Chapter 23: Dinner with the Devil

The pale hand pressed against her throat. It felt cold, damp, and all too real.

Camela felt the impulse and scratched at it with her fingers.

“Let go!” she screamed.

The Bride watched, her veil tilting slightly as though she found it amusing. “Don’t fight it.”

The grip tightened, and Camela felt her breath stuck in her chest. She kicked backward, her heels scraping the floor. The mirror's wavering surface yanked at her like water, swallowing the ends of her hair.

“Help…” Camela cried out.

The Bride finally made a move. One gloved hand waved through the air, and the grip disappeared. Camela fell to her knees, coughing heavily, her hands shaking against the stone floor.

The Bride leaned in closer. “Consider that as your welcome.”

Camela’s voice trembled. “What…what was that?”

“A glimpse,” the Bride whispered. “Of what awaits you if you displease me.”

The masked women stepped forward again and one of them grabbed Camela by her arm. “Dinner is waiting.”

Camela staggered to her feet. “Dinner?”

“With the Devil,” the Bride replied, her smile audible through her words.

They guided her down a winding corridor that coiled like a snake. Torches decorated the walls, but instead of glowing gold, their flames burned black, casting an eerie and chilly light.

Camela’s heels clicked against the stone floor as she said quietly, “I’m not hungry.”

“That’s not up to you.” One of the masked women responded without glancing back.

When they arrived at a set of massive doors adorned with carvings of foxes chasing brides in an endless circle, one of the women pushed them open. The hinges creaked loudly, resembling an animal in distress.

Inside, the atmosphere was warm and thick with the aroma of roasted meat mixed with something sweeter—like roses that had been left out in the sun for too long.

The banquet table stretched far beyond Camela's sight, covered in black silk. Candles floated above it in midair, their flames bending towards her as if they were sensing her fear.

At the head of the table sat a man dressed in a black suit, his face hidden by a half-mask shaped like a fox. His gloved fingers tapped rhythmically on a crystal goblet filled with dark red liquid.

“Camela,” he said in a low, deep voice, “come take a seat.”

Her heart raced. “Who are you?”

His lips curved into a smile beneath the mask. “Names belong to mortals. Sit down, and you’ll learn who I am.”

She hesitated for a moment. “Is this some kind of trap?”

“Of course it is,” he replied smoothly. “But it’s also dinner.”

The masked women pushed her forward until she stood beside him. A chair slid out on its own with its legs screeching loudly across the floor.

Camela sat down slowly, clenching her hands into fists in her lap.

The table was filled with an array of dishes—shiny silver platters of meat piled high glittering with fat, bowls overflowing with black grapes, and loaves of bread as white as bone.

The man picked up a piece of meat with his fingers and held it out to her. “Eat,” he commanded.

She shook her head. “No.”

Though his voice stayed calm, the atmosphere in the room felt increasingly tense. “If you want Vincent to live, you need to eat.”

Her throat tightened. “What does this have to do with him?”

“Everything,” he replied, placing the meat onto her plate. “He’s alive because I allow it.”

With trembling hands, she picked up her fork and cut off a small piece. As soon as it touched her tongue, she froze.

It wasn’t meat at all. It was sweet—too sweet, like sugar turning into poison.

She swallowed hard, forcing it down.

The man observed her intently, like a predator watching its prey. “Good girl,” he said.

As she ate, he spoke in a voice that drifted through her thoughts like smoke.

“You’ve already given your name to the Bride. But what about your soul?” he asked.

He leaned closer, the gold edge of his mask glimmering in the candlelight. “That belongs to me if I wish for it.”

Camela held his gaze firmly, her voice calm even though she felt scared inside. “You won’t have it.”

He laughed softly. “Do you know who I am, little fox-bride?”

“You’re the Devil,” she replied.

“Not exactly,” he responded, stirring the drink in his goblet. “The Devil makes deals for power. I make deals for obedience.”

“I don’t belong to you.”

“Not yet.”

The candles above them flickered, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw Vincent’s face lurking in the shadows at the corner of the room—pale and desperate, watching her. But when she blinked, he was gone.

The man stood, walking slowly around the table until he was beside her. He gently lifted her chin with one gloved finger.

“You see, Camela…I don’t want to kill you. That would be too easy.”

Her breath caught as he raised his other hand and reached up to his mask, removing it with a slow and deliberate movement.

The face beneath was not human. His skin gleamed white like marble, his eyes were pitch black without any whites, and his mouth stretched unnaturally wide, filled with sharp teeth.

She flinched back. “You’re…”

“Hungry,” he completed her statement, cutting in smoothly.

He placed the mask back on. “You’ll have to decide, before the last course meal, if you’re the guest…or the meal.”

He filled her glass with more of the red liquid. “Drink,” he urged.

Camela paused for a moment. “What is it?”

“Memories,” he replied nonchalantly. “But not yours. Not yet.”

She raised the glass to her lips, pretending to take a sip without letting any of the red liquid touch her tongue.

His eyes stayed fixed on her. “Be careful. I can always tell when someone isn’t being truthful.”

The black-flame candles flickered lower, almost low enough to burn her skin.

Halfway through the meal, the Bride walked into the hall. She moved over to Camela, her veil slightly brushing against Camela’s arm.

"Make sure to eat," she said gently. "You’ll need your energy."

"For what?" Camela asked.

The Bride leaned in closer, revealing a slight smile beneath her veil. "For when he stops being charming."

The man at the head of the table chuckled softly. "You act like I was ever charming."

Camela tightened her grip on her fork.

The man spoke softly, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “I can set you free, Camela. All it costs is your promise to never return to Vincent.”

Her heart raced. “No. I won't”

“Consider it,” he said, leaning back. “You could have your freedom, safety, and your life back. And he will live, untouched.”

She shook her head. “Without him, that’s not true freedom.”

He smiled. “Then you’ve decided to stay in chains.”

A silver tray with a lid was placed in front of her. The man signaled for her to open it.

Camela paused for a moment, then raised the lid. Inside lay a heart that was still beating.

Her stomach turned as she asked, “Whose…”

He leaned in closer and said, “It’s yours if you keep saying no to me.”

The sound of the heartbeat rang in her ears, loud and fast.

The man placed his goblet down. “You have until the candles go out to make your choice.”

Camela’s eyes darted to the floating flames; they were already dim, their black light fading away.

The Bride moved behind her chair, placing her hands on Camela’s shoulders like a mother comforting her child. “Choose wisely, my dear. Some dinners…never truly end.”

The man’s black eyes sparkled from behind the fox mask. “So, Camela…will you feed the Devil, or will the Devil feed on you?”

The last candle hissed, wavered—

—then went out.