The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Poppy

I wake up with a banging headache and the smell of damp assaulting my nostrils.

Where the fuck am I?

I’m lying down on something soft, a slimy wall pressed against my back. The handcuffs are digging into my wrist bones, rubbing the flesh raw. When I groan into the darkness, there’s a sudden movement and a light comes on.

I’m staring into my own eyes. Except they don’t belong to me.

“It’s good to see you again, Poppy,” my father whispers.

The shock makes me bolt upright, draw my knees to my chest and push my back against the wall.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmurs, his eyes tracing me with fascination. “You’re with daddy now. You’re safe.”

Breathing heavy, I stare at him as everything comes flooding back. Gatsby’s. Lorcan. Bratnov.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, wincing at the tenderness at my temple.

“We’ll get that patched up, Pops, don’t you worry.”

“Where am I?” I manage to gurgle.

“Don’t worry about the logistics, just know that you’re safe now.”

Through blurry eyes, I sweep the room. It’s nothing but a small, concrete box with a mattress and a naked lightbulb swinging above my head. This doesn’t feel safe.

And neither does being around my father.

He looks old. Deep wrinkles distort his face and his knees creak when he stands. It’s been two years since I’ve seen him, four since I had a proper conversation with him. Time isn’t the only thing that’s changed him, either. His suit is sharp, his beard neatly trimmed. There’s an air of confidence surrounding him that he never had during my whole childhood.

Despite having a headache and feeling disorientated, the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

Because my instincts know better.

“You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman, Pop. You look exactly like your mother.”

“I know who you are,” I hiss. “Who you really are. So, what am I doing here, Marcus?”

“It’s Dad,” he growls back, before he catches himself and softens his face. “I’m your father, Pop. And yes, I had a feeling that monster might have told you who I was. But it’s okay, I was going to tell you myself anyway.” He disappears into the shadows and comes back with a bottle of water. He twists off the cap and brings it to my lips. I hesitate, but my throat is sticky and raw, so I unwillingly take a sip.

Feeling more alert now, I say, “No father would let a man claim his daughter.”

He offers a slow nod, sinking down into the mattress next to me. I flinch away from his hand on my knee, but he only tightens his grip. “The biggest regret of my life,” he says softly. “Which is why I made it my mission to rescue you. And I’ll make up for it—all of it, Pop. The shitty house you grew up in, the ratty hand-me-downs you had to wear to school. You’ll live like a princess now, I promise. I’ll give you the life you were meant to have as a Murphy. Anything, everything, you could ever want.”

There’s too much information swirling about my brain, and all it does is brew fresh questions. “You’re working for Bratnov.”

“With Bratnov,” he snaps back, tightening his grip on my leg. “Antoin Quinn too.”

I recoil. “You’re working with Lorcan’s cousin?”

A cruel smile twists his lips. “We’re forming a new syndicate, Pop. Gonna take over the whole East Coast, all three families joined together.”

The blood rushes to my feet, making me spin. “He betrayed Lorcan,” I choke, more to myself than my estranged father.

His face darkens. “You don’t have to worry about that monster anymore. He’s dead now.

An icy hand grips at my heart, threatening to squeeze it until it stops beating altogether. There are too many dots to connect. Lorcan’s dead. Antoin betrayed him. My father has been in on the plan the whole time.

I can’t breathe.

My father transfers his hand from my leg to my back. It’s cold but clammy as he rubs it up and down my spine in a way that’s meant to be comforting. “It’s all over, sweetie,” he murmurs. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

I’m going to be sick. “Get these off me,” I croak, lifting my hands. “And let me out of here. I don’t want any part of your sick plan.” The rubbing on my back stops. “Mmm. Can’t do that, sweetie. Listen…” he shuffles closer, hot breath assaulting my ear. I squirm to get away from him. “I’ll give you the life you should have had growing up. There’s only one little thing you need to do for me.”

My blood runs cold. I know—I just know—what’s coming.

“Between father and daughter,” he murmurs, low and leech-like. “I don’t trust Bratnov fully. I need to strengthen the alliance so he can’t… betray me at any given time. I need to bind our families together. That way, there’s no backing out.” “No,” I interrupt, “I won’t. You can’t make me—”

“You’ll marry Bratnov, Pop,” he finishes acidly. “Sooner rather than later. In fact, he’d like a word with you now.” A sob escapes my lips as he rises to his keep. “This was never about saving me, was it, Marcus? You only wanted me as your bargaining chip.”

