Page 28 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

Sam is most definitely not okay. Ever since his mother’s disastrous revelation that Arthur may not be his father, he has been quiet. Pensive in a way that has razor-sharp edges and a seething underlay. Whether the seething is anger, betrayal, or confusion seems to depend on the minute.

After hundreds of unanswered calls and texts to his mother, he went looking for his keys…

which I had hidden so he wouldn’t try and drive while he was out of his mind like this.

He could have gotten angry over me taking his keys and making decisions on his behalf, but he didn’t.

Instead, he gave me a measured look, set me aside, and went downstairs to confront Arthur.

We’ve spent the last day in the basement waiting for Arthur to wake up, all while Sam’s left leg bounces, his arms propped on his knees and fingers steepled under his chin.

Every now and again, he bites out a few words under his breath; I can’t make them out, which is fine because, somehow, I know they’re not meant for me.

So I don’t engage, instead choosing to stay next to him, lending whatever strength I can to him as he faces this.

His eyes are flickering between the hazel I know and love so dearly and a darkness that swallows up all of the color in his eyes, just like in my dream.

Then I’ll blink, and they’re back to being hazel.

A few times, I think I see the shadows clustering in around us, human-like shapes darting in close, long fingers dragging along Sam’s taut shoulders in reverent touches.

Every time I look closer, there’s nothing there. They’re just shadows.

His energy is a mess, the aura he’s putting off tangibly dark.

Besides the tapping of his foot, he hasn’t moved in hours, not even to go to the bathroom.

I’ve sat in that folding chair many times before; it’s not at all conducive to sitting for long periods of time.

Sam doesn’t seem to recognize that fact or, if he does, care because he’s sat there for hours, through the sun setting on the disaster that was yesterday and into it rising on another day that seems as likely to go awry as the one before it.

He just sits in that grotesquely uncomfortable chair, intense and stoic, color-shifting gaze unmoving from Arthur’s unconscious form.

I’m not afraid, though. I should be, and, I think if it were anyone else, I would be, but it’s Sam.

The man who, as a child, stood up to his abusive father for me.

Who helped me burn down Arthur’s house, so I would never have to see it again.

Who turned his own basement into a dungeon, so I could take my revenge on his father in whatever gruesome manner I see fit.

All of this with few questions about the practicalities of his actions or my intentions beyond those needed to confirm what we were doing.

He’s my precious doctor who I know would rather rip off his other leg than hurt me. And so, despite the palpable fury radiating from him, I breathe easily and stay next to him as we wait for Arthur to wake up.

A pained rumble finally emanates from the gaunt man dangling in the corner.

A few seconds later, his lids twitch before fluttering open, revealing eyes sunk deep into their sockets, made more ominous by the dark bruises skimming high over his cheekbones.

His lips are cracked, deep lines of oozing red extending across them.

It must be infuriatingly painful; that apparently isn’t enough to stop him from baring his teeth mockingly at us.

“Oh look.” His voice is nothing like the booming, deep one I knew and feared for all those years.

Not anymore. After two months in the basement, hours of screaming and shouting and swearing, all of the pain and panic and entitled fury I’ve put him through, it has diminished into something threadbare, scraping out of his throat with difficulty.

“It’s the whore and my worthless bastard. ”

In the space it takes me to blink, Sam is standing, his fist darting out, driving hard into his father’s face. The sharp crack of his nose splintering echoes around us followed by a pained howl.

“Don’t you say a goddamned word about her,” Sam hisses. Despite his venomous tone and shadowed eyes, his face stays calm, his lips set in a neutral line. “You shouldn’t even be looking at her, but since she’s not done with you yet, unfortunately your eyes get to stay in your head. For now.”

Arthur wriggles uselessly, sending his body spinning as he sneers, “You’re not gonna get away with this.”

“Oh, we definitely are.” Confidence radiates from Sam in a way that has my blood heating.

“Nobody cares that you’re gone. The police came calling while you were in this very basement and left without even doing a search because they believed me when I told them I was nowhere near your house that night.

None of your so-called friends have reached out to me to figure out where you are.

