The girl with red hair(73)

The demon stopped its feast.

Mid-chew, mid-laugh, mid-devour—he just stopped.

Not because of pain. 

Not because of exhaustion.

But because of it.

The brick.

The ancient, battered piece I had dragged from the fog and the cathedral. 

The one pressed against my blood-streaked chest like a last prayer.

He stared at it.

Really stared.

And the look in his one good eye...

It scared me.

Not rage. 

Not hatred. 

Not the sick pleasure he wore when ripping me apart.

No.

Reverence.

Passion, almost sacred.

It curled his face into something unrecognizable—something worshipful. 

A kind of hunger so pure it made all the other violence he had done seem like child's play.

And it wasn't just him.

The crew.

Those coward rats in the corners, the ones who couldn't even meet my eyes a few minutes ago, who shielded their groins and whimpered like beaten dogs—

They moved too.

Slow at first. 

Then faster.

Like they were drawn by a smell only they could sense.

Like the brick itself had called to them.

Possessed.

That's what they looked like.

Each one lurching forward, limbs heavy, eyes glassy with desperation. 

Not for me.

For the brick.

For whatever power they believed it held.

And the demon?

He moved too.

Staggered at first, blood still pouring from his ruined eye and the shredded wreckage of his groin.

But with purpose.

With singular, blinding focus.

He didn't even look at me.

Didn't care about the pistol still clutched in my hand. 

Didn't care about the fact that I was still breathing, still standing.

I was nothing to him now.

Not compared to that brick.

He stumbled forward, dropped to his knees like a priest before a relic.

He crouched beside the brick, moving slow, gentle—like an archaeologist brushing dust from a relic lost to time.

His massive, blood-slick hand hovered over it.

So careful.

So delicate.

The same hand that crushed my skull without a thought.

The same hand that ripped out my intestines like loose threads.

Now it shook with anticipation.

He lowered his hand.

Reaching.

Yearning.

And just as his fingers brushed the air above the brick—

Another hand shot out.

One of the crew.

A man driven mad by whatever spell the brick had cast.

He moved fast—desperate, reckless—reaching to snatch it from under the demon's nose.

For a heartbeat, I thought he might make it.

That he'd grab it. 

That he'd tear it away.

But hope was a stupid thing.

Especially here.

The demon's hand clamped down on his wrist faster than a blink.

I heard it.

The crack.

The crunch.

The wet, horrible sound of bones shattering like twigs underfoot.

The crewman's scream barely had time to escape his lips before the demon yanked him closer.

Fast.

Savage.

The demon's teeth found the man's throat in the next second.

And bit down.

Hard.

Ripping a huge chunk out of his neck in a single, brutal motion.

Blood sprayed across the deck, hot and wild, painting the demon's face like war paint.

He chewed once.

Swallowed.

And with a casual flick, he hurled the dying man into the sea.

I heard it.

The splash.

The gurgled, gasping screams.

And then—

The sea answered.

They were waiting.

The bastards of the deep.

Those half-komodo dragon, half-leech monstrosities that clung to the underside of the ship, that had were always in the water.

I could hear them now.

Their squealing.

Their claws scraping wood.

Their heavy, wet bodies slapping against the sides of the ship as they tried to climb up, try to feed, try to tear whatever meat fell into their waiting mouths.

The waters churned and hissed like something alive.

Something hungry.

I laughed.

Soft.

Broken.

Because why the fuck not?

I could complete most of my wishes now, couldn't I?

I could tear this place apart with my dying breath. 

I could carve the ritual into the bones of this ship if I had to. 

I could make sure the girls didn't just die for nothing.

The demon could have his meal.

The sea could have him as sacrifice.

But me?

I would have my vengeance. I would have completed a promise I made.

I clutched the brick tighter, feeling its weight, its hum, its ancient rage answering my own.

The demon turned back to it—hesitating now, blood dripping from his mouth, from his hands, from the ragged hole in his gut.

But the reverence in his eye hadn't dulled.

If anything, it had sharpened.

Because he knew.

Somewhere deep inside whatever shriveled soul he still had left—

He knew this brick mattered more than any broken body.

More than me. 

More than him.

This brick could end things.

Or start them.

And he wasn't ready to lose it.

Neither was I.

We stared at each other over the tiny, battered thing lying between us.

And for the first time since this nightmare began—

We were both afraid.

Not of each other.

Not of death.

But of something bigger.

Something waiting just beyond the veil, watching.

Waiting to be unleashed.

And I smiled.

Because win or lose—

I was going to complete the ritual and unleash it.

One way or another.