Page 6 of Fear No Hell

“Your spouse won’t mind you bringing home your father like this? Or me, for that matter?” I sputter, following him as he carves a path through the crime scene that is the living room—is that someone’s spinal cord resting on the ceiling fan?—towards a large glass door.

Without looking back, Sam calls, “Not married.”

“But surely, the person you live with—”

He cuts me off, this time with no small amount of amusement.

“No significant other, no roommate, no fuck buddies, or friends with benefits. No nobody waiting for me at home. I’m all yours.

” One-handed, the muscles of his back taut under the tight fabric of his shirt as he balances Arthur’s weight, he swings open the door, revealing a well-manicured lawn and trees covered in frost.

I’ve seen all of this before. But I’ve only ever seen it from the attic window. For some odd reason, all I can think is that the trees are bigger from this angle than I thought they would be. Everything’s different standing here on the first floor than it is in the attic.

One second I’m following Sam to the door.

The next, I’m frozen at the threshold: one foot raised to cross it and unable to make myself move any further.

The fury still simmering in my veins is getting beaten away by something.

It’s not magic. No, this time it’s something far more primal: fear.

My heartbeat is spiking, blood is roaring in my ears, but this time, none of it is tinged with the heat of rage. It’s ice cold panic.

I can’t breathe.

Over the pounding of my pulse, I hear sounds, indistinguishable from the rhythmic drumbeat in my head. I can’t focus on anything besides that small section of porch where my foot will land if I could only just make myself move.

There’s movement in the periphery of my vision. I can’t force my eyes to lift from the porch, no matter how hard I try. I'm trapped in this horrible loop of terror, a blood-curling, breath-stealing, bone-disintegrating fear that I can't shake.

A large hand brushes lightly against my cheek, and I find myself moving, reacting to the touch before I can think my way through it.

Before my clawed blow can land, my ears finally process what was only muffled thunder second before.

My arm falls back to my side when I realize what the sound is.

It’s Sam, rambling like he has nothing better to do than stand here and talk about what sounds like nothing.

“Hey, sweetness, it’s just one step. Nothing to be afraid of, just a porch in suburbia, which, now that I think about it, may be something to judge but definitely not something to be afraid of.

You know I don’t even know your name. I should probably get that before you come into my house, although it’s not a dealbreaker—”

His stream of consciousness is what does it. What makes it so I can finally lift my eyes, raising them to Sam’s, which crease in happiness as my foot drops over the threshold into the square foot of space I couldn’t stop looking at seconds ago.

“There you are.” He’s smiling fully now. “You fucking did it!”

“Calliope,” I blurt, unable to respond to his praise, only wanting Sam—this man who talked me through a panic attack rather than taking advantage of me while I was incapacitated—to know my name before any more time passes. Actually, it’s not a want. It’s a need. I need him to know who I am.

“What?”

“That’s my name. You said you didn’t know it. I want you to.” My cheeks flame. “It’s Calliope.”

“Calliope.” That smile only grows impossibly wider as he says my name, the sound of it emerging from his lips sending a burst of warmth through me.

“It’s nice to officially meet you.” He extends his hand between us, like we have all the time in the world.

Like we’re not standing in front of a suburban home in a wealthy neighborhood, the house’s owner lying broken on the porch beside us—where Sam apparently dropped him during my panic attack—and a room full of corpses behind us.

I stare at his hand long enough that he lowers it.

As soon as he moves, I realize that I want to shake his hand.

I want to initiate touch with someone—no, not someone, Sam, Sam is inexplicably special—for the first time in decades.

With none of the grace befitting my station as a muse, I lurch forward, wrapping my fingers around his hand, bringing my palm against his.

Fortunately, my claws have receded enough that I don’t pierce the skin of his wrist.

“Hi, Sam.” I sound breathy in a way I’ve never heard myself before as I finally complete my step over the threshold of this awful house to stand closer to Sam. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Calliope.” His grip isn't bruising or scary, only firm and warm.

Nothing about his touch sends me spiraling into a panic.

Well, nothing except for the lightning flash of desire I feel, the inexplicable ache settling between my legs.

I shake my head, trying to rouse myself from whatever sexual spell I’ve fallen under.

No matter what I do, I can’t bring myself to let go of him.

“So… “ He’s still holding my hand. “You said you wanted to burn this place to the ground, right?” At my nod, he shrugs. “Old man had a grill in the backyard when I lived here.”

“You want to—”

“Torch the place, yeah.”

“Why?” I’m astonished that he remembered what I said, much less that he wants to do it.

“You said you wanted it gone.” Like that’s the end of it—like me simply wanting something is a good enough reason for him to do it—he jogs down the porch stairs, calling over his shoulder, “Stay here.”

When he returns, an oversized lighter clutched in his hand, I’m still standing there, staring at his approaching figure in disbelief.

He glances around then back at me, his brow wrinkled. “What?”

“Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.” I have no idea how he can hear me with how low my voice is. At this volume, the wind is probably louder than I am.

“Because you deserve the world that he stole from you, Calliope. And I’m going to do everything I can to give it back to you.

” He seizes Arthur’s shirt in one hand, tossing him off the porch onto the driveway—where his head smacks into the concrete with a satisfying thud that has the dark voice in my head cackling in glee—before padding down the stairs himself.

Turning, he offers me the hand not holding the lighter.

This time, I don’t hesitate. I seize his hand immediately, tangle my fingers with his, and let him escort me down the steps.

Beside me, there’s a snap, and controlled flames flare to life, illuminating the night around us. They're enchanting, hypnotizing as they dance gaily in the gust of wintry wind that floods the space between us.

Sam shows me the proper angle to hold the switch to keep the torch lit before handing it to me and stepping away. He’s still close enough for the warmth of his body to reach me, but the small distance he puts between us makes it clear this is my moment. My choice.

The darkness inside me spreads, forcing away any uncertainty, luxuriating in the knowledge of what I’m about to do.

Appreciating the chaos, the absolute hell I’m going to rain down upon Arthur.

Starting with his majestic house, this mansion built out of forced inspiration and greed and maliciousness.

In this moment, with Sam standing behind me, I have no fear.

Only rage and an incandescent certainty that this is my destiny.

A gleeful smirk spreads across my face as I lower the flame to the wooden porch.