The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Poppy

As the SUV snakes through the grounds and out of a large, wrought iron gate, something hits me like a ton of bricks. Something I hadn’t considered when I woke up this morning to Lorcan Quinn asking—no, demanding—I get up and get dressed.

We’re in Boston. My hometown. Of course, I already knew we were here, but it’s the first time that I’ve put two and two together.

The shops and cafes and the neighborhoods pass by in a devastating blur of familiarity. We pass the playing fields my school used to hold Sports Day in. Then there is the hill with the fancy houses — I’d always rummage through their trash to find broken treasures. I worked so hard to leave this city behind, yet the man that chained me to it is sitting less than a foot away.

We drive into the Sumner tunnel, plunging us into sudden darkness. In the reflection of the car window, I can see Lorcan watching me.

“Who is he?” I ask.

“Who?”

“The man outside the house. You look alike.”

As we come out of the tunnel, Lorcan plucks the aviators from his top pocket and slides them up the bridge of his nose. “Antoin. My second in command.”

I nod. “He looks scary.”

Jaw set, he turns to stare at me. “Scarier than me?”

An unwanted smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Good,” he grunts back.

We spend the rest of the ride in silence until we pull into the Theater District and come to a stop down an alley. On my side of the car, there’s a steel gray door with two trash cans on either side. My heart sinks. I think it’s pretty safe to assume that’s where we’re going.

“Keep your mouth shut and your smile pretty.”

Suddenly, the partition rolls up, separating us and the driver. Great. What’s better than being in a car with Lorcan Quinn? Being alone in a car with Lorcan Quinn.

“Look at me.” Lorcan’s voice is so quiet that it draws me to him immediately. There’s something unusual clouding his face. Concern? No chance, I must be imagining it. “You’re nervous.”

The lump in my throat is too big to swallow. Maybe it’s because he’s showing something that almost resembles humility. “I… please, don’t hurt me,” I choke out. The tears prickle behind my eyes but I refuse to let them fall. My pathetic words are embarrassing enough.

I’m surprised by the deep scowl that dents his forehead. He searches my eyes with confusion, before softening his gaze. His hand reaches for my cheek, and I don’t pull away. “I don’t like you, Miss Murphy,” he says, each word that leaves his lips is short and strangled. “But you’re mine. And nobody gets to hurt what’s mine. And if they do, I will do more than hurt them. Understood?” He stares with such an intensity I find myself nodding. The palm against my cheek feels almost reassuring.

A stray butterfly that didn’t get the memo flutters in my stomach. I nod.

“Good,” he says sourly, reaching past me to open the car door. “Get out. Oh, and Miss Murphy?” I turn to face him. The hardened expression is back. “Don’t even think about running. I found you all the way in California, I’ll find you on my own turf embarrassingly quickly.”

I don’t doubt it.

He steps out of the car and raps on the driver’s window. He murmurs something, and I see the back of the driver’s head nod in agreement.

Then, he comes around to my side of the car and tugs the door open.

Lorcan leads the way to the building, trying the door handle. He rap, tap, taps on the metal door with the irritation of a man that’s never come across a locked door in his life. I watch him, setting his jaw, clenching and unclenching his fists. And when the door rattles and creaks open, he transforms into a completely different Devil.

A broad smile stretches across his hard face, without a trace of his cruel menace. “Mickey,” he says, with a deep nod.

Mickey steps out from the shadows of the doorway. Stout, bald—late fifties would be my guess. Too many rings on his fingers, and too many chains around his neck. He cups his hand to his forehead to squint up at Lorcan.

“Mr. Quinn?” he clarifies, unable to hide the surprise from his voice. “I didn’t expect—i-is everything okay?”

Lorcan claps a hand to the man’s shoulder, causing him to stumble. “Everything’s great, Mick,” he purrs. “May we come in?”

Only now does Mickey realize there’s a “we.” He turns to drink me in and the confusion clouding his face melts into something else. An expression that every woman has been the focus of at some point in their life. “And who is this beauty?” He leers.

Lorcan claps his hand against his shoulder again, this time, it’s deliberately hard. There’s a crack from one of his joints and it makes me wince. “Off limits,” he growls, bearing his teeth. “Let’s talk inside, shall we?”

We follow Mickey into the building. Lorcan stays close and places a firm hand on my hip. It burns with protectiveness. I don’t know whether it’s his way of reminding me of his promise that nothing bad will happen to me, or he’s reminding me of what will happen if I run.

Either way, as we emerge from the staff entrance of a seedy nightclub, I’m grateful for his presence.

Stripper poles on podiums, red velvet booths, and matching curtains leading to the unknown tell me everything I need to know about this place, and everything I need to know about Mickey.

