Page 21 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

The sun is high in the sky, Sam long gone for work, when I finally manage to drag myself out of bed.

My shoulders are tight, the beginnings of a stress migraine settling into my right temple.

Even in sleep, my body seems to be holding the tension of my fear and confusion.

As if the physical pain weren’t bad enough, I’m also irritable and unsteady.

I step out of my bedroom, clad in yet another shirt I stole from Sam, only to stop and stare at the closed basement door.

I can feel its siren song—the intense allure of losing myself in blood and anger and revenge—from here.

As much as I want that, the memory of the Sam from my dream looms large in my mind.

The fear that I'm somehow tainting him in my efforts to take back the bits of myself that Arthur stole…

Shaking my head, I force my gaze away from the door and head down the hallway towards the study at the front of the house where the laptop Sam set up for me sits.

Today I’m going to let Arthur sit untouched and research recipes I can try out.

Even after thinking more about it, making dinner is the only thing I could come up with to help out around the house besides cleaning up my own messes.

Which I already try to do, although Sam usually shoos me away and does it himself.

I stand in the doorway of the study and breathe deeply before entering.

Despite being one of the coldest rooms in the house, it’s the coziest of them all.

Part of that is because it smells so clearly of Sam as it's where he likes to spend most of his time. The other reason is because of its design. Floor to ceiling built-in shelves filled with books of every kind line three of the four walls, broken only by one window, in front of which sits a plush velvet lounge chair that’s so big it could be a passable bed on its own.

On the one spare wall sits a battered wooden desk, upon which sit two sleek laptops.

One in silver and the other a rose gold version that Sam bought for me.

When I told him I didn’t need a computer, he just shrugged and told me he wanted to make sure I had it if I needed it. I most definitely could not have predicted I would use it to look up recipes.

I pad across the plush carpet and take a seat in the desk chair.

Tentatively, I open the laptop lid and wait for the computer to boot up the way Sam showed me in the Computer 101 lessons he gave me to make up for 38 years of not engaging with technology.

As I wait, the void-like eyes of dream Sam appear again.

He looked the same, acted like he always does, except…

not. Different. Not corrupted necessarily, just darker than the man I share my life with.

The computer chimes, the home screen blinking to life to reveal a photo Sam took of us on Christmas. Unable to stop myself, I trace my finger along the screen with a smile. We look happy. Relaxed.

Imagine how relaxed you would be if you finally stopped fighting what the two of you have.

“Shut up,” I hiss at the dark voice in my head. Every day, it gets louder, its insistent demands darker. More sexual. It should be easy to silence, but my resistance to it is wearing thin because my needs—even without the voice—are getting more intense.

I’m just saying.

“No,” I snarl, clicking open the internet browser and typing in ‘recipes for dinner.’ “You’re causing trouble, that’s what you’re doing.

” Thousands of results populate almost instantaneously.

I double tap on a link for a website seemingly dedicated solely to the collection of recipes, scrolling for something that looks not only tasty but easy enough for my skill level, which is emphatic beginner.

“And I’m not ready for—” My voice drops to a whisper as if there’s someone in the otherwise empty room who can hear me. “Sex. Not yet.”

You seemed pretty ready for it when you dreamed about daimon Sam fucking you into the ground and woke up with your hand between your legs.

“Shut up,” I snap as I stumble onto a casserole that looks promising and I’m almost positive we have all the ingredients for. Frustrated, I unplug the laptop with more force than necessary and carry it out of the study and into the kitchen.

Fine. It’s your funeral. Don’t cry to me when you snap from sexual tension and discover just who and what you both are.

My brow furrows as I pull out the ingredients for the easy—or so the recipe site claims—cheesy broccoli rice casserole.

It’s probably not a good sign I’m fighting with a voice in my head, right?

Knowing and not wanting to acknowledge the answer, I frown at the collection of items I've assembled on the countertop.

I can focus on cooking us dinner. Hopefully, that will help me ignore the voice and the frenetic energy crawling under my skin demanding release.

I freeze, a packet of instant rice clutched in my hand as I realize something else.

I wasn’t a particularly good cook in the past. Not that I’ve tried in the last several decades, but I vividly recall accidentally causing a forest fire in the 1800s when I was trying to cook over an open flame.

And then there was the smoke damage to that hotel in the 1930s…

“It will be fine,” I reassure myself as I glance at the electric stove and oven. “No open flames. And the website says it’s an easy recipe.”

Surely I can make a simple casserole recipe. I’m a goddess. How hard could it be?