Page 4 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

My movement is so sudden that the man doesn’t have time to react before three gouges rip through the fine fabric of his dress shirt and down to his chest underneath. There’s a fraught moment where the world stops around us, and it seems like my actions took place with nothing to show for them.

Seconds later, crimson blossoms at the seams of the gashes as his skin splits open, starting high near his right collarbone and flowing down to the left side of his stomach, the flesh edging apart slowly at first before giving suddenly as if its resilience finally hit its limits.

Blood pours from the wounds, staining his clothes, dripping down his body to pool on the floor.

With each pound of his heart, the pool grows larger until it's oozing around my bare feet.

I barely notice the mess when I step forward, so close my breasts almost touch his slashed chest. “You thought you could own me?” As I drink his pain in, he gasps and drops to his knees at my feet.

I tilt my head one way then the other, appreciating every flinch he makes, the growing paleness of his face.

“Don’t forget, darling. You need to keep quiet. ”

His eyes widen as I slash my talons across his throat, blood spraying across my face.

Before he can fall to the ground in front of me, I lift my foot to his chest and kick.

His body tumbles down the steps, each hit making a resounding thud.

I walk behind him, purpose filling my body as I watch every eye at the party turn towards us, scanning over me before settling on the broken man at the bottom of the stairs.

There’s a pregnant pause before the first person screams, shrill and echoing in the spacious living area. Then the world breaks into chaos, people shouting and racing around the room, shoving at each other hysterically as they try to find the door.

All over a little bit of murder. How absurd.

Panicked footsteps pound against the wooden floor; in the distance, there’s the faint sound of porcelain shattering.

Still on the staircase, I stand above it all, my gaze raking the crowd for Arthur until…

There he is, standing by the bookshelves on the other side of the room, his bloodshot eyes locked on me.

Once the prospective buyer came upstairs, he must have moved away quickly.

Plausible deniability in case anyone found out what was happening upstairs, I guess.

Carefully, I make my way down the stairs, following the smeared trail of blood. A small hop and I step over the body into the fray. I’m going to get to Arthur and rip him limb from—

A man smashes into me, almost knocking me off my feet. I catch myself before I can fall, but, as I straighten myself out, his arm brushes over my chest. My stomach turns; bile rises in my throat as yet another person touches me without my consent.

Never again.

The world falls into slow-motion around me as my self-control shatters.

No one gets to touch me without my permission. Not anymore.

Without any direction from my brain, my arm swings out at him, my claws shearing into the meat of his shoulder and through his muscle before glancing off the bone.

The spray of his blood is warm on my face, his screams decadent in my ears as I force him away from me before rearing back and raking my nails down his face.

The skin peels away easily, pulling off in ribbons that fall lazily to the floor before I turn to my next victim.

Chaos reigns as people dart around me, their fear as thick in the air as their terrified noises. For a split second, I lose sight of Arthur amidst the panicked press of bodies. And then, somehow in spite of everything…

There he is.

The world narrows to a pinprick with Arthur, dressed nattily in a tweed suit that pairs horribly with his ashen face, as my only focus.

I force my way through the crowd, shoving and clawing past the bodies pressing in around me with little care for the carnage and death I’m causing.

Shrieks echo around me, and my vision is soaked in red…

blood, I discover, as it drips from my eyebrows onto my cheeks.

Although I must look like the unholy daimons my mother threatened me and my sisters with when we were children, I feel more like myself than I have in years.

My mouth spreads in a ferocious grin as I bear down on Arthur.

He hasn’t moved since we first locked eyes, seemingly frozen in place. His teeth chatter as he watches me stride towards him.

“Hello, Arthur,” I coo, wiggling my gore-covered fingers in his direction.

His brow furrows. “That’s… the first time you’ve ever said my name.

” Suddenly, his face lights up. “I can’t believe…

I have to find a pen! I need to write down this idea.

Beauty, you did it.” He’s vibrating in excitement, reaching for my hands like he wants to share the happiness with me. “You inspired me!”

“You reprehensible cretin,” I hiss, snatching his hand and twisting it until he grunts in pain as I push past the natural twist of his arm to where I can hear the snapping of the fragile bones in his wrist. “You’ll never need paper again.

” That uncontrollable, white-hot rage is still there.

Sweat raises along my hairline as magic pours through me like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

“Please, no—” he begs, voice trembling as badly as his knees are. He almost caves to the floor; only my grip on his shattered wrist keeps him standing. The foul stench of urine surrounds us as a dark stain spreads across the front of his pants. “I have a family—”

“I don’t care.” I loosen my grasp and watch him drop to the floor.

“I had a family too.” My tone is conversational, even though all I want to do is scream in his face.

Use my words to inspire him to inflict violence upon himself rather than to derive the creative thoughts for the novels that made him wealthy beyond measure.

“But you tore me away from them, so it seems only fair I take you away from yours.”

He recoils, trying to scuttle away from me to safety, but, with his broken arm clutched to his chest, he doesn’t get far. “Please no—”

“This is going to be fun.” I smile, wide and deranged, the dried blood on my face cracking with the motion, then raise my leg and bring it down hard, slamming my foot onto his outstretched knee.

The brittle cracking of his kneecap is overshadowed by his high-pitched shrieks. Profanity pours from his mouth, punctuated by gasps and wails.

It’s amazing to hear his agony.

His cries trail off into whimpers, his one good hand reaching for his shattered knee, skimming around and over it while never quite touching it, when I hear, “What the fuck?” from behind me.