Read Online The Devil Eats Here (Multi-Author Short Story Collection) by Alice Gaines, Tara Maya, Rayne Hall, Jonathan Broughton, Siewleng Torossian, John Hoddy, John Blackport, Douglas Kolacki, April Grey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alice Gaines, Tara Maya, Rayne Hall, Jonathan Broughton, Siewleng Torossian, John Hoddy, John Blackport, Douglas Kolacki, April Grey
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right?” her friend’s voice sounded as if played in slow motion.
Everything started to spin, and Cyn pressed her hands to her eyes. When she removed them again, everything had gone black.
*
When Cyn’s vision returned, she found herself in some kind of anteroom with bare vinyl floors and rows of straight-backed chairs lining the walls. An empty metal desk stood in front of an unadorned door. Without windows or pictures, the décor went way past minimalist to bleak. If she’d sold her soul to the devil, the Prince of Darkness ought to be able to do better than this place.
She was in hell, right? She wasn’t in Kansas anymore, for sure. Nor Romero’s Cocina Mexicana. She’d just vowed to sell her soul in exchange for a svelte figure, so the devil must have taken her.
Had the trade yielded an improved figure? But a glance down her body showed the same bulging belly and fat thighs. Beelzebub hadn’t kept his part of the bargain – every surplus pound on her body had followed her here.
“Well, Satan, or whoever brought me here, I don’t have to endure any lakes of fire if you haven’t made me thin.”
“Come in, Cynthia.” The deep male voice seemed to come right out of the walls.
She looked around. “Huh?”
“The door, Cynthia. There only is one.”
She did a complete three-sixty. The voice was right. Only one door – the one behind the desk. She must have materialized inside the anteroom. Either that, or she’d had a wicked reaction to MSG, if they used that at Romero’s.
“I’m waiting,” the deep voice called again.
Oh, what the hell? Oops, now that she was in hell, maybe she’d better stop using it as a curse word. The landlord might take exception. She walked to the door and tried the knob. It opened easily.
The room was even sparser than the anteroom, with the same vinyl floor, the same metal desk. A man sat behind this desk, though, on the only chair in the place. He hunched over a keyboard, his face obscured behind a huge computer terminal. As if unaware she’d come in, he typed and stared at the screen while she fidgeted.
She cleared her throat.
“Cynthia Redmon?” he asked, still studying the screen.
“You were expecting, maybe, Britney Spears?”
“What would I want with her?”
“What do you want with me?”
“Have a seat,” he said. “I’m almost finished here.”
She glanced around. “The floor looks comfortable.”
“Sorry.” A hand appeared from behind the terminal, masculine with long fingers. It pointed at a spot beside her, and a high-backed armchair appeared. Oh-kaaay. Definitely not Kansas. Cyn lowered herself into it and put her hands in her lap.
He tapped his keyboard for a minute. Then he pushed his swivel chair from behind the screen and looked at her. Cyn’s breath caught on an audible gasp before she got control of herself. He was easily the most unusual looking man she’d ever seen, as well as the most handsome. His skin had a dark glow, in contrast to the ice blue of his eyes. High cheekbones and bushy eyebrows made his face look harsh, almost animalistic. Yet the whole package worked in an otherworldly sort of way. Could this be the face of Satan himself?
One of his bushy eyebrows went up. “Looking for something?”
Horns, maybe. His hair was long enough to hide stubs of horns. It came to a prominent widow’s peak in the front, which also made him look devilish. Oh, those eyes…
He glanced back at his screen. “Cynthia Abigail Redmon. Born 25 years ago. Single. Assistant accounts manager for a mid-sized publishing company. Height, five-seven. Weight…”
“Hey, wait a minute, pal.” Cyn raised a hand to stop him. “I don’t discuss my weight with anyone.”
“Aren't you? Weren't you doing exactly that right before you called to me?”
“I called to you?”
He looked back at the screen. “Your exact words were ‘I’d sell my soul to be thin.’ You said it twice.”
“I didn’t sign anything, so you don’t have a
Everything started to spin, and Cyn pressed her hands to her eyes. When she removed them again, everything had gone black.
*
When Cyn’s vision returned, she found herself in some kind of anteroom with bare vinyl floors and rows of straight-backed chairs lining the walls. An empty metal desk stood in front of an unadorned door. Without windows or pictures, the décor went way past minimalist to bleak. If she’d sold her soul to the devil, the Prince of Darkness ought to be able to do better than this place.
She was in hell, right? She wasn’t in Kansas anymore, for sure. Nor Romero’s Cocina Mexicana. She’d just vowed to sell her soul in exchange for a svelte figure, so the devil must have taken her.
Had the trade yielded an improved figure? But a glance down her body showed the same bulging belly and fat thighs. Beelzebub hadn’t kept his part of the bargain – every surplus pound on her body had followed her here.
“Well, Satan, or whoever brought me here, I don’t have to endure any lakes of fire if you haven’t made me thin.”
“Come in, Cynthia.” The deep male voice seemed to come right out of the walls.
She looked around. “Huh?”
“The door, Cynthia. There only is one.”
She did a complete three-sixty. The voice was right. Only one door – the one behind the desk. She must have materialized inside the anteroom. Either that, or she’d had a wicked reaction to MSG, if they used that at Romero’s.
“I’m waiting,” the deep voice called again.
Oh, what the hell? Oops, now that she was in hell, maybe she’d better stop using it as a curse word. The landlord might take exception. She walked to the door and tried the knob. It opened easily.
The room was even sparser than the anteroom, with the same vinyl floor, the same metal desk. A man sat behind this desk, though, on the only chair in the place. He hunched over a keyboard, his face obscured behind a huge computer terminal. As if unaware she’d come in, he typed and stared at the screen while she fidgeted.
She cleared her throat.
“Cynthia Redmon?” he asked, still studying the screen.
“You were expecting, maybe, Britney Spears?”
“What would I want with her?”
“What do you want with me?”
“Have a seat,” he said. “I’m almost finished here.”
She glanced around. “The floor looks comfortable.”
“Sorry.” A hand appeared from behind the terminal, masculine with long fingers. It pointed at a spot beside her, and a high-backed armchair appeared. Oh-kaaay. Definitely not Kansas. Cyn lowered herself into it and put her hands in her lap.
He tapped his keyboard for a minute. Then he pushed his swivel chair from behind the screen and looked at her. Cyn’s breath caught on an audible gasp before she got control of herself. He was easily the most unusual looking man she’d ever seen, as well as the most handsome. His skin had a dark glow, in contrast to the ice blue of his eyes. High cheekbones and bushy eyebrows made his face look harsh, almost animalistic. Yet the whole package worked in an otherworldly sort of way. Could this be the face of Satan himself?
One of his bushy eyebrows went up. “Looking for something?”
Horns, maybe. His hair was long enough to hide stubs of horns. It came to a prominent widow’s peak in the front, which also made him look devilish. Oh, those eyes…
He glanced back at his screen. “Cynthia Abigail Redmon. Born 25 years ago. Single. Assistant accounts manager for a mid-sized publishing company. Height, five-seven. Weight…”
“Hey, wait a minute, pal.” Cyn raised a hand to stop him. “I don’t discuss my weight with anyone.”
“Aren't you? Weren't you doing exactly that right before you called to me?”
“I called to you?”
He looked back at the screen. “Your exact words were ‘I’d sell my soul to be thin.’ You said it twice.”
“I didn’t sign anything, so you don’t have a
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