Page 54 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

Sitting in our living room, facing a wall of windows that overlook the quiet street outside and the second to last waxing crescent moon of the month, surrounded by myrtle branches and the smoke of my most recent offering to my mother, all I feel is numb.

It’s one thing to assume you mean nothing to the only parent who raised you. It’s another to have proof.

Sam is furious. Already barely tolerant of my family for abandoning me when I needed them most, my mother’s lack of response now has driven him into outright loathing. While he never insults them in front of me, his fists clench and his eyes go black whenever I talk about them.

With a sigh, I push myself to a stand and step out of the summoning circle.

We have one more night until the end of the month, and even though there are two waxing crescent moons at the beginning of July, I don’t think I can handle more disappointment.

I think the end of June has to be it for calling for my mother.

I can't take any more disappointment in the woman who was meant to care for me and seems to be unable to do so.

Sam’s leaning against the wall leading to the kitchen.

I shake my head, a silent signal that she didn’t respond.

Again. I barely hear him cross the room, don’t even fully realize he’s there until his arms close around me, and my cheek is resting against his chest. I don’t realize I’m crying either, silent tears rolling down my cheeks, until I shift and Sam’s shirt comes with me.

“I’m so sorry, sweetness.”

“It’s not your fault,” I sniffle. “You can’t make my mother care.”

“Would if I could, though.” He pairs the sentiment with a press of his lips to my forehead. “But I care enough to make up for all of them.”

I push away from Sam with a watery smile.

“Trust me, I know you do, my love.” If finding Sam is all that comes out of this nightmare, then it will be more than worth it.

“I love you.” I go to my tiptoes and kiss him, a quick peck, before dropping back to my feet.

I’m about to head to the kitchen table when I notice his outfit.

“Oh my gods, you’re wearing the apron I got you! ”

“I was wondering if you would notice.” He laughs.

“Of course I did!” Tracing my fingers over the embroidered ‘Doctor by Day, Chef by Night,’ emblazoned across his chest, I feel my hurt from the failed summoning start to fade away.

It’s hard to hold on to it when Sam—the man who has dedicated himself to making me feel loved and cherished, regardless of how I appear or act—is standing in front of me and my mother isn’t.

“It seemed perfect with you going back to days at the hospital.”

“Since you said you’re feeling close to done with Arthur, I didn’t want to spend nights away from you anymore.” His thumb brushes along my cheek. “I’ve done that for way too long anyways.”

He lets me nuzzle into his palm for a few seconds before tapping my cheekbone.

“Okay, time for dinner, sweetness. Get to the table before everything gets cold.”

I get settled at the table where a broccoli cheese rice casserole—the exact recipe I managed to destroy all those months ago—sits.

“So that’s what this is supposed to look like?” I tease. “With the cheese all gooey and fully cooked rice?”

Sam chuckles. “I mean, the charring added some unique flavor—" His nose twitches. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell—”

Rosemary. Lavender. Sage.

“Mother?” Whirling in my chair, I search for a portal. Nothing is different about the room: same ivory walls, same wooden table.

Where is she?

My eyes dart around the room a second time.

“How would she get here? I’m assuming she’s not using the front door.”

“Definitely not. She’ll probably portal—”

In the far corner of the room, the air shimmers before unfolding into wide, iridescent parallelograms that range across the entire wall.

There’s a blinding flare of light, and the center of the wall vanishes, replaced by a steep incline with lush trees and a sun-dappled forest floor and, above it all, endless cerulean blue skies.

A small shape walks down a barely there path, growing larger with each step, until a woman steps through the portal.

She hasn’t changed in the four decades since I last saw her. Her hair is still thick and white-blonde, her eyes a blue similar in shade to my own.

“Hello, Mother,” I greet flatly.

“My darling Calliope, how—” Her gaze lands on me. Her eyes widen, and, with a gasp, she flinches away from me. “No.”

“No, what?” I snap as I stand and round the table. Before I can close the distance to my mother—to do what, I haven’t decided yet—Sam grips my waist and drags me into his lap.

“Let’s go with questions first, sweetness,” he whispers into my ear. “We don’t like what she has to say, we can put her down in the basement with Arthur.” When I growl in my mother’s direction, he nuzzles my cheek with his own, marking me over and over until I can think straight.

All the while, my mother looks on.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Okay, you’re right. I reserve the right to string her up for any reason, though.”

He kisses my cheek gently and loosens his hold on me. I don’t move, instead choosing to wrap my arms around his neck as I address the woman who gave birth to me.

“What did you mean, ‘no?’” I demand.

“May I sit down before we begin some sort of interrogation? It’s only polite.” A haughty grimace graces her face.

With two sentences, she manages to dig herself into a deeper grave. Beneath me, Sam starts to snarl, his eyes turning obsidian. “Polite? You want fucking polite?” he growls. “Polite would have been—”

And just like that, I’m officially no longer the most irate person in the room.

