Dancing With the Devil

Chapter 2

Rose's P.O.V.

Sitting at my workbench, I carefully observe every detail of the twin hand-canons that have been escaping me for the past five years straight. In my right hand, I hold the silver one, engraved with the title of Ebony, and in my left I hold Ivory. The letters were written in very steady, careful hand print. Both Desert Eagles are intricately balanced, which gives away the fact that they were custom made. I can't help but smile with giddy intrigue. It's been weeks since I've had a custom weapon - let alone a pair of them - sitting on my workbench. Using the power within my right arm, I summon my fiery working tools and immediately set them to work taking both Ebony and Ivory apart. During this time, I fish around the various drawers in the bureau behind me, pulling out my trusty white pencil, a new sheet of blank blueprint paper, and a straightedge. I dare to take a glance outside and notice that it's getting dark outside, the street lights having just come on.

"Maybe the poor half demon got lost after all," I chuckle to myself, setting the blueprint paper down on my workbench and beginning to sketch the prints for one of the guns. "All the better for me, though."

Once the two halves of Ebony and Ivory have been separated, I examine them closely, including every mechanism and their function into my blueprints. Setting down the white pencil, I do a double take on the guns, inspecting for any parts that need replacing. To my great surprise, the only thing I needed to fix were the worn-out trigger springs. My tools once again get to work, this time sealing the two halves of Ebony and Ivory back together again, making it look as though it never even happened. They've just disappeared, leaving the twin guns on my workbench when the front door of my shop opens and closes again, the small bell above it jingling vigorously.

"Welcome to Rares Repairs," I say cheerfully, the familiar greeting rolling off my tongue. "Feel free to have a seat, read a magazine, and I'll be with you in three minutes."

"My guns, please," Dante's husky voice growls as he meanders over to my workbench, looming over me. "Now if you don't mind."

"Three minutes, Dante. I'm sure you can wait," I sigh, irritated.

Not even two steps away from the bureau where my polishing supplies are set out, Ebony and Ivory in my hands, he traps my wrists in his iron grip, a terrifying and feral growl ripping from his throat.

"Just let me give them a quick buffing," I insist, wincing as his grip tightens and he glares at me with cold, icy blue eyes. "I promise it won't cost you anything."

He doesn't respond for a long time, simply staring at me, judging, like he's staring straight into my soul, which makes me uncomfortable. Giving a decisive huff, his grip on my wrists slackens and he pulls my stool up next to my polishing workstation while I quickly get to polishing Ebony first. I have to set Ivory down on the table, next to my supplies, and just as I had expected, Dante picks it up and inspects it with a kind of mechanical scrutiny.

Typical, I think to myself. Men and their guns...

My body freezes up when I feel the muzzle pressing against the side of my head. I don't even move a muscle, my heart stopping and starting again at an unusual rhythm.

"Huh, so you replaced the trigger spring," Dante mutters thoughtfully, withdrawing the gun from its threatening point blank position against my head. "Anything else you should be telling me?"

"I replaced the trigger spring in Ebony as well," the words tumble out as I hold said Desert Eagle out to him, focusing on the supplies in front of me as if they were the most interesting things in the world. "I swear on my life that's all I did."

Dante puts Ivory into my hand, holstering Ebony and watching as I repeat the polishing process a second time, not even so much as glancing in his direction once I've finished. He asks me a series of questions about my business all the while, however, the one question he insists on having answered is-.

"What's your name?"

His voice is calm and kind, almost neutral. Nothing like it was a few minutes ago.

"My name?" I force a small laugh, still refusing to make eye contact. "You'll find it's already in your pocket, Dante."

He pulls the rose I left him earlier this afternoon and brings it up to his mouth to hold it between his teeth, making me scowl.

"So, does this mean you're mine now?" he asks softly, giving me a shit-eating smirk, lifting my chin up with one hand to look into his eyes.

"No, it means you're one of three other people that know my name," I reply flatly, pushing his hand away while taking a step back. "And it also means it's time for you to leave."

"What if I don't wanna leave?" Dante purrs, stepping closer to me, picking the thorns from the rose's stem, arranging my hair, and then tucking the flower in above my ear.

"Then I might consider charging you money," I whisper, smiling as he swiftly steps back. "I'm serious, though. You need to leave, Dante. I won't tell you a third time."

Turning my back on him, I walk quickly towards the staircase leading up to my personal living space on the second floor. I'm halfway up the stairs when I hear him calling after me, wanting me to come back downstairs, which I blatantly ignore. As I walk across my living room and open my bedroom door, I witness the cause for his concern. At least thirty or so demons all turn their glowing red eyes to me while their leader flees through my bedroom window, his blue tailcoat trailing out behind him.