Page 33 of The Devil and His Sparrow

I’d thought her hesitant, almost timid nature was a sort of act. A charade of sorts to come off mysterious or something. Now, like a fucking moron, I realized she genuinely was those things. Unsure. Inexperienced. Stiff.

But also hungry for life.

Iyla’s brow plunged in defiance, and she crossed her arms defensively. “Why? Because I don’t sleep around? Because I don’t party?”

“Because you’re afraid to be who you want,” I answered calmly, simply stating the facts as I’d observed them. I’d been around plenty long enough to know a lost soul when I saw one. “It’s obvious you’re letting the world or someone in it dictate your life and what you do with it. Maybe a parent. A religion. An ideal you were brought up with. Whichever the case may be, our fans are typically free, for lack of a better word. Those things don’t hold them back from living life anymore.”

The indignation had slipped from her face. Now, her pinched brown eyes held mine, and she looked as if I’d just reached across the space between us and punched her in the gut. She swallowed and whispered, “I’m free.”

“Not from where I’m standing. You may be bound to me, Sparrow, but that doesn’t compare to the chains something else has wrapped around you. You’re ruled by another’s standards and desires, not your own. Hell, I doubt you truly know who you are, because you’re too busy living life for someone else to even find out.”

Her mouth tightened, and she shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

She spun on her heel and left the way she came, and we both knew what her retreat meant.

I was right.

I LET OUT AN ANGRY roar and lit the sheet music in my hands on fire. I didn’t even bat an eye when the black ash hit the carpet of my brand new studio.

Everything was shit.

The notes? Shit.

The lyrics? Shit.

It was all the same damn thing I always sang about these days, and we were all getting tired of it. I had to come up with something new and fresh to give our fans a reason to keep listening to what we had to say.

“Damn, I like what you’ve done with the place.”

I looked up at the sound of Dante’s voice. He, Perseus, Xander, and Coldin filed into the lounge part of the studio where I was currently sitting on the edge of the red U-shaped couch, elbows on my knees, glowering at the ash at my feet.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked with a heavy sigh.

“We came to see what your new place was like,” Xander answered, scanning the room. Just having him here added to the churning sea of rage inside me.

He wore an annoying bright green shirt that made me think of toxic waste from some bad sci-fi film and checkerboard pants. He had Coldin’s drum sticks resting between his ears and skull for some damn reason, as if they were an accessory and nothing more.

Xander flashed me a teasing grin after his perusal and added, “Since, you know, our lead heart-breaker got himself tied down here. Nice going, by the way.”

“Shut up,” I gritted out, trying to ignore the urge to set him on fire where he stood.

“Yeah,” Perseus said, dropping onto one end of the couch and making himself right at home. His golden hair fell across his forehead, and he brushed it back into place with his heavily ringed fingers. He pinned Xander in place with his jade-green eyes. “It could’ve happened to any Incubus. We’ve been careless these days, not ensuring our partners aren’t virgins. Let’s take what happened to Zagan as a sign that we can’t let our guards down.”

Xander didn’t take being bonded seriously since he didn’t understand what it meant to be bound. To him, it was a joke. But then again, everything was a joke to him. That was the reality for most Mischiefs, demons who existed solely for the antics and fun of chaos. They thrived on pulling jokes, causing a commotion, and being careless. Some of them were alright to be around because they did know how to have fun, but the majority of them were just headaches.

Xander was in the latter of the two.

He was also the only one here who didn’t have to worry about getting chained to someone from a bond like an Incubi or Succubi did. He didn’t have to worry about living his life in the dark pits of Hell, only coming out into the light of day when on a job like Coldin did.

I glanced at our ever quiet drummer, taking note of his closed eyes, crossed tattooed arms, his forever straight mouth with a labret lip ring, and wavy brown hair tousled on top of his head. Coldin leaned against the wall closest to the doorway like he was ready to leave even though they’d just gotten here.

Out of all demons, his kind was the worst of us all. He was a Letum, and just the title alone made my blood run cold. They were a dangerous breed, even among other demons, and because of their drive to kill anything and everything, they were kept under constant lock and key in Hell, only being brought out when they were assigned to a task.

Humans believed the thick black bands of ink on his wrists were simple tattoos, but they were a sign of why he was here, why he was allowed to roam freely right now. Unlike my black collar that faded into my skin, his mark was always visible. It served as a warning and sign for any who found themselves face to face with him.

Run.

Coldin had always been pleasant enough to us when we passed him in his cell in Hell—never yelling profanities at us or making threats to disembowel us like the other Letums—and I’d heard him drumming listlessly on the stone walls of his prison. So when we formed a band, we took pity on the quiet demon.

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