The Struggles of Dating a Demon [Completed]

Closing Doors and Opening Wounds

Through vision that was changing colors and shifting between too blurry and too clear, Mabel stared at the Door to Hell with amazement.

It was giant—at least thirty feet tall and fifteen feet wide—and stood out starkly against the background of trees and grass that the country roads provided. Just as Mabel had suspected, the Door was open, and, through it, sparks and shadows drifted out like toxic gas.

Pushing down the memories of her time in Hell, Mabel straightened her shoulders, hobbling forward unsteadily, the venom from Nephele's bite coursing through her system and making her limbs feel like lead.

Once inside, the first thing Mabel noticed was the lack of miserable humans who had been sentenced to Hell for all of eternity, as well as the gargoyles who had kept an eye on them. Instead, the already despondent appearance of Hell looked even more melancholy without a single soul in sight.

Mabel was grateful for it, however; at least she wouldn't have to worry about being attacked while she tried to close the stupid door.

Eyeing the tall door with no small amount of dread, she maneuvered until she stood behind it, still in Hell, and leaned forward to press her body against it.

Nothing happened.

"Oh, come on!" she screamed, the utter hopelessness of the entire situation pressing down on her shoulders until she collapsed, head leaned against the Door, eyes closed, shoulders slumped with defeat.

"Don't tell me you've given up, Mabel." The smooth, rich tone of the voice had Mabel cracking open her lashes, shifting until she was looking up at the person responsible.

It was Nephele. Or, well, not Nephele; it was a woman swathed in white, with Nephele's face and a soft glow bathing her body.

"Nephele?" Mabel croaked, wondering just how much venom had gone into her bloodstream.

The woman laughed, the sound reminiscent of a million tinkling bells, and Mabel's entire body relaxed with the noise. "No, Mabel," she crouched down, "I am not Nephele. I only look like her, because she is the person you most wish would come back from the dead."

"Oh," Mabel's voice was dripping with self-hatred. "Right. Because I killed her."

With a disappointed clicking sound in the back of her throat, the woman sat next to Mabel. "You did not want to, Mabel. I know that."

Tearing her gaze from the woman and replacing it on the solid black clay of Hell, Mabel asked, "How?"

"Because I am from Heaven, of course, and we are required to know these things."

"What?" Mabel knew her eyes were wide with astonishment, but she didn't care. Someone from Heaven? "I-how, what-uh-where are your wings?"

Another laugh, and Mabel couldn't help but think that the gorgeous sound was extremely out of place in such an unhappy area. "I am not an angel, Mabel. More of guide, you might say. Or a protector."

With the word came thoughts of Aleron, and Mabel's stomach flipped over uneasily. "Protector? Did something happen to my other protector? You know—Aleron?"

"Ah, Aleron," the woman shook her head with amusement, lips lifted in a secretive smile. "No, Mabel, Aleron is just fine, at the moment. I'm here for you."

"Me? Why?"

The smile left, and the woman's expression turned sad. "You are dying, Mabel."

Looking down blankly, Mabel's half-lidded eyes danced over her own body—the gashes in her arm that dripped blood, the poisonous toxin she could feel slowly eating away at her insides, turning her fingertips purple. "Well," she mused finally, clasping her fingers together in her lap, "You're not wrong."