Demon Turned Lover [BxB]

The alley

The setting sun had gilded the formerly blue sky. It was an alert for Earth's people, to motherly tell them that they need not add to the layer of exertion, to cause the children to grab their colourful toothbrushes and stuffed animals. But here I was, gaping at it with apologies scrawled on my eyes, the raven-haired's grip constricting my already thin wrist. He refused to tell me where we were going, and the foremost question, why. We had taken so many inconversant turns, passing frowzy corner shops and fancy restaurants, that I had almost thought that Mammon was seeing me to my death.

There was rarely anyone out trekking on the frigid paths of the streets, and those who were, skewed away from us as if we were some rabid dogs; their heads were droopy, like the sun was thawing away the muscles in their necks.

My intolerance was growing stably, and I was continuously measuring it in my head with a pencil. "Mammon, for the last time, where are we going?"

"Just bear with me alright angel?...It's a surprise." It was no surprise, I knew. It was as though the raven-haired was striding on bubble wrap, but rather than the worthwhile pops, rage and aggravation fulminated from the blisters with every step. These weren't the emotions one would feel when bringing someone to an alleged surprise.

"Mammon...I know it's not a surprise. Come on, you can tell me you know."

"I know I can tell you, but I'd rather you see it. Jus' a little more walking."

We began down another path after taking a right turn, and Mammon lessened his zealous pace. This part of town was abnormally quiet, with only an intrepid brown-striped cat stalking the paths. The shops with rentable rooms above them seemed old, but weren't at the edge of dilapidation, and were painted dull colours—colours that were presumably once flamboyant, and full of life, but had become depressed over the years.

The raven-haired suspended himself from going any further, and turned to look at me. We stopped in front of an old-fashioned pub with a grey brick wall, the internal light looking through the window and shop's LED sign, Pilsen Pub, glared at us.

"We're goin' somewhere with a lot of people, okay?" he whispered.

I glanced at the fulgarating sign, "The pub?..."

"Nah. I need you to act normal, you know, like my...cousin." Mammon set his hands on my shoulders, like he was going to shake his requests into my pores. "Your name's Luka, you're nineteen, and you're my cousin visitin' 'cause your mom's on holiday. Got it?"

"You're acting like I'm going to forget my name..."

A smile was brought to his face before he withdrew his hands reluctantly, "And you...uh...might wanna' cover up that hickey."

My lips purveyed the red pigment they used, all over my face as I instinctively covered the hickey with my palm. I felt so embarrassed—I had been walking around the town...with this hickey, so crisp and so pronounced, on my neck.

"Or not...They'll never know I gave it to you," the raven-haired commented, lengthening the vowels so as to make them dwell rousingly in my ears. He rotated on his heel, and started ambling down the long rectangular ashtray that was the path, leaving a flustered me in the lurch.

Mammon had entered a dark alley purloined from the myriad of horror movies we watched, right as my feet brought me behind him. The certainty that he was leading me to my death was at its apex.

I stared ahead,"Dante...what is this place?"

Large black garbage bags were sitting composedly abreast the wheeled green bin. Flyers were distributed all over the wide path, and I shunned them like the cracks in a path. The conversing of a group of people could be heard not so far away.