Sculpting a Demon (2 page)
Still, it was worth a shot. No other bright ideas were coming. She grasped a candle in each of her hands and then settled herself into the lotus position. Concentrating on the base of her spine, she envisioned a ball of white, glowing energy as she had been taught. She willed that white light to move up the length of her spine, down her arms and then through her fingertips into the candle.
Angie began the incantation and soon Lila was chanting along with her.
“Hear me, true love of mine,
“I call you forth at this time,
“In perfect love and perfect trust,
“I send this out, but not from lust,
“To the one who is meant to be,
“Let him find his way to me.”
When the candles touched, Lila expected a crash of lightning. A swirling, whirling, vortex of energy. A rush of unholy power. Hell, she might have been impressed with candles suddenly blowing out. Flickering even. But no. And then… Maybe there was something. A tickling tingle of sorts? A soft flux in the air? Nope. Not really, anyway. “Um, Angie? Nothing’s happening.”
Angie laughed. “What did you expect? For him to drop out the ceiling? These things take time.” She rose to her feet and smoothed down her dress. “I’m famished. Let’s get some food.”
* * * * *
It was close to ten o’clock when Lila finally returned home. Five courses, two bottles of wine and Angie’s unabashed flirting with the entire waitstaff had turned what could have been a simple dinner into an extravaganza. But that was Angie. The very antithesis of simple.
She tossed her keys into the bowl atop the bookcase by the door and began shedding layers of wet clothing as she crossed the loft. So stupid to have not brought an umbrella. She should have known better. It rained every day in Pittsburgh.
Shivering despite the warmth, her thoughts focused on a long, hot shower, she paused in mid-step by the coffee table. The candles were still lit. She could have sworn she put them out.
Flickering movement in the corner of the room caught her eye and she walked toward her statue, mesmerized by the way the candlelight danced over the half-formed sculpture, highlighting angles and plains she hadn’t noticed before. It really was a good beginning, she thought, feeling a renewed pride in her creation.
“You need some work,” she said, stroking the cool alabaster.
She spun the statue on its pedestal, casting an approving gaze along the curve of the spine, down to the swell of his perfectly crafted ass and then back up again. Her hand flitted over the tools on her workstation, coming to rest on a chisel. She picked up the tool and examined it in the soft candlelight. It felt good in her hand. Right. She ran her thumb over the long, flat edge, the glow of the flame reflecting in the silver surface. She spun the sculpture back around and reached out with her other hand, her fingertips grazing the contoured pecs.
“What kind of man would you be?” she asked the statue as her hand roamed over the torso, the detailed abs, the tapered waist. “With a body like that, I’d bet you’d be damn cocky,” she said. She reached up and carefully carved an impish grin on the statue’s face. “That’s better,” she said, and laughed. “Every rogue needs a good grin.”
She slowly sank to her knees, her eyes traveled down the length of the statue, lingering over the taut line of muscle that separated the torso from the thigh. “And a great big cock,” she said, smiling to herself. “Big enough to match that ego.” Gripping the chisel in her hand, she set to work on his groin.
The rain drummed on the roof, a musical, steady rhythm in the otherwise silent night. “Hear me, true love of mine,” Lila chanted as her nimble hands shaped sensuous lines and generous curves. “I call you forth at this time…”
She blinked hard, realizing what she had said. Bowing her head, Lila laughed aloud. Maybe it was all the wine or all the rich food, but whatever the reason, she was acting like a total nitwit. She wasn’t even sure what had made her think of the spell. She only knew that something about the rhythm of the rain seemed to cry out for the rhyme.
“What are you, in high school?” she chastised herself. Conjuring a man, indeed! She sat back on her heels and looked up at the statue’s face. “But if I could make you real,” she said softly, “I would want you to be everything I said in that stupid spell.” She reached toward the statue and then her hand fell back into her lap. “Would you love me though?” she asked. “I wonder. I wonder if you could.”
Squeezing the bridge of her nose with her fingers, she let out a disgusted grunt. This was getting her nowhere. Spells and perfect men and true love were all very nice, but she might as well ask Santa for that Barbie dream house she had always wanted. The outcome would be much the same.
“Enough,” she said. Lifting the chisel, she went back to work on the statue.
The rain continued to hammer the windows, the roof, a steady beat demanding a melody. Before long, she was nodding her head in time with the rhythm. “In perfect love and perfect trust,” Lila sang, unconscious of the words coming from her mouth. “I send this out, but not from lust…”
The candlelight surged, but she took no notice. She sang the spell as her hands glided over the stone, the words swelling within her, gaining momentum. Feeling. Weight.
“To the one who is meant to be…” Her voice grew louder, strong and steady in the silent night. “Let him find his way to me.”
Her fingertips grazed the place where she had earlier scraped off dust for the spell and a tingle raced up her arm, making her shiver.
“Hear me, true love of mine,” she said, beginning the chant again. “I call you forth at this time…” Over and over she repeated the spell, singing it to herself as she carved and sculpted. Silly or not, something about the cadence appealed to her, seemed to perfectly complement the movement of her hands.
Behind her, the candles flared and danced, casting shadows and light over Lila and her slowly evolving creation while the rain continued to pound out its steady backbeat.
Chapter Two
Arien sat at the bar in the Grand Hall of hell, slowly stirring his drink with the tip of his finger. He glanced around for the umpteenth time, hoping for something, anything to break the monotony. Demons and other denizens of hell draped themselves over the bar, some staring blankly into their drinks, others boasting to one another about their great feats of possession and havoc. Moans of agony and despair from the nearby dungeons filled the air with the music of the damned, the torment of lost souls enduring their eternal punishment. Arien sighed heavily and cradled his head in his hand. Same old, same old.