There’s a lone woman leaning over the bar, and Lorcan’s eyes are immediately drawn to her. Denim cut-offs disappearing up her ass crack, huge tits attempting the Great Escape from the tiny triangles of her bikini top.

Jealousy prickles at my skin, and I mentally scold myself for being so pathetic. I have no doubt that men like Lorcan Quinn fuck everything with a pulse.

“Let’s go to your office,” Lorcan says, dragging his eyes off the stripper and nodding to a door off the side.

My sandals stick to the floor as we cross the club and enter a small office.

Mickey lets out a nervous laugh and sinks into the chair behind the desk. His finger hovers over a button on his telephone. “Drink?”

“We won’t be staying that long.”

Lorcan commands the space while I find the nearest corner to disappear into. The fear of the unknown is brewing in my stomach.

“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Quinn?”

“I’m here to ask you for a favor, Mickey.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm. I guess nobody wants to do the Devil a favor. “Anything,” he says with an expression that betrays him.

“I’d like you to accept my apology for the confusion with the supply this week. There was an… administrative issue on our supplier’s end.”

Mickey scratches the scuff around his jaw and says, “W-well, yes. It’s been a hard weekend.”

Lorcan nods. “I understand. Unfortunately, we’ll have the same issue for a couple more weeks. Of course, we’ll be happy to compensate you.”

Mickey is all ears; it’s clear that money is a language he likes to talk. “Compensate?” he says with a gappy grin, eyes brushing over the emerald ring on Lorcan’s finger and the oversized watch on his wrist.

“We’ll take off five percent of our fees for the next four weeks.”

Mickey’s not quick enough at hiding the disappointment. “We lost half a mil in profits this weekend, Mr. Quinn,” he says, his carefully chosen words burning with anger. “I can’t speak for the other clubs and bars in the theater district, but a little more slack would go a long way.”

“I don’t negotiate.”

Lorcan’s tone is all ice and daggers; his looming body scarily still.

The standoff lasts for less than a beat; Mickey bows his head and clasps his hands together. “Of course, Mr. Quinn. Forgive me.”

“Talking of fees, I’m here to collect.”

If I wasn’t so observant, I wouldn’t see it. The way Mickey’s demeanor shifts. It’s less than a degree—his face remains neutral, his jaw still clenched. But I notice the whitening of his knuckles; the straightening of his back.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

“Conor usually collects. I-I was expecting Conor today.”

“Yes, one of my henchmen. But instead, you have me. I wanted to deliver my apology in person. Problem?”

Lorcan’s words are more loaded than a gun.

“Of course not,” Mickey says, keeping his voice even. With slow, deliberate movements, he rises to his feet, takes the two steps to the safe against the back wall, and sinks to his knees to punch in a long passcode.

I feel more and more nauseous with every beep, whir and clink. Suffocated by the unknown. Mickey drags a duffel out of the safe and drops it onto the desk with a heavy thud. He drags open the zipper and takes away a few stacks of cash. “The five percent,” he says, glancing towards Lorcan, as if to double-check this deal is still good.

“Count it.”

Mickey falters and he says, “Oh, come on, Mr. Quinn. Conor never counts—”

“Not you.” Lorcan turns to my little corner of the office, eyes grazing mine. “You.”

I’m pinned to the chair by the sudden attention of both the men. My mouth flaps open and closes as quickly.

“You can count, right?” Lorcan challenges me.

The heat rises to my face, along with a prickle of annoyance. “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “But—”

“Then count,” he growls with a tone that immediately shifts the atmosphere in the room. In one, swift motion, he picks up the bag and dumps it on my lap. Then, he turns back to Mickey, a broad, menacing smile stretching over his lips. “How about that drink, then?”

Mickey fumbles on the buzzer, ordering something French-sounding on the rocks. The words pass right over my head. The only thing I can focus on is the stack of money weighing down my thighs and Lorcan’s intense, unwavering glare.

I pick up a bundle of hundred-dollar bills and begin to count. I’ve never held this much money in my life, but I’m not a complete stranger to counting cash. Running my restoration business in college, I had a handful of old-school collectors that’d prefer to pay in crisp Benjamin’s rather than bank transfer.

I snap the band off, passing each hundred dollar bill from one hand to the other, trying my hardest to do basic arithmetic under the weight of the thick tension swirling the room.

But as I thumb note after note, something seems off.

I pause, running a trembling finger over the edge of the bill.

I’m sure I’m right…

“Is there a problem?”

