Page 25 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

January drips into February, which brings more snow, ice, and perpetual night along with it.

Although the weather is disgusting, other things are looking up.

The change to Sam’s schedule means most of his commute is done during daylight hours, so he isn’t risking his life on dark roads during the winter storms. On top of that, after inadvertently stealing Sam’s medical textbook during my nighttime roamings, I’ve gotten significantly better at not almost killing Arthur before I mean to, which, odd as it may sound, feels like a victory.

As for my cooking skills, they haven’t gotten worse…

I stare at the slow cooker in front of me, unsure how in the last six hours on low, the beef broth managed to become a solid with the consistency of mud while the meat itself is perfectly cooked.

The spoon I dipped in earlier is standing straight, held up entirely by the mush that was once a liquid.

At this point, the errors are almost comical rather than disheartening.

No matter how much I screw up our dinners—which I’ve taken to calling breakfast since we eat at 9 AM—Sam wolfs down everything on his plate without insulting or criticizing me.

Usually, he accomplishes this with a straight face, although the unintentionally phallic-looking pancakes did send him into hysterical peals of laughter.

Just like every other day, he’ll eat this slop and possibly find something sweet to say about it.

So, all in all, today’s beef stew is an extremely qualified success.

I groan in irritation at the messy food sitting before me as the front door squeaks open and slams closed, and Sam call, “Lila?” Always phrased like a question, like he’s worried I’m going to vanish during the night.

“I’m in here,” I shout back, poking at the beefy mud with a ladle in the hopes that a different utensil will have a different result.

Just like with the spoon, the sludge shifts enough to allow the ladle to settle into it and clings to it heartily.

How is a stew reacting to prodding like it’s mashed potatoes? There aren’t even any potatoes in it!

Behind me, Sam’s shoes scuff against the wooden floor of the hallway before stepping into and crossing the kitchen to me. The air shifts over my shoulder, and I glance up to see Sam peering into the slow cooker with a curious expression on his face.

He notices me watching him and breaks into a smile that sends my heart racing. “Hey.”

“It’s beef stew,” I explain without responding to his greeting.

“Oh… kay.” He glances down again. “It looks like stew, so that’s a win, right?”

“It looks like mud pie, and you know it.”

“Hey, I ate mud when I was a kid, and I grew up just fine.” Stepping back, he splays his hands wide, letting me take a look at him. “Sludgy beef stew still has protein, starch, veggies. All the things we could need. Me, a growing boy and you—” He pauses. “A mermaid?”

I snicker and shake my head. “Not even close.”

I still haven’t told him what I am. Or who, I guess is a better way to say it, even though he knows without a doubt that I’m not human.

But because he’s Sam, and he knows how tentative I am about, well, everything since Arthur took me, he has made a game out of it, guessing more and more outlandish non-human creatures each morning.

Yesterday’s guess was a Wendigo. The night before was Cthulhu.

It has become one of the highlights of my day because it’s one more way he tells me both that he isn't scared of me and that he cares about me for who I am, not what I am.

Despite three months of evidence that this man is exactly what he seems, I’m still terrified I’ll tell him what I am, and he’ll start looking at me the way every other man ever has.

Lusting for the power I have. The way I can inspire him and make his brain pour out creativity.

I don’t think he’ll respond like that; I don’t know for sure, and that uncertainty terrifies me.

“You good?” he asks as he pulls two bowls down from the cupboard.

“Yeah, of course.” I shake myself out of it and smile. “I just… zoned out. I’m—”

I’m interrupted by an unexpected shrill sound. Without thinking, I shriek and leap into Sam’s arms, sending him staggering back into the cabinets as I abandon the ladle to the muddy stew’s tender mercies.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s only the doorbell,” he coos in reassurance before his eyebrows draw down, and his voice goes deeper. “Wait, who the fuck is at the door?”

I shrug. Like I would actually know the answer. With me still in his arms, he strides out of the kitchen, a frown on his handsome face. By the time I realize we’re moving and not under attack, he’s already at the front door and flinging it open.

“Sammy!” a female voice cries out.

My head snaps around to see who’s daring to call Sam—my Sam!—a nickname in front of me. I will happily rip her to shreds. I’ll eviscerate her where she stands and leave nothing but—

“Mom?”

