Page 104 of Devil Inside

“Here we are.”

“No. You. I want to seeyou. Therealyou, what you are, without your host.”

“You wouldn’t like what you see...”

“Why not let me decide what I like and don’t? That’s my call, don’t you think?”

“Trust us.”

“I’m trying, but how can I if you won’t even show me who—”

what

“—you are?”

“No,” we say after considering it. “We can’t show you. Not yet.”

“When?”

When we’re ready. When we’re not afraid.“Soon.”

“Swear?”

“We swear.”

He kisses us. It feels deeper, his presence, reaching into us. We close our eyes and lose ourselves.

Does Jordan feel his body leave the seat? Does he notice our ascent? The two of us intertwined, finding the beam of lightfrom the film projector, as if to discover our own spiral, and begin to spin, limbs twisting over the abyss, the very vertigo of the moment sweeping us into itself, consuming us, that white-hot light, so bright it’s capable of burning.

Does Jordan sense our levitation? Our dance over the heads of everyone else? The pit below, all those lost souls, trapped in the chasm beneath us, staring at the screen, ignorant to the dance of devils, the spiraling bodies, intertwined, consumed by light?

Does he feel us? Vertigo in and of itself has always been a component of religious practices. The dizziness that sweeps over is the spirit entering the vessel’s body.

We sweep him up, whisk him away. A vulgar display, yes, but we are only sharing it with one. With him.

The weeping crystals chime within the eddy of our passing bodies, tinkling ever so faintly as we spiral by. We are here, dancing, spinning, spiraling, lost in the projector’s light.

I could make it fall. Just a few more twists and away it would go, dropping onto the audience below. Crushing them all.

We need to slow down. Temper ourselves. Things are moving too fast. We’re losing ourselves. We can’t let go. Not yet. Not without him.

Besides, there’s our gift to give. We’ve been waiting for this moment all night.

“We have something for you,” we whisper. We love giving gifts. “Something special.”

“What is it?” he asks.

“A surprise...”

my ride or die

Jordan

It’s not real.That’s the first thought that pops into my head the second I see it—the glint of metal, the matte-black frame, the starburst of spokes.I must be imagining it.

“What is this?” I ask, totally thrown by the bike before me. I need someone else to acknowledge its presence, the tangibility of it, just to make sure that it’s actuallythere.

I need someone else to say it’s real first. Then I’ll believe.