The Devil Who Owns Me

Elara

The first scream echoes through the vents at 3:17 AM. 

I know the time because the moonlight paints three sharp lines through the broken slats of my closet prison, and when they reach the fourth floorboard-that's when the crying starts. Not mine. Never mine. Katya's this time, two floors down where the older girls take their "guests". The sounds twist up through the walls like smoke: whimpers, the wet slap of skin, a man's grunt that makes my teeth ache.

I dig my fingernails into the rotted wood beneath me. The splinters bite back, but I don't pull away. Pain is good. Pain means I'm still here.

*Click.*

The closet door's lock jiggles. Not the usual drunken fumbling-this is deliberate. Precise. My lungs freeze mid-breath.

"Still alive in there, Roach?" Anna's whisper slithers under the door. Her fingernails scratch the wood in slow circles. "I brought you a present."

Something wet plops onto the floor. The copper stench hits me before my eyes adjust-blood. A mangled sparrow, its wings bent backwards at impossible angles. My stomach heaves, but I swallow the acid burning my throat. Reacting feeds her.

The door flies open. Anna's silhouette blocks the hallway's flickering bulb, her too-tight braids framing a face that might've been pretty if not for the cruelty twisting it. She kicks the dead bird toward me. It leaves a smeared trail across the floorboards.

"Look." She crouches, gripping my chin with sticky fingers. "Just like your mama. Broken neck and everything."

The words shouldn't hurt anymore. They do.

I stare at the blood crusting her cuticles. She wants me to cry. To fight. Instead, I focus on the distant *drip-drip* of a leaking pipe, the way my left pinky toe throbs where she broke it last winter.

Anna's smile dies. She yanks my hair, slamming my head against the wall. "Freak." Her knee drives into my ribs. "Why won't you ever-"

**BANG.**

The orphanage's front door explodes inward. 

Anna whirls. We both know that sound-no one knocks at St. Cecilia's after midnight unless they're here to collect a debt. Or a body.

Heavy footsteps shake the floorboards. Men's voices, low and clipped. The matron shrieks, then cuts off abruptly. Something heavy thuds against the stairs.

Anna's grip loosens. For the first time in fifteen years, I see fear in her eyes.

The footsteps stop outside our door.

The knob turns.

Anna scrambles back as the door swings open, revealing three shadows. No-two men flanking a third. The flankers are huge, knuckles scarred, but my eyes skip past them to the figure in the center.

Black coat. Black gloves. A face like a slashed painting-all sharp angles and eerie stillness. His gaze slides over Anna like she's trash on the sidewalk before landing on me.

Huddled in filth. Knees bleeding. A dead bird at my feet.

His nostrils flare.

One of his men steps forward. "Boss, the ledger's downstairs-"

The gloved man raises a finger. Silence falls.

He crouches. His coat doesn't even brush the filthy floor. Up close, I see the scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the unnatural pale blue of his eyes. Like Arctic ice over a deep, dark hole.

He reaches toward my face. I flinch.

His hand pauses. Slowly, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket-real linen, monogrammed *AV*-and dabs at my split lip. The fabric comes away crimson.