That’s when I see her and realize there’s zero threat here. She’s a carbon copy of Sam with the same dark hair and identical hazel eyes, although hers are crinkled in confusion as she looks at Sam and me. She looks as much like Sam as Arthur looks nothing like him.

I’ve never done the meet the parents thing before since my marriage was more of a property exchange than an actual connection between families; not to mention that most deities either share at least one parent or grew up together.

So I’m not exactly sure of the protocol here.

That being said, I’m pretty sure I should be standing on my own two feet when I meet the only parent Sam loves.

Decided, I start wriggling in his arms, trying to get down. Instead of letting me go, he holds tighter. Part of me preens at the way he refuses to let go of me.

“What are you doing here?” Sam’s voice is strained as he maintains his grip on my waist, staring at his mother in disbelief.

“Well, I thought I would come see my favorite son—”

“Only son.”

“—My favorite son—” she continues emphatically like he didn’t interrupt her. “Since I haven’t seen you in weeks. If I had known you had someone here with you, I would have called ahead. Or maybe not because then I wouldn’t have been able to meet your girlfriend!”

“Mom!”

“Hi.” I wave awkwardly, reasonably sure my claws and fangs have receded.

“You’re gorgeous!” Sam’s mother says in greeting. “Sammy, why didn’t you tell me about her?”

“I-uh-I don’t—" Sam trails off with something that might have been a squeak if it had the chance to grow up.

“Oh, it’s okay, sweetie.” She reaches around me to pat his face softly. “Is this why you couldn’t come to Christmas?”

Without waiting for an answer, she sweeps around him into the house, leaving Sam staring into the street, his mouth still hanging open.

“What just happened?” he asks the empty porch.

“Should we follow her?” I whisper. "You know, so she doesn't decide to go exploring"—I stab my finger in a downwards motion—"In some not so great places?"The basement door is locked with a key stashed in my bedroom, the only copy of which is in Sam’s wallet. It feels like we’re asking for trouble, though, if we assume his mother—who let herself into the house without so much as an invitation—isn’t going to try snooping.

“Oh, shit.” With a slam of the door, he turns and races back into the house, still carrying me like he’s forgotten he can put me down. “Mom,” he calls as he follows his mother.

“You know, I would have been so happy to have both of you over for the holidays. I would have loved to meet—” Sam’s mother stops talking, her head canting to the side in a gesture eerily reminiscent of Sam.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name.

” Flicking her hand at Sam, she turns her gaze on him.

“Are you going to introduce me to your girl?”

“I-she’s not-I’m sorry,” Sam stammers. “Mom, this is Lila. Lila, this is my mother, Michelle.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Michelle.”

“You too, sweetheart. Now, Sammy, why don’t you put your girl down and go get changed into something comfy?” Michelle grasps my hand, tugging me and Sam towards her with a surprising amount of strength for her small body. “I want to get to know Lila a little bit.”

“Put her down?” He glances between the two of us, a surprised look crossing his face as he realizes he’s still holding me. “Oh, shit, yeah, I didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine,” I respond with a smile when he slides me to the floor. “Go.”

His eyes wide, darting across my face like he’s making sure I’m okay, he nods quickly, then bolts upstairs.

“Why’s he going upstairs?” Michelle cranes her head around to look up the staircase. “His room’s on the first floor.’

Oh, for the love of the gods.

“He moved his clothes upstairs because—”

“Let me guess,” Michelle interrupts, which is beyond fortunate because I had no clue how I was going to finish the sentence.

“You’re a bit of a clotheshorse, just like me, and took up the master closet.

” She leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “I totally understand. I’ve done the exact same thing in the past.”

“I—” I glance down at the leggings and the soft, oversized sweater I’m wearing over them.

I’ve never been all that fashion minded.

Frankly, the only reason I have a full wardrobe now is because Sam was determined to spoil me and make sure I had plenty of cozy things to wear.

And while I adore the comfy pieces he picked out for me, it’s more clothing than I’ve ever owned in my life.

Given the brilliant smile Michelle is wearing, it’s clear she’s excited to connect about a shared interest. So I lie.

“Yep, that’s me. I love fashion… so much. ” I sound stilted, even to me.

“Are you living here now then? Is that why Sammy had to move all his clothes upstairs?”

