Page 3 of Fear No Hell
I could inspire someone… I dismiss the idea as quickly as it arises. It has been so long since I used my powers willingly, I’m not sure I could summon up the inspiration necessary for somebody to come up with a haiku, much less enough of a distraction for me to escape.
As for my darker ability of persuasion… I never used it intentionally. It was only a surplus of inspiration that transformed into something more obsessive. More lethal. So that magic could be even less stable than an attempt at inspiration would be.
I sigh and turn, prepared to see if I can find a window to jump from; without the magical trappings of the cuff, my body is already healing at the accelerated rate characteristic of the Muses.
My rapidly mending hand is evidence of that.
I should be able to heal the injuries of a second-story leap easily now.
From below me comes Arthur’s voice.
I flinch, ducking away from the landing on instinct before I realize he’s at the base of the staircase.
Close enough for me to hear every word he says clear as day but far away enough that he can’t see me.
Even still, I tuck myself further against the wall, about to slip away, when what Arthur is saying catches my attention.
“We can do the exchange tonight.”
"Quite right," a posh British accent answers, his drawl sounding about as impressed with Arthur as I am. “Is she everything you say?”
“And quite a bit more.” The slurred response makes my skin crawl. “In addition to jumpstarting your inspiration, it will be the most… pleasurable writing experience you’ll ever have. But it doesn’t come cheap.”
The British man huffs out a laugh. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get to money, old boy. You’ve lost your touch.” A pause, then he asks, “What do you want for her?”
“Twenty million.” His words are clipped enough that I’m left wondering how much of Arthur’s drunkenness was a ruse until I realize what he said. “Going rate for the muse of epic poetry is twenty million dollars.”
Anger trails down my spine, raising goosebumps along my exposed flesh. He’s bartering for me! Like I’m a commodity over which he has ownership and has the right to sell. Magic prickles under my skin as I stand there, pressed against the wall of this monster’s house.
“I’ll have to test the merchandise first,” the other man retorts. “Make sure she is as inspiring as you say.”
“Of course. She’s on the third floor.” The jingling of keys cuts through my rage.
“There’s the key to the door—and only the door.
I have a mystical cuff binding her to the bed that will keep her from getting away from you.
Go have a taste.” Arthur laughs before stifling the sound.
“Make sure you keep it down, though. That tight little body of hers has a way of making a man forget he needs to be quiet. Can’t have everyone here knowing what we’re up to. ”
The buyer must respond—the party and music must still be going—but I can’t hear anything anymore.
All I have to lock me into my body, to keep me in the here and now, is the sensation of anger, the icy, unfiltered rage coursing through me.
The feeling of blood racing hot through my veins; toxic magics that I don’t know or understand roiling through my body, prickling at my skin, centering along my spinal cord and in my forehead, and shooting pain coursing through my fingers.
He thinks he can own me?
A dark voice in my head, one I've never heard before, howls, its pointed shout bringing me back to the present. To the sound of the buyer’s boots thudding heavily against the wooden steps, only feet from where I’m hiding. Another human intending to keep me. To harm me.
No.
I shake my head, drawing back from the wall, my shoulders going back in a proud stance.
I am Calliope, the muse of epic poetry, the once-beloved eldest daughter of Mnemosyne.
A goddess in my own right. I will not let this prospective buyer take me.
I will make him pay for his hubris with far more than money.
My lips curl at the thought, and a fissure of pleasure tracks down my spine.
A loud squeal of excitement rings out downstairs followed by a woman’s happy cry of, “Arthur!”
Arthur. The man who destroyed me. The man who took me from my home, who tortured me, who imprisoned me.
Who took everything from me. Who’s now celebrating the success he has had in exchange for my life.
Sharp pain lances my fingertips once more, and I glance down, only to see that my poorly cared-for nails have become sharp claws, long, pointed talons that I could use to claw through the wall next to me.
Or… that could be easily used to tear out the heart of the man planning to buy me before I castrate the one who raped me.
My willingness to fight the burgeoning darkness inside me vanishes as I flex my fingers, the obsidian color of my new claws swallowing the light glinting off them. I am done being a good little muse. Done accepting whatever the fates throw at me.
The buyer turns the corner, frowning when he sees me standing there.
I will make every single one of the people in this house regret celebrating what Arthur has done to me. Starting with the man trying to be my new owner.
With a snarl, I raise my hand and rake my claws across his chest.