“We’re not like normal families, Pop,” he retorts coolly, striding to the door. “Sacrifices have to be made for the greater good.”

When he slams the door behind him, I break down. A sacrifice. That’s all I ever am. And the one hope I had to be saved is now lying dead.

It feels like the weight of the underworld is on my shoulders. I squeeze my eyes shut, listening to the muffled voices somewhere in the shadows. Lorcan was cruel and possessive but he was also exciting. Like a roller coaster, full of twists and turns designed to scare you senseless, but you were always safe. The tears start to fall, squeezing themselves between my closed eyelids and trickling down my cheeks. I’ll never feel that safety again. His strong arms wrapping around my body, his hard kiss claiming my—

His kiss.

A memory trickles down my spine, cold as an ice cube. When he kissed me at Gatsby’s, he slipped a key in my mouth.

The key.

My hand flies to my bra and sure enough, I can feel the small outline in the cup. Breathing ragged, I contort my cuffed hands in ways I didn’t think my body could move, and fish the key out from my bra. It’s small and nondescript. And I’m praying it’ll fit.

I hear footsteps. Heavy ones, growing closer and closer.

Come on, Poppy. You have to do this.

With trembling fingers, I practically dislocate my wrist, twisting it to slot the key into the lock. I could scream with relief when the cuffs pop open and the blood rushes back into my fingertips.

The footsteps stop, and now there’s a looming shadow through the glass panel in the door. My breath hitching in my chest, I slide the cuffs back into place; loose enough so they don’t lock, but tight enough so they look like they are.

The door creaks open, flooding more dim light into the room. “There she is,” a gruff voice comes from the shadows. “Little Miss Feisty.”

Bratnov steps out of the darkened corners and into the light of the naked bulb. Fear claws at my throat. Not only because he’s a towering, scarred Russian, but because of the cuts streaking across his left cheek. They are fresh and ugly, the result of me smashing him around the head with the Tiffany lamp. And then there are his eyes. Brimming with revenge.

Without a word, he crosses the damp concrete between us and scoops me up from the mattress like I weigh nothing. “Put me down!” I hiss, thumping against his chest. My squirming emits a raspy laugh.

It’s now or never.

Just before we cross into the unknown of the corridor, I slip one wrist out from the cuffs and sling the heavy metal against his head, as hard as my shaking hands can muster. There’s a sickening crack, and then I’m falling. Falling out of his arms and away from his musty smell and hot breath. I hit the concrete awkwardly, my ankle twisting in on itself, but I ignore the searing pain and run.

I don’t know where I’m running to, only who I’m running from. The brick tunnel turns and twists into another one, and then another, all identical to the last. A blur of dripping ceilings and harsh strip lighting and the throbbing pain in my leg. Then the adrenaline starts to fade, replaced by the realization that I have no idea where I am, or where I’m going.

“Poppy!”

My name echoes off the brickwork, loud and angry. My lungs are burning and my legs are turning to jelly but I refuse to stop.

“Poppy!” The voice is furious now, chasing me through the tunnels as I take a hard right. A new tunnel. The strip lighting stops halfway down it before plunging into darkness, but I still half-run, half-limp down it. My boots splash into murky puddles and mud splatters up my calves, but I keep running.

Then my body slams into a brick wall.

Fuck. A dead end.

“Poppy.” The voice is closer now and it’s growling my name.

There’s no other option but to turn back on myself, back into the light, and hope I can get out of this tunnel and into another one before the owner of the voice catches up with me. My lungs are burning as I retrace my steps back into the previous tunnel.

“Poppy!”

The voice is so close now that it makes me flinch. I whip around to chase it, and see my father standing at the mouth of the tunnel.

Holding a gun.

“Don’t take another step,” he growls, raising it towards me. “I mean it, Pop.”

But I learned a long time ago not to trust my father. I haven’t trusted him since I was nine and saw him slit Cedric O’Sullivan’s throat in his study. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to trust him now.

I turn on my heels and run, even faster than before.

My name rips from his lips one last time, followed by another noise. This one is deafening and within a fraction of a second, it hits me. The white, hot heat rips through my body, starting at my thigh and crawling across my skin like a million tiny spiders. Blood. Lots of it and all coming from me. It seeps over the damp concrete floor, staining my dress, entwining itself in the crevices of my hand.

Footsteps. This time they are fading, and so is the shouting. More voices now, in a quiet, angry chorus a million miles from me.

I was nine when I realized my father was a bad man.

I was nineteen when I realized he was the real Devil.