Inspire (The Muse #1)(17)
Author: Cora Carmack

In fact, I can feel the energy pulsing in me, announcing its presence, reminding me of who and what I am.

It would be stupid to start this again in the light of day. And I’d done enough stupid things in the last two weeks to last me for the next century.

No. I promised myself one night. And that night had already come and gone, so now I had to say goodbye. To this warm bed. To the heat of Wilder’s skin. To my one night of almost normal.

Carefully, I peel his hand off my back, and place it on the bed. I shift up on my knees, trying not to jostle the mattress too much, and then slip off the bed. The floor is cold, and the air-conditioner is still on full blast, so goose bumps riot across my skin.

I find my dress on the floor, and it’s still damp and cold. I glance back at the bed, and a traitorous voice at the back of my mind wants him to wake up. I want him to see me there, standing naked in his room, and I want him to stop me from running, to take away this choice I have to make.

For a moment, I entertain the idea of being with him. Would it be possible? Could I hold back the energy from him and expend it elsewhere? But how would I keep that balance? And what kind of relationship could I ever have with him when I had to run off to satisfy my needs with another person every few days? No … even if I was willing to risk it, it could never work. No matter how badly I want it to.

Who knew it would be this hard? It’s not as if I’m as young as I look. I’ve been around the block a few (thousand) times. We didn’t even sleep together. Not really. There are men that I’ve been far more intimate with, men who’ve known me better, longer. I should be able to file him away with the rest of the memories and move on.

I don’t know why he’s different. Sure, he’