“Umm—”

A scrabbling comes from the stairs, and then Sam is skidding down the bottom two steps, wearing sweats that hang unfairly low from his narrow waist and a burgundy t-shirt, which I’m pretty sure is—

“Sweetie, your shirt’s inside out.” His mother points out gently. “And backwards.”

“Hmm?” He glances down at where the tag on his shirt is flapping against his chest. His cheeks flush. “Oh, yeah. Yep, you’re, um, you’re definitely right.”

I’ve never seen Sam this flustered; he’s usually calm and collected while I’m the one melting down. It’s absolutely adorable to watch my brilliant doctor do everything but wring his hands like a flustered Victorian lady. “Sam—”

My words vanish instantly because Sam—the beautiful man whose appearance haunts me every single day—is tugging his shirt over his head by the collar, revealing a chest with a sparse covering of dark fuzz over his nipples, a lean, muscular torso with some softness to it, and a more intriguing dusting of hair starting under his belly button and trailing beneath the waistband of his dark sweats.

The house is unbearably hot, my skin burning like I have a fever, and I can’t take my eyes off of his bare chest. He’s so fucking gorgeous it hurts. I want to run my fingers over the pale skin he’s revealed, to touch every single inch of him until I get to those sweats and rip them from his body.

Gods, we’ve wasted so much time with him in clothes.

For once, the voice in my head and I are in complete agreement.

My fingertips itch as my nails shift and lengthen into sharp claws.

I want to mark him and make him mine. Make him bleed for me and lap up the delicious crimson nectar flowing through his veins.

My tongue darts out across my lips as I ease closer to him, forgetting everything except for my sweet pet standing near to me but not nearly close enough.

When the shirt clears his head, Sam blinks down at where I’m standing, almost pressed against him, my claws resting against his hip bone.

His eyes flood with heat, and he takes one last step towards me, bringing him flush against me.

A whimper that almost sounds like my name slips out of his mouth as I trace one sharp nail along his body towards where his cock is already starting to tent his sweatpants.

“Maybe I should have called.” A voice interrupts us as Sam’s head lowers towards me.

And just like that, the fragile bubble surrounding us shatters, leaving us standing too close and staring deep into each other’s eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize at the same time Sam is saying, “Shit, Mom, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, babies, you have nothing to apologize for!” Michelle waves a hand at us in a clear dismissal. “I’m the one who intruded on the two of you without giving you a heads up.”

“We’re about to have dinner,” Sam comments offhandedly.

“I understand.” Michelle winks. “The two of you want to have some time alone together. You don’t have to tell me twice—”

“Would you like to join us?” The words are out before I can think through or second guess what I’m saying. “We’ve got plenty of food. It may not be good, but I’m positive it’s edible. All we would need to do is set another place.”

Her face creasing in a smile, Michelle nods enthusiastically. “I would—” Her voice breaks as a stray tear rolls down her cheeks. Brushing it away carelessly, she clears her throat and tries again. “I would love that.”

“Mom?” A mixture of concern and confusion are fighting for a place on Sam’s face.

“I’m fine!” She dashes away another tear as she walks towards the kitchen.

“Mom,” he repeats. This time, it’s not a question.

“It’s okay, sweetie. Nothing to worry about.” Michelle opens a cabinet and pulls down a bowl, setting it on the counter before tugging open the silverware drawer.

“Mom.” Sam has dropped into the low, commanding register I call his doctor voice. After all the times he has used that voice on me, I’m intimately familiar with it. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“I promise I’m fine.” At his level stare, she cracks.

“It’s just… I’m so happy right now. All I’ve ever wanted for you is to find someone who’s worthy of all of that loyalty and love inside you.

” She shoots him a watery smile that’s somehow still brilliant enough to light up the kitchen.

“I was so worried you would never be able to find someone because you couldn’t let go of your fantasy girl from the attic. ”

My head jerks to Sam, whose mouth is parted in what looks like shock, his eyes already on me. I know Michelle is still talking, but I don’t process any of it because the phrase, “your fantasy girl from the attic,” is ringing, echoing, in my head.

He never stopped thinking about me.

Your fantasy girl from the attic.

He wanted to come back for me.

Your fantasy girl from the attic.

He felt something for me more than mere pity.

Your fantasy girl from the attic.

He has always been fucking meant for me.