This whole ennui thing was most unlike him. Usually, he had no problem entertaining himself. There were humans to tempt and strife to spread after all. But lately, none of his old pursuits interested him in the slightest. While on some level he found this all very troubling, he in no way felt compelled to do anything about it. Mostly, he felt…stagnant.
Hordas, the bartender, served a group of demons a round of foaming cocktails and then slithered his way down the bar to Arien. “Get you another?” he asked.
Arien shrugged. “Why not?”
“Something wrong?” Hordas asked as he brewed another concoction.
“Not really,” Arien said, stretching out his wings and then let them settle again against his back. Once upon a time they had been pure, incandescent white, but when he fell from Grace they turned black as night. And though it had been nearly half an eternity since he had even glimpsed Paradise, the sight of his jet-black wings still sometimes caught him by surprise. “Just…bored.”
“Why don’t you go play in the Lust Circle?” Hordas asked, placing the finished drink in front of Arien. “That always cheers me up.”
“Why bother? So some succubus can drain my life force?”
The horror on Hordas’ scaly face told Arien exactly what the bartender thought of that. Lust was Hordas’ solution to every problem. Usually Arien would have agreed, but lately not even the mortal sin playgrounds appealed to him. Lust, Gluttony, Greed, all admirable purists, and yet he couldn’t muster the energy to care. Maybe it was that the indulgences came too easily. Maybe if he had to actually put forth any kind of effort it’d be more rewarding. Maybe he was getting old.
“What do you care if they do suck up some of your essence?” Hordas asked, finally recovering himself. “It’s not like it’s going to do anything to you. You’re practically immortal.”
“That’s not the point,” he sighed.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Arien,” he said, and began wiping down the bar. “It’s sad to see you like this.”
“It’s sad to see me like this?” Arien asked, incredulous. “You’re a misery demon. You feed on despair.” He took a sip of his drink. “I would think you’d be pleased with the free meal.”
“Hmm,” Hordas said, eyes narrowing as he read Arien’s aura. “Maybe if you were actually in despair. But what I sense from you is something else entirely, and whatever it is just makes you taste stale.”
“Stale,” Arien said quietly. “How apt.”
“Great Prince of the Darkness, you are depressing today,” Hordas said. “Hey, remember that time you tricked that king into believing his gods wanted to make him ruler of the world?” Hordas asked in an obvious effort to cheer Arien up.
A ghost of a smile touched Arien’s lips. “You know I don’t
trick
anybody into anything. I merely suggested that if such gods did exist, they could probably make someone the king of the world if they desired.” His smile grew wider as he recalled that particular escapade to the human realm. That king had been a power-hungry, ruthless fool. His bloodlust had been profound, even by human standards, and his sadism legendary. Had his people not been supplied with what they perceived to be his insanity, and thus weakness, he probably never would have been overthrown. Arien had reveled in the revolution his poisoned whispers ignited. “Everything he did, he did on his own.”
“Of course,
Jeqon
,” Hordas said and gave him a mocking bow.
Jeqon. The Inciter. A title he had earned a thousandfold since his damnation. “No one’s called me that in decades.”
“Maybe ’cause you spend all your time moping at my bar.”
“Moping?” Arien asked. “Is that what I’m doing?” Maybe it was. But it felt like so much more than that. He shifted in his seat. “Do you ever want more, Hordas?”
“More of what?”
“More than this,” Arien said, sweeping his arm across the bar. “More than vice and decadence. More than mindless hedonism and destruction.”
“What are you saying?” Hordas sputtered. “We have everything a demon could ask for. This is the infernal paradise!” He paused, suddenly worried. “You’re not thinking about seeking redemption, are you?”
Arien snorted. “No.” He had been cast out of heaven eons ago for his sins and he had no intention of crawling back now. Or ever, for that matter. It would take a lot more than some idle boredom to get him to beg for anything, let alone forgiveness. “It’s just…” Just what? “There’s just something missing.”
“Arien!” a musical voice said, cutting into his thoughts. “I thought I might find you here.”
“Dyne.” Arien grinned as the former Cherub took the seat next to him. It never failed to amuse him that this physical embodiment of perfect beauty, right down to the golden curls, pronounced cheekbones and full lips, could be so utterly and unapologetically vicious. “How was the possession?”
Dyne’s pouty lips twisted in distain. “Possessions aren’t what they used to be,” he said, and nodded his thanks to Hordas for the drink the bartender placed before him. “There was a time when a good possession would have had the Bible-waving priests out in droves, all full of righteous indignation and holy wrath and whatnot. Done right and a simple possession could spark a witch-hunt. Burning. Torture. Whole villages corrupted. Hate and spite in every heart.” His eyes shone with the fond memories then turned dark and brooding. “Now they feed my host fistfuls of drugs—and not the good ones, mind you—and ask them how they feel about their mommies.”
Arien laughed. Poor Dyne. “There’s always next time.”
“Right you are,” Dyne said brightly. “In fact, that was why I was looking for you.”
Arien raised his eyebrow and waited.
“There is a man gaining influence among many lost and desperate souls as we speak. He claims to be righteous, but I have seen the darkness within him and he is ripe for corruption.”
“So?”
“So?” Dyne asked. The astonishment on his beautiful face was almost comical. “What do you mean, so? This man is in a position to infect thousands. If we turn him properly, blood will stain the streets. Think of it, my friend! Magnificently senseless murders! Destruction! Chaos!”
“I don’t see what you need me for,” Arien said, swirling the liquid around in his glass. “Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.”
“Arien, you were always the greatest of the tempters. Second only to the Great Prince himself. This man is ripe, but he will not be easily swayed. I need you on this.”
Arien opened his mouth to tell Dyne to find someone else when a shiver raced down his spine, making him bolt upright in his seat. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Dyne asked.
There is was again. A voice. “That,” he said.