“Please sit.” I gesture at the chair I vacated a few minutes before.

She sits gracefully. “Who is this… gentleman?”

“This is Sam Eaton. He’s my…” I look up at the fuming man who has been my rock for the last seven months. “He’s my boyfriend?” It comes out like a question. It's not because I’m confused by my feelings for Sam. It’s because the word feels so woefully inadequate for who and what he is to me.

As if sensing my internal turmoil, Sam confirms, “Boyfriend.” His voice is still lower than usual, even though I can sense him trying to rein in his distaste, both for my mother and the word itself.

“Is this like that author you were shacked up with for the last several years?”

I see red. Scarlet rage flashing in front of my eyes as my mother minimizes the horrors she left me to for so many decades.

Beneath me, I know Sam is barely holding himself together—that if he’s not burning our home down with my mother in it, it’s out of respect for me—but beyond the thump of his heart, which I can hear as clearly as my own, I can’t process anything around me.

“Excuse me?” The words are ice and fire, incandescent fury blended into one small sentence. “The author I was shacking up with? Are you referencing the man who imprisoned me in his attic by way of an enchanted cuff for 38 godsdamned years? All in the name of ‘inspiration?’”

“Don’t be silly, Calliope.” My mother waves her hand in a clear dismissal. “You know it’s your and your sisters’ job to inspire creatives of all kinds.”

“It’s our choice who we inspire. People don’t get to decide for us because they believe inspiration is their due, and they don’t get to keep us when they want more than we’re willing to give!

” I shout in response. An ominous hiss underlines my furious tone.

“Arthur kidnapped and raped me, Mother. For 38 years.”

Her face goes the color of sour milk.

“Oh, did you think he handcuffed me and I just willingly spoke inspiration into his ears? No. You taught me to be stronger than that. When I refused to speak to him, he raped the inspiration out ofme. Over and over and over again until he was too old to fuck me anymore, at which point he tried to sell me—” A sharp inhale from her.

“Like I was a fucking commodity. A product to be offloaded. He offered to allow the other author to ‘sample the goods.’”

“I didn’t know, Calliope.” Gone is Mnemosyne the Titan. In her place is a hunched, broken woman curled in the chairs we eat our dinner in.

I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for her.

“I summoned you. I begged for you, my mother, the only parent I have in my life, to come and save me. For years. You didn’t answer once. Melpomene and Clio did come to see me in the 1990s and made sure to tell me it was my fault I got taken, so it was my responsibility to get myself out.”

Even as Sam’s fingers dig hard into my hip, he stays quiet. Lends me the strength I need to carry on with every deep breath he takes.

“The only person who tried to help me was a nine-year-old boy living in Arthur’s house who walked in while Arthur was-while he-while I was…

” I exhale past the words refusing to come out and keep going.

“And he lost his leg and much of his freedom for trying to help me. He’s also the only one who came back for me.

” I rub my hand over Sam’s forearm, drawing strength from his touch, his presence.

“Am I to assume that was you?” My mother’s gaze flicks to Sam for a split second.

His muscles flex under my hands as he nods jerkily.

“He rescued you?”

“No.” Sam interrupts. “No, she saved her fucking self. I got there after she had already escaped. I’m here to make sure she has whatever she needs since her own family can’t be fucked to do so.”

“I never—” she begins.

“No, you never. You weren't there for me when I needed you.” I’m calmer now that I’ve finally had the chance to spew four decades worth of venom at the woman who birthed and raised me.

It's different from Arthur because I don’t feel the need to torture my mother for her role in my imprisonment.

Her abandonment. I want to extract information and send her away.

Never see her again. I’m not sure if that’s growth or not, but it feels like something.

I inhale deeply. Exhale. When I speak again, I’m quieter than before.

More controlled. “But thank you for coming now.”

“You’re welcome, Calliope. I am glad that I can be here for you now.”

“Mother, don’t mistake what’s happening here.

I’m not asking for you to support me. I have questions I need to ask you about what’s happening to me.

As I’m sure you can see, I’ve changed rather significantly from the last time you saw me.

” I gesture to my body—the tattoos, which now glow more often than not.

My permanently red irises. The sharp black claws that grace my hands full-time.

“You’re going to answer any and all questions I have, and then you’re leaving.

You and my sisters are never to contact me again. ”

“But what about your role as a muse?"

“Never again. I’m done,” I hiss. “I gave my life for that role, and all it got me was pain and torment. Train one of your other daughters to inspire for epic poetry because I’m never coming back.”

“But—”

Sam bites out a snarl, one she seems to understand means there is no argument here.

I run a hand through his hair, nuzzle his cheek gently in thanks; my sweet doctor melts under my touch, like he isn’t prepared to use my mother as a guinea pig in an experiment as to whether a butter knife would make an acceptable substitute for a scalpel.

“Are you ready to answer my questions?” I ask conversationally from my place in Sam’s lap.

“Yes. Yes, I’m ready to answer your questions.”