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“Don’t look so surprised,” I drawled. “You did this to yourself.”
She cried, squeezing her eyes shut, and I wrapped the rope around the tree trunk to hold her in place.
Slapping my palms together to remove the dirt from them, I stepped back and eyed my work. Margaret wiggled her legs, and her toes pointed out as she tried to loosen the noose around her neck. Soon enough, she’d get exhausted and fall forward, killing herself.
“It’ll be a slow death for you, and you deserve it,” I said slowly so she could hear my every word over her pounding heart. “Grace depended on you to do the right thing. She begged you to say something and stop your piece of shit husband from touching her. But you didn’t. Now it’s your turn to choke and suffer as your consequence.”
I turned away, ignoring her cries and muffled pleas.
Daiman crouched beside Christy, the flames shadowing parts of his mask but making the red upside-down cross darker and more obvious.
I approached Robert and grunted as I picked him up and dropped him on the chair I’d pulled outside just for him. I held him in place with shadows while I tied a rope around him and pinned his hands on the armrests. Once done, I began setting up one of my favorite torture devices—a leather collar with a double-sided fork. One end went underneath the chin, and the other pressed against Robert’s throat. If he moved his head down, the prongs would penetrate his mouth and above his sternum. I stripped off Robert’s clothes, my lip curling at his pathetic excuse for a dick. It was thin and about four inches long.
Glancing over my shoulder, I spotted Daiman kicking the daughter to wake her up.
It’s showtime.
I slapped Robert’s cheek. “Wake up.”
His eyebrows drew together, and I watched as he blinked open his eyes. They were sightless as he recovered from being punched by a demon. After a few more minutes, he finally came to. I waved my fingers, removing the stitches that kept his mouth sewn shut.
“Wh-what’s going on?” He jerked his arms and yelled as the spikes dug into his flesh. “What is that?”
A devilish smile spread across my face, and I fisted my hand in his hair, holding him still. “It’s a form of torture that one of your own people came up with in medieval times.” I cocked my head and smirked. “It’s used to make nonbelievers confess and convert to Christianity. Do you know what it’s called?”
He panted as he held back his head, eyes wide. “N-no.”
“Heretic’s fork. It forces you to look up at the heavens, begging God for forgiveness for all your sins. If you move your head down, both ends of the fork will thrust into your mouth and throat. It’ll be a slow death as you choke on your blood.”
Fear darkened his widened eyes, and he breathed harder. His face twisted in pain. “Please. I don’t know who you are, but just let me and my family go.”
I tsked and stepped back, leaving it up to him to keep his head in the awkward position. He watched me with flared nostrils.
“You should have thought about it before you touched Grace. Consider this the beginning of what waits for you on the other side. I promise you won’t be seeing God when you die.”
He swallowed, and a girl screamed. I looked in her direction. Daiman used his shadows to raise Christy into the air, forcing her to grab the thick rope dangling over the pit. He beckoned the girl to let go and land on the awaiting spikes.
I chuckled and looked at Margaret, who slowly hung herself as she grew tired and unable to stand on her toes. Every twenty seconds, she kicked her feet and gripped the tight noose around her neck, stealing a small gasp of air into her lungs.
Turning back to Robert, I smiled. “We have more in store for you. This isn’t all you’re getting.”
Daiman strutted toward us, swooped down, and picked up the garden shears. I grabbed the power drill with a thin metal corkscrew latched onto the end.
My eyes met Robert’s. I smiled.
“You’re going to watch your family die. Each time your wife and daughter slip, creeping closer to death, we cut off one of your fingers.”
Robert swallowed hard and winced as the fork’s tip pierced the sensitive skin under his jaw. “Please,” he begged between his clenched teeth. “Have mercy on us.”
I sobered and scowled at him. “You don’t deserve mercy,” I spat.
Daiman went to Robert’s side, opposite me, and crouched down as he grabbed Robert’s fingers. Robert squealed, crying, knowing what we had planned for those fat digits.
Margaret groaned, struggling for air.
Daiman slid the shear blades over Robert’s finger and squeezed the handles, cutting it off at the third knuckle. Robert howled, his shoulders tensing. The prongs dug deeper into his skin, slowly reaching into his body. He threw back his head, panting and sobbing. Blood smeared on his neck and traveled down to his chest.
A slow smile crept to my face as I watched Daiman torture Robert. One by one, he snipped off his fingers. I listened to his cries for help, pleased that no one would hear him.
