I smirk. "No."

“Then there’s your answer! I don’t need my henchmen to protect me from you. And since you’re here, I figured they could sit this one out,” she explains impatiently.

So, she's mentally ill. Got it.

“Ah.”

“Ah?” she repeats, aghast. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re fucking insane, little girl. Where are these demons again, or whatever you call them?” I ask, my own tone becoming clipped.

It took five seconds to no longer give a fuck about what she's seeing. It doesn't impact me at the end of the day, so I couldn't give less of a shit at this point. If she wants to pretend there's gigantic talking bananas following me around with pitchforks, then I'll indulge her as long as I get my time with the four men waiting for me upstairs.

When she brings me into the room, they immediately start screaming. Wriggling about like worms caught on a hook. I can’t tell if Mark is screaming because he thinks I’m going to help him or kill him, but I suppose I’m going to do both. Help him atone for his sins and then kill him for it.

“Do they know you?” the doll asks, and I hum in confirmation, taking in their appearances and broken bones.

The other three men look at me like I'm the boogeyman. And that’s as Zack, the self-made millionaire. Wait until I tell them who I really am—I'm sure their faces will look like Casper’s.

I only need to learn about two things. Find out where the rituals are being held and how to get into the place, and find out if the Society is after Addie. Whatever else they have to say is no longer a concern.

“You sure no one can hear them?”

“I do this all the time,” she answers simply. I inspect her from the corner of my eye, looking her up and down.

“You kill people often?”

She’s a small thing, but the girl can fight. And by the near-constant murderous gleam in her eye, it truly doesn’t surprise me.

She shrugs. “Only the demons.”

I can’t help the small grin. “Do you call yourself the demon-slayer too?”

She snarls and stomps her foot like the child she’s dressed up to be. “You’re not funny!”

I disagree.

But instead of arguing, I turn my attention back to the matter at hand.

Just as expected, the second I rip the tape from his mouth, he starts pleading for his life. And the minute I tell Mark who I really am, his reddened face instantly drains of all blood until his skin is an ashen, grey pallor. The other three men’s faces follow suit, looking at me as if I’m the grim reaper.

I smile.

I am the fucking grim reaper.

I ignore Mark’s reminders that we were friends and his pathetic attempt to point the blame on his business partners while citing his own innocence.

It doesn’t surprise me that he’d pass off the blame so easily to others. He’s selfish, narcissistic, and a complete imbecile. And by the look on the distressed men’s face sitting next to him, they don’t think highly of him right now, either.

In the short time that I’ve known Mark, I've discovered not very many of his colleagues do.

He's loud, boisterous, and outspoken. Always trying to be the cool guy and fit in with the crowd. I've also heard through the grapevine that Mark tends to disagree with a lot of his colleague’s political views. Always voting opposite on bills within his own party.

Don't give two fucks about politics either, at least not the kind that deals with laws and regulations. I break those on a daily basis. The fuck would I care about what laws are getting passed when I've never applied them to my life anyway?

I also manage to piss off the demon-slayer when she starts whining about not getting to kill them yet.

“By all means, start the killing,” I say, gesturing towards Miller, Jack, and Robert. “Don’t let me stop your demon-slaying.”

The air whistles, my only indication that some type of weapon is on its way to plowing into my head like the asteroids that killed off the dinosaurs. I jerk to the side, watching the blade sluice right past my head and into Mark’s gut.

That looks like it fucking hurts.

And then she goes off the deep end, tackling Robert and stabbing him until he's literally mush. Despite the fact that he's no longer a solid mass, she keeps going. It’s when Mark starts puking that I’ve had enough.

Sighing, I get up and walk over to her, grabbing her hand and stopping her from her inane stabbing. She's got strength and energy, that's for sure. It takes a lot to stab someone repeatedly. It's more exhausting than people give it credit for. Stabbing someone even up to a hundred times with the force she's using would have a grown man panting for breath.

And while a thin layer of sweat coats her made-up face, she looks like she's ready for more.

“Now you’re going to stop me from demon-slaying?!” she shrieks, her voice pitched so high, it nearly makes me cringe. God. Fucking women and their screeching.

“Little girl, there’re quite a few things you need to get serious help for, but I’d say anger management is top of the list.”

She stares at me, her face starting to get twitchy. She looks like a malfunctioning robot, and I'd say that this experience now takes the number one spot of the interesting situations I've gotten myself into.

She looks on the verge of exploding, so I reign in my temper and demand, “Look at me.”

Her big ass brown eyes stare up at me, and if it wasn’t for the crazed glimmer in her eye and the fact that she’s covered head to toe in blood, she’d look innocent and sweet.

What a fucking lie that would be.

“Drop the knife.” Her hand instantly seizes, letting the knife clang to the blood-soaked floor. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Sibel.” She pauses. “My friends call me Sibby.”

A pang of pity stabs at me. Something tells me the only friends this girl has are the people in her head. This girl is alone—completely alone. Judging by her niche for lurking in the walls, I would bet money that no one that works at this fair is even aware of her presence.

Sighing internally, I decide to throw the girl a bone. Don’t know if it’s because I feel fucking bad for her or what, but fuck, I guess I do.

“You’re an interesting person, Sibby. But I’m going to need you to calm the fuck down. I can’t interrogate in peace when you’re over there stabbing someone like a cracked-out banshee, you feel me?”

She physically relaxes at the use of her nickname. At me declaring her as my friend. And fuck if that doesn’t make me feel a little worse for her.

Reluctantly, she nods her head, and after reassurance that I’m not making fun when I call her a demon-slayer and wiping an eyeball off of the tip of the knife, I hand it back to her as a peace offering. And then I go back to interrogating Mark.

This time in fucking peace.

“Mark, are you going to give me the information I need? I want to know where you do the rituals,” I ask, my voice as emotionless as my expression.

“Z, I swear, I don’t know anything!” Mark lies. There’s vomit stuck on his lip from when he puked while watching Sibby completely obliterate his dear old friend.

Shit was brutal, even I can admit that.

I reach down, pick up Mark’s hand, dig the tip of my knife under his nail and pluck it right off. Mark screams bloody murder, but the sorry piece of shit hasn’t even felt real pain yet.

“Try again,” I say evenly. He protests again, lying through his veneers, so I rip off another nail with the tip of my blade. When I position my knife under the third nail and lift, he finally gives.

I almost laugh. The children he kidnaps last longer with torture than he does, which shows that Mark was always weak.

“Okay, wait, wait!” I pause, lifting a brow and waiting for him to continue. His breathing is erratic as tears and snot track down his face. Licking his lips nervously, he confesses, “S-some of the kids we take, we take them to an underground club.”