Page 9 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

It was surprisingly easy to commit arson. No guilt or shame came from burning Arthur’s house to the ground, only a deep-seated smugness at taking back my life. Not to mention how easy it was from a practical perspective. Once the porch went up in flames, the rest followed rapidly.

We left the house a raging inferno behind us.

Neither of us looked back as Sam got into his car with Arthur stuffed into the trunk and drove off with me walking along the sidewalk on the passenger side.

Far enough away that if Sam decided he actually does want a captive muse or Arthur escaped, I could either defend myself or run.

Neither of those things happens. Instead, Sam drives beside me for miles without once complaining that he’s going the average land speed of a fast turtle, not to mention that his father has woken up and is shouting loudly enough for me to hear him from where I’m standing outside of the car.

Nor does he say a word about having to drive with his windows down during a snowstorm so he can call directions to me.

In between these instructions, he’s talking to me, asking questions about me and my life.

Somewhere about midway through the drive, he makes a disgusted noise and decides he’s going to call me ‘Lila’ because Calliope “feels too formal.”

The abbreviation of my name has me biting back a smile.

I’ve never had a real nickname before. Nobody, not even my sisters, ever cared enough to give me one.

So I don't argue about the shortening of my name and answer everything he cares to ask me in that soothing voice of his. Not once while I’m talking does Sam stop me to say, “I have to write something down,” or, “I have an idea.” For the first time since I came into my powers millennia ago, I’m able to have a real conversation with another person who’s not related to me.

By the time we get to his house, snow is falling faster, and the temperatures have plummeted. Somewhere around the tenth mile, the treacherous weather started getting to me, but I can’t stop smiling. Every ache, every pain, the biting cold, all of it is worth it for me to have this time with Sam.

After hours of walking, Sam motions across the passenger seat. “This is me.”

I glance to my right. “Here?”

Sam hums in agreement as he pulls past me to begin the process of parallel parking.

Standing on the sidewalk, I take in the house Sam gestured at.

It’s nothing like Arthur’s. Instead of an ostentatious, ultra-modern masterpiece—which burned oh so beautifully—in a wealthy neighborhood, it’s a brick bungalow sitting on a small lot, tucked in among older, well-kept homes.

The drifts of snow that have formed along the walkway and the shrubs lining the foundation only serve to make his house seem even more like a Kinkade painting.

The energy shifts as Sam joins me on the pavement. “I know it’s not much,” he comments with a wary expression.

“It’s perfect,” I cut him off sternly. I’m not entirely sure why I feel the need to compliment his house, especially since I don’t know if I’m staying with him.

It may be the look on his face, the one that says he cares about what I think and wants me to be happy, or it could be the hours we just spent talking, but I can’t stand him feeling like I disapprove of anything about him. Including his house, apparently.

He flushes, the charming pink blush spreading over pale cheeks tinged yellow in the glow cast by the lights lining the street. “Thank you.” A shaking finger reaches up to shove at the bridge of his glasses, even though they’re already perfectly aligned on his aquiline nose.

We stand in silence, staring at each other until a particularly loud, “Let me the fuck out of here!” makes its way to us from the trunk.

With a sigh, Sam turns back to the car. “I’m going to get him out of there before he wakes up the neighborhood. Are you alright if I put him in the basement?”

The blood rushes from my face at his question.

“The basement?” I parrot, proud that I only squeak slightly on the last syllable.

Those underground caverns are only marginally better than attics, and it’s solely because I haven’t spent the last several decades trapped in one that I can tolerate them.

“It does have a door with a lock at the top of the stairs. There’s another exit, though,” he explains.

“If you get locked in for any reason, you can go out the back door, which puts you in the yard. You won’t get trapped again, Lila.

” His hand lifts between us, almost like he wants to touch me, but before he gets anywhere near me—before I can so much as flinch at the thought of another touch—he drops his arm back to his side.

Like he knows I’m not ready for that, despite us having had several points of contact throughout the night.

Without another word, he goes back to the car, leaving me gaping on the sidewalk after him as I come to a stunning and unexpected conclusion: if I were ever going to want someone to touch me again, it would be this gentle man who has already shown me more kindness in the hours I’ve known him than anyone else has shown me in my long life.