Crimson Masks

The motel room smelled like bleach and old cigarettes, and the neon sign outside buzzed against the window like a trapped fly. I'd killed men in places nicer than this. I'd also killed men in places worse. The carpet had stains that told stories I didn't want to read.

Devie stood by the bathroom door, her back to me, fingers tracing the edge of the sink. The red star on her forehead caught the flickering light from the sign outside, pulsing like it had its own heartbeat. She hadn't said a word since we checked in. Not that she ever said much when she was nervous. Her shoulders had that particular tension, the kind that made me want to either hold her or torment her until she snapped. Both options had their appeal.

"You're staring," she said, not turning around.

"I'm admiring." I dropped my bag on the chair and kicked off my boots. "There's a difference."

She turned then, and there it was. The blush. It started at her collarbone and climbed up her neck, spreading across her cheeks like spilled wine. For a demon who'd been alive for centuries, she blushed like a teenager caught kissing in a stairwell.

"The mission," she said, her voice doing that thing where it tried to sound steady and failed. "We should go over the details."

"We've been over the details six times."

"Seven."

"Seven times." I crossed the room, slow, because watching her track my movement was half the fun. "And the target won't be at the warehouse until midnight. It's eight o'clock, Devie. What exactly do you want to do for four hours?"

Her heterochromatic eyes went wide. Brown and blue, like a warning and an invitation. She looked at everything in that room except me. The water-stained ceiling. The crooked painting of a sailboat. The clock radio that had probably been there since the eighties.

"We could," she started, then stopped. Swallowed. "We could rest."

"Rest."

"It's been a long week."

I pulled down my mask. Just the bottom half, enough to let her see my mouth. Enough to let her watch me smile. The air in the room shifted. It always did when I did that, when I gave her a piece of what she wanted and made her wait for the rest. She had a thing about my mouth. Never said it out loud, but I'd caught her staring at my lips more times than I could count. Caught her licking her own when she thought I wasn't looking.

"Come here," I said.

She didn't move. "Sofia."

"That's my name. Don't wear it out."

"You know what I mean."

I did know. She meant we shouldn't. She meant there was a job to do, a contract to fulfill, a summoning circle waiting in some abandoned warehouse across town. She meant that every time we did this, it got harder to leave. Harder to pretend we were just two creepypastas sharing a room out of convenience. Harder to remember why we'd ever pretended to hate each other in the first place.

I knew all of that. I also knew the way her breath hitched when I got close. The way her pupils dilated when I touched her hand. The way she said my name in the dark, like a prayer or a curse, like she couldn't decide which one.

"The target's a summoner," I said, stepping closer. "He's been pulling demons out of their realms for months. Forcing them to do things. Terrible things."

Devie's jaw tightened. "I know."

"And you're a demon."

"I'm aware."

"So when we get there, when we stop him, you're going to have to be at full strength." Another step. Close enough to smell her now. Something floral and something darker underneath. "You're going to have to be focused. Calm. In control."

Her eyes met mine. Finally. "What's your point?"

My hand found her waist. The fabric of her dress was thin, worn soft from centuries of wear. I felt her shiver, felt her try to hide it. Failed.

"My point," I said, "is that you're wound so tight right now you'll snap the second we walk through that door. You'll lose control. You'll do something you regret. And then I'll have to clean it up, and I hate cleaning up."

"You're saying this is for my own good."

"I'm saying I'm being practical."

She laughed. It was a small sound, barely there, but it was real. The first real laugh I'd heard from her in three days. "You're never practical, Sofia. You're the least practical person I've ever met."

"Rude."

"True."

I pulled her closer. Her hands came up to my chest, not pushing, not pulling. Just resting there like she was trying to decide. The star on her forehead flickered, and I watched the light play across her face. Pale skin. Light freckles. Those impossible eyes that couldn't decide what color they wanted to be.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"No you don't."

"I should."

"But you don't." I tilted my head, let my mouth hover just above hers. Not touching. Not yet. "You don't hate me, Devie. You've tried. For decades, you've tried. And you can't."

Her fingers curled into my shirt. "You're insufferable."

"I know."

"You're arrogant."

"Also know."

"You make me want to..." She stopped. Her cheeks went from pink to red, the blush spreading like fire.

"Want to what?" I asked, my voice low. "Finish the sentence, demon."

She kissed me instead. Hard, desperate, like she'd been holding back for years and finally broke. Her hands moved from my chest to my hair, tangling, pulling. I tasted her, the sweetness and the smoke, the centuries of loneliness she carried like a second skin. My mask was still half-on, but she didn't care. She never cared about the mask. She'd seen what was underneath the first time we met, and she'd stayed anyway.

I walked her backward until her back hit the wall. The painting of the sailboat rattled. The neon light flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off, and neither of us noticed.

"You're going to ruin me," she breathed against my mouth.

"Probably."

"This mission. The summoner. Everything."

"We'll handle it."

"You can't promise that."

I pulled back just enough to look at her. Her lips were swollen, her hair already a mess, that star burning bright on her forehead. She looked like a disaster. She looked like everything I'd ever wanted.

"I can promise I'll be there," I said. "I can promise I won't let anything happen to you. I can promise that when this is over, when the summoner is dead and the demons are free, I'll still be here. Right here. With you."

Her eyes glistened. Demons didn't cry. Everyone knew that. But something shimmered there, something that might have been tears if she let it be.

"I love you," she said.

It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. But every time she said it, it hit me like a fist to the chest. This creature. This ancient, powerful, gentle creature who could tear the world apart if she wanted to. And she loved me. A girl with a mask and a smart mouth and a past full of blood. She loved me anyway.

"I know," I said.

She punched my shoulder. "That's my line."

"Too slow."

She pulled me back in, and this time there was no hesitation. The mask came off completely. The dress came next, pooling at her feet like spilled ink. The star on her forehead was the only light in the room, red and pulsing, and I followed it like a beacon. Like a prayer. Like the only thing that had ever made sense.

We had four hours. We'd use them.

The mission could wait.