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Luke
It’s not uncommon for people who have been possessed not to remember most of the process. It’s part of the way their brain protects them from the worst of it. There are plenty of things that the movies get wrong. Except this one.
The one where these people do humiliating, unspeakable things to themselves.
Well, the demonmakesthem do it, but there’s guilt there. The possessed don’t understand that they aren’t in control. Even if they are conscious, they’re merely copilots in their own body. They can scream at the driver all they want, but they can’t take the driver’s foot off the pedal.
And she really doesn’t remember anything. Woods was testing her. Trine didn’t call us; it was one of her friends. I remember her name, Ilana Joslin. I talked to her on the phone, took down her details, took Trine’s information from her. I’ll ask her about her friend later, maybe. If it comes up.
Woods sighs. He closes the fold of the leather cover on his phone, sliding the pen back into the slot. "That was great, Trine," he says softly. "You did well."
She cocks her head, her dark eyes narrowing. It would be hard not to notice this girl’s looks because she is exceptionally beautiful, but mostly, I’m entranced with her eyes. They’re light brown, with splashes of green and gold, and they twinkle every time she speaks. She shifts in her chair, clearly not satisfied. "Is that it?" she asks.
"No," Misha says. "Food. Then we can keep talking about this. You must be hungry."
He picks up a menu, fingering the edge of it with long, sparkling nails.
Trine cocks her head, her dark eyes narrowing. "You said you were paying, right?" she asks.
A smile tugs at the corner of Misha’s lips. He likes this girl. She’s gutsy. "Yes," he says. "I did say that."
"In that case, I think I’ll try the white sturgeon caviar," she replies. "And since there’s a chance I won’t like caviar, since I’ve never tried it before, I think it’s best that I also order a NY strip."
"Whatever you want. I assume you ordered an expensive cocktail?" Misha asks.
"No," she says, shaking her head. "But I probably should have."
"You still can," he replies, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest. I watch her gaze slowly flit over his sleeves, taking in the swirls of black ink on his bicep. It’s not a surprise. Misha usually has this effect on women. It shouldn’t make me feel anything except the same amusement it normally does.
But something about her—about Trine drinking him in like this—annoys me immediately. I take a sip of my water, looking away from her, trying to keep a hold of myself.
I’m tired. It’s always harder for me to think when I’m tired.
"What are you drinking, father?" she asks, cocking her head to look at me, her gaze on my empty wine glass.
"You can call me Luke," I reply. "Please."
"Okay, Luke," she says my name with heavy irony. It would be hard to miss. "How was your wine?"
"Lovely," I reply, flashing her a warm smile. If she wants to believe I don’t know how to read her tone, she’s more than welcome to do that. I shouldn’t be this invested in how she perceives me, anyway. Her opinion is entirely out of my purview. "Thank you for asking."
She leans forward. "Can I ask you something?" she says, looking into my eyes. Strands of flaxen hair catch in the sunlight streaming through the window, framing her pale gold skin.
"I do believe it’s only fair," I say.
She smirks. "I get that these two are capitalists," she says, tilting her head toward them. "Probably preying on some poor young mentally ill people."
Misha opens his mouth to speak, but Rei shakes his head softly, practically imperceptibly. So Misha shuts his mouth, stiffening instead and watching the two of us intently.
"But aren’t you supposed to, you know, stand for something?" she asks. She takes a sip of her drink and wets her lips with her tongue. "I mean, don’t get me wrong. I don’t understand why any young people would sign up to be part of a Church and you don’t look a day over thirty-five to me."
"Thank you, Trine."
She waves me off. "But why do this? I mean, I assume he’s paying you," she says, her gaze flitting toward Misha for a second. "But is that it? Like is that all you need?"
I consider this, running my fingers up and down the stem of the empty wine glass in front of me. I have no reason not to be forthcoming with her. I’ll likely never see her again after tonight. "Do you want the real answer or the political one?" I ask, leaning in just a little closer.
"The real one," she says, her expression softening a little.
