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“No,” I whispered, still shrouded in night, constricted by ropes of Danté’s making.
“There are so many to choose from,” he hissed. “How about this one?”
Another fluttering of light, and I stood in the hallway of my middle school, opening my locker. Brenda Blakely hovered a few feet away with a gaggle of girls. I’d beaten Brenda for the last spot on the girls’ soccer team the week before. One of her friends whispered something inaudible.
“I don’t know,” replied Brenda. “Her mom jumped off the Mississippi Bridge. Who could she possibly bring to the Mother/Daughter Tea? She’s probably crazy too. Like mother, like daughter.”
They giggled. I slammed the locker door and walked away, refusing to let the burning tears fall.
I never did go to the Tea. Never even mentioned it to my dad. One of many events I’d forego because she chose to step off that bridge.
The black enveloped me for a split second before I was once more standing inside a painful memory. “No,” I said the second I realized where I was—the cemetery where we’d memorialized my mother with a stone marker. The swirling eddies of the Mississippi had never borne her body up. We were left engraving her name in marble and visiting this empty plot next to where my father would one day lie.
I was sixteen and had come home a day early from a beach vacation with Mindy, knowing how depressed Dad could get near their anniversary. I’d found empty beer bottles and old photograph albums open on the kitchen table. But no Dad. I’d waited for hours, but he’d never come home. I’d called his friends. No luck. Seeing the evidence strewn about the house, I’d finally found him here, stretched out in front of her headstone.
“Dad.”
He jerked up, eyes rimmed with red. He burst into tears. Never had he shown such emotion in front of me. Never had I seen my strong father reduced to such despair. I knelt down and hugged him. His shoulders shook with sobs.
“Why wasn’t I enough for her?” he cried, heartbreaking anguish in his voice.
“Dad, no. She loved you. She did.” Hot tears welled in my eyes.
“But not enough,” was the desolate reply.
My soul screamed and ran from the memory, remembering that I’d also felt I was never enough. She chose death over us.
“No more,” I whispered into the pitch black. Malevolence skated along my skin, petting me. “Please. No more.”
Invisible arms wrapped me in an embrace. I held still, unable to fight or struggle, wanting only the peace of mindless oblivion.
The sensation of folding inward again and falling fast through an even darker hole made me nauseous. I gagged as if someone were choking me, the stranglehold of Danté releasing my soul then…candlelight.
I lay beneath him as before. He still had my wrists pinned with one hand, laughing down with undisguised mirth. “Your fear is a powerful aphrodisiac.” His other hand roamed down my ribcage. “Just imagine when you are good and mine, the pleasure we’ll share.” The painting of the floating dead flashed to mind, and I realized what it would mean to be a Vessel for a demon prince. Not only would I be forced to commit his atrocities, I’d be corrupted into relishing the evil deeds.
“No,” I said, jerking my arms, testing his hold.
“No?” He stilled, his fangs elongating. “I grow rather weary of that word.” Hard lust glinted in his eyes. His hand clasped the top of my gown and ripped, tearing it down the middle.
“No!” I screamed, wrenching one hand free and grappling to push him away. He was too strong.
A flash of sharp fangs. His teeth sank into the tender hollow of my neck below my jaw, penetrating me with frost-numbing pain. He groaned with sick pleasure, sucking at my neck viciously. A strangled scream reverberated against the walls. My own.
The pounding on the outer door snapped me away from the brink of insanity. Danté had violated my mind, my soul. He’d take no more.
Amid the cesspool of potent fear and pain I was drowning in, a flicker of light, a tattered thought, buoyed its way to the surface, up to the moon-brightness.
He would not take all of me. He wouldnottake all of me. Righteous fury flared into a building burn as my lips said the words.
“Flamma intus.”
With a blinding flash, my Vessel power exploded in a burst of silver white. Danté flew off me and crashed half across the dining table. China shattered, silver scattered, and a candelabrum knocked to the floor, snuffing out the candles. He stared with wide, gray eyes, half-dazed, bewilderment plastered on his face. His fierce expression, hard and dangerous, jarred me into action.
I leaped to my feet and sprinted out the door, not caring that the torn gown fell half off my body and flew behind me in torn strips.
Practically stumbling down the steps, I scraped bare feet and toes on the cold stone. I followed the hammering echoes—down, down, down. It was only one flight of stairs, but a chill wind brushed my back. No!
Leaping the last few steps in one bound, I made it to the giant black door, which swung backward at my touch.