No one is looking for you; even your publisher sold you off as a bad bet after CPD announced they were investigating you for the murder of more than a hundred guests at your party. ”

Arthur’s face grows more pale with each word.

“When the news reported on your house burning down, they barely mentioned who you were. The headline read, ‘Local author’s house burned down.’ They didn’t even mention you by name, and the only book of yours they referenced was The Familiars.

” He glances at me meaningfully when he references Arthur’s breakthrough best-seller from decades before, written and published the year after he took me.

“You’ve been here for months, old man. We’ve had visitors during that time. None of them suspected a damn thing.”

By the time Sam is done speaking, all of Arthur’s color is gone, leaving behind an ashy, broken man. “Why won’t you just let me die?”

“A few reasons, actually,” Sam responds coolly. “First: Lila’s not done with you. After everything you did to her, it’s her call when we kill you. Until then, I keep you alive for her.”

Arthur squeaks as his sunken eyes dart to me, all arrogance draining away as Sam casually discusses how we’re—and I absolutely don’t miss how he says it like we’re a team—going to kill him.

“And second,” Sam continues like Arthur didn’t make any sound at all. “Because you still have something we need.”

“What?” Arthur’s eyebrows lift in a micro-expression I’m all too familiar with, one that has visions flashing through my head of a dozen different times where he gave me that exact same expression while he stood over me.

A growl rumbles deep in my chest as my claws unfurl, desperate to slash through his flesh.

“Information.” In direct contrast with his biting tone, Sam’s hand is gentle as it curls around mine in reassurance, the warm press of it bringing me away from the tantalizing edge of the fury threatening to overwhelm me. “Mom came to visit yesterday.”

“You mean—” Arthur clears his throat. “You mean there really have been visitors?”

It’s a question but not. It’s the hope that Sam was lying when he said nobody cared about Arthur missing, masked as a simple inquiry. A bare flicker of hope that nobody has heard him and ignored his suffering.

And watching Sam shatter Arthur’s dreams with one sharp, “Yes,” sends shivers of pleasure through me that drip through my veins like an overpowering drug.

I lose track of time at the syrupy fingers of happiness, the body clenching goodness of seeing this monster realizing how little he means to the world and the people he surrounded himself with.

When I come back to myself, Sam is speaking again.

“—Mom implied you weren’t my father,” Sam finishes. “Got anything to say about that?”

“I don’t owe you fucking anything,” Arthur jeers in a pale imitation of his normal mockery. There’s panic in his eyes, something I haven’t seen yet during all of our hours in the basement.

“You don’t think so?” Sam purses his lips, his head shifting in a thoughtful nod.

“Not even after you raped Lila for four decades? Not after you beat Mom for years? Not because you hooked up with any nurse assigned to help Mom whenever she was hospitalized?” Arthur’s face turns red as Sam continues to lay bare his sins. “Not even after you cost me my leg?”

“That was her fault!” Arthur suddenly screams, his hands fisting above his restraints in a way that tells me how badly he wants to point the literal finger of blame at me for Sam’s amputation. “If she had just been quiet, nothing would—”

I’ve been with Sam for months. With me, he’s calm and caring. The only time I’ve seen him angry was at Arthur the night of the retirement party. I’ve never seen him furious.

At least not until now.

The minute Arthur blames me, Sam’s face goes rigid with rage. His cheekbones are stark, the warm hazel of his eyes covered by obsidian as his hands ball into fists.

“What did you say?” Sam’s voice drops low, so deep it settles into and vibrates my bones. So deep it barely sounds human.

As if Arthur finally realizes the danger, he goes silent. But it’s too late.

“You were so eager to talk earlier,” Sam spits. “So fucking talk.”

Arthur shakes his head pointedly.

“Fucking coward.” Without pausing, Sam steps forward, pulling me forward with him by the hand I still have wrapped in mine. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s still holding my hand until he gives it a tight squeeze before releasing me.

I don’t know what his plan is. Frankly, I don’t care. I’ll follow him anywhere with less knowledge of what we’re doing than I have right now.