purple hair and wings? Is that why they put some sort of demon power block on me, because there was no way for me to blend otherwise?
I dismiss the barrage of frustrating questions. I shouldn’t keep looking for answers when I know I’ll probably never find them. Instead, I search my body for any other hints of change. I don’t feel any horns or tails. I still have two eyes and normal teeth, and my skin is what it’s always been. I don’t have a forked tongue like Crux, or blue skin like Iceman, or moving tattoo shadows like Echo. I don’t have fiery hair like Jerif. Aside from the wings and what I now suspect is the real color of my hair, I’m still me.
Sitting up, I look around, testing out my body as I stretch and crick my neck, trying to work out the soreness from the bed and figure out what the noise was that woke me up. When my eyes scan over to the bars of my cell, I jump so hard that I ram my wings back against the spiked wall, instantly piercing one.
With a pained yelp, I stand up, nearly falling face-forward as I overcompensate for the weight of the wings at my back. I’ve been awake for about forty seconds, and life already sucks.
With a hand over my racing heart, I stare at Lanky who’s just standing in the shadows, watching me like a creeper.
“Fuck, how long have you been standing there like the king of pervs?” I demand, reaching around to rub my smarting wing. I try not to flinch at the feel of feathers against my hand, but I don’t succeed. Fuck. I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this.
Ew.
I pull my hand away, and luckily, there’s no blood, so I guess that’s a good thing. I doubt leaving my blood cells behind in a place like this would be a good thing. Who knows what could happen? I don’t trust this Lanky fucker.
“So what’s going to happen to me now?” I ask my audience of one, not at all expecting that he’ll answer me.
He looks pretty determined to just stand there and creep me out, but what he doesn’t know is that I’m on board with not being down here alone. Slap my ass and call me misery, because company—whether silent and voyeuristic or not—is better than nothing.
I notice that he doesn’t have a chair, so either he’s an epic stander or he’s not planning on being down here for too long. I try not to think about what that means for me.
“Next time your friends come to you and say, hey let’s pop down into Hell real quick. It’ll be fun and totally fine, don’t believe anything they say. Run as far away from them as you can. And if you’re being attacked by Outer Ring demons like I always am, stick with your posse. But overall, just say no to Hell,” I advise him.
He doesn’t crack a smile, and even trying to joke about the other Gate Guardians hurts my heart. I shake my head and try to get comfortable on the morgue table that’s doubling as a bed.
“I have an idea,” I announce. “I’m going to ask you a bunch of questions. You can stay perfectly still and creeptastic. If I’m right, you can snort, and if I’m wrong, then you can blink twice or something. Okay?”
Lanky just stares at me blankly.
“Perfect, that’s exactly right, I’m so glad you got the rules of the game so fast,” I encourage sarcastically.
“Okay, first question, am I still in Hell?”
I study his face, but he’s got this stony thing nailed. I nod like answers are just pouring off of him.
“Okay, still in Hell, good to know. This next one is a little harder...am I in Nihil?
Nothing. Hmm.
“Am I somewhere else?”
Lanky sniffs, and my eyes widen. I spring up from my lunch tray bed and stare at him excitedly. “So I am in Nihil?”
“I didn’t say that. I just had to sniff,” he defends, his Irish lilt making his words sound more appealing than they are.
“Did you really?” I challenge. “Okay, so I’m in Hell. I’m in Nihil, which means that I am a Nihil?” I recount to myself as if that’s going to help everything connect. “But how? Jerif said that it was impossible.”
“Who’s Jerif? Is that who helped you break into Tazreel’s house?” Lanky asks.
“Tazreel?” I ask. “Is that the name of Not-God with the blond wings and hair and a Gaston complex?”
Lanky stares at me, unmoving.
“Tazreel…” I repeat again, like saying the name will jog my memory. “Nope, no idea who that is. And no one helped me break