Lorcan’s ice-cold voice cuts through the suspense. Again, my mouth flaps open and closes.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Mickey says, but the breeziness in his tone is forced. “It’s all there. I counted it twice—”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Lorcan growls, cutting him off. “Poppy,” he says, eyes glowering, “what’s the problem?”

I take in a lungful of thick air, knowing that I have mere seconds to assess the situation.

I hate Lorcan Quinn. I hate everything about him. He might look like a movie star but evil intentions trickle through his veins.

I owed him nothing but yet he took everything. I have nothing to give him, apart from two things:

My virginity, and the truth.

There’s a part of me that hopes if I give him the latter, he won’t take the former.

“The security thread should be on the left.”

Lorcan’s jaw sets. “Explain.”

I clear my throat. “On a hundred dollar bill, the security thread should be on the left of Franklin’s portrait. All of these bills… the thread is on the right,” I blurt out.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I—”

The way Lorcan slips the gun from his pocket, releases the safety catch and points it at Mickey’s head is eerily fast. He works with the skill of a man who could do this in his sleep. “Stop talking,” he growls out of the side of his mouth, his eyes still trained on me. “Are you saying the money is fake?”

“I—”

“It’s a yes or no answer, Miss Murphy.”

But the answer is stuck in my throat like a wad of cotton balls. I manage a nod.

“Fake! Of course it’s not fake!” Mickey erupts, slamming his palms against his desk and making me jump. Spittle flies from his lips. “I’d never dream of giving you fake money, Mr. Quinn. Do you really think I’d insult your intelligence—”

“Then prove it,” Lorcan snarls, nodding to the small, black machine on the corner of the desk. Without taking his aim off Mickey, he strides over and snatches the bundle of notes from my hand, peels one off and holds it up to the dim light. “Let’s run it through the counterfeit machine. If the light turns red, I’ll shoot you.” Then, he turns his glare back to me. “And if it goes green, I’ll shoot her.”

The blood rushes to my head, and if I wasn’t already sitting down, my legs would buckle underneath me. Before I can work up the words to protest, he slides the note through the machine.

In the nineteen years I’ve been alive, I’ve learned to trust my gut. I know what’s coming. I squeeze my eyes shut, bringing my knees up and my arms over my head, blocking out the office.

What you can’t see can’t hurt you. What you can’t see can’t hurt you. What you can’t see can’t hurt you.

A whir.

An alarm.

A gunshot.

A scream.

It comes from me. Ripping from my throat and piercing through the gap in my thighs. Strong hands grab my shoulders, but somehow I manage to slip from underneath them, running towards the door on buckling legs. I ignore the horrified-looking stripper frozen by the bar and focus on unsticking my feet from the floor, one at a time, as I stumble to the door we entered through. I’m plunged into darkness, fumbling through the corridor, the horror of what I just witnessed clutching at my throat.

Footsteps behind me. “Poppy,” a calm voice echoes down the corridor. I hate how out of place it is. How can you be so calm after you shoot a man dead?! But the horror clutching at my throat won’t let me ask the question.

I fumble along the brickwork, slamming into the walls because I’m so unsteady on my feet.

It takes no time at all for those heavy footsteps to catch up with me.

I can’t see Lorcan Quinn, but I can feel him. He throws his body against mine, wrapping his arm over mine. I struggle like a fish out of water, my throat burning from my screams, until I tire myself out. My legs finally give way, like they’ve threatened to do since the gunshot rang in my ears.

The Devil doesn’t let me fall.

“Shh,” he murmurs in my ear, pulling me closer into his chest. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

I’m gasping for a breath that I can’t quite catch. “You’re a monster,” I croak with whatever energy I have left. “You’re pure evil.”

My words bounce off his hard body without even making a dent. His arms are relentless, refusing to let me go. “You’re okay, Poppy. You’re safe with me. I promised you that, remember?” His voice hardens. “But we need to go.”

I trip over my own feet as Lorcan pulls me further down the corridor and into the alley. The car is waiting, and Lorcan folds me into it without another word.

Familiar buildings pass by in a blur of tears and numbness, until we eventually slow to meet the iron gates of the Devil’s lair.

Lorcan spends the journey in silence, and I can’t even glance in his direction. The only sound cutting through the tension is the constant tap, tap, tapping of his cell phone.

Only when the driver comes to a stop outside the stone steps of the manor does he turn to me. “What do I have to do to stop your crying?” he says blankly. It’s so black and white for him. With every cold word that comes from his lips, he separates himself more and more from humanity. Out the window, I see Orna running down the steps of the manor towards the car, eyes wide in panic.

“You can leave me the fuck alone,” I croak, flinging myself out of the car, brushing past Orna and into the thick of the gardens.

The one small mercy is that the Devil doesn’t follow me.