Page 48 of The Muse

I watch the flames lick and curl, devouring a piece of history, but what does that matter when I can still feel Cole’s arms around me? I can feel his heart thudding against mine, like a communion. An intimacy I hadn’t known in years. I struggle to turn my thoughts against him. He’s a liar and a fraud, sucking my cock like a whore, but his eyes give everything away. They soften when he looks at me. That kiss on the neck…

I put my hand to my aching heart.

I’m not going to survive this.

But I have to. I have a command to obey or else spend the next millennium in unknowable pain. Agony worse than what was done to me in 1786. But even that memory seems distant when Cole Matheson is standing in front of me, looking at me with those dark eyes. Like staring into absolution.

Into hope.

“There is no hope for me,” I say aloud.

When the hour grows late, I go out. I haven’t been to London in years, but I know where to go; I can feel their need, their desire to surrender. To submit. Cole thinks I do this every night, but since him, I haven’t touched another human. I spend the long hours of the night pulling at my own hair with frustration that I’ve let him invade me so thoroughly, so quickly.

That ends tonight.

The club entrance is tucked into a dark alley and down a flight of stairs. A large man guards the door and asks for a password. My eyes flash black, offering a glimpse of the eternal hell in me.

He steps aside.

Down I go, through dimly lit rooms where bodies entwine and rut in corners while others watch. Cries emanate from behind closed doors—half pain, half ecstasy.

I enter one such room that reeks of perfumed oils. A man is hung from the wall, arms and legs splayed—an X in black leather and chains. Another man is holding a whip, one of many tools displayed on a wooden table in the center. Half a dozen men and women watch, sipping cocktails and smoking cigarettes. They all go still when they see me.

Without a word, I strip out of my jacket and shirt and turn my naked back to the man with the whip. I grip the edges of the table.

“Do it.”

He hesitates. “Safe word?”

“I said,do it,” I snarl, emanating just enough of my otherworldly power to command the room—disobeying me is not an option. My eyes fall shut as the leather lashes my back.

“Harder.”

It comes again, biting deeper but not enough.

“Harder.”

Again and again, the whip crosses my back, but for these humans, inflicting pain is only one part of the equation. Even the harshest treatment is a seduction—a trust—between the punisher and the punished. Mine is holding back. He doesn’t want to hurt me the way I need to be hurt.

I turn and grab the whip as it comes down, rip it out of the man’s hand, and toss it to the floor.

“Useless fool…” That’s when I smell her. Eisheth. My pulse quickens and I turn. “Are you my shadow now?”

But of course she is, watching me, following me on the street. They’re waiting for me to fail.

Eisheth frowns, confused, then shrugs her delicate shoulders. In her human form, she is a sharp-edged beauty reeking of danger—Cole would paint her in rubies and daggers and poison. Perfect ebony skin and hair pouring down her back. I’ve always felt it a shame her demon form washed out her color because she is truly one of the great beauties of the world…and one of the most malevolent.

Eisheth seems to read Cole in my thoughts and her brow arches.

“I know why you’re here, Ambri, and I applaud the intention. But it’s not enough, is it? No, you need something with a little more…heat.” She moves to stand in front of me. “Turn. Strip.”

I do as she says and brace myself on the table. Terror chokes my throat, but I need this. To be cleansed. To rid myself of the soft feelings for Cole Matheson that can have no place in my heart. Feelings that will cost me lifetimes of agony if I don’t endure this now.

The room has gone silent again, wide eyes staring at the succubus and me, all instinctually knowing they’re witnessing something supernatural; none will be able to explain what.

The oil is warm and slick as Eisheth pours it over my backside. It drips down the backs of my legs in scented ribbons. Murmurs and small protests ripple through our audience—she’s taken someone’s cigarette.

“Nothing purifies quite like fire,” she says from behind me. “You, Ambri darling, know that better than any. Still…a little reminder can’t hurt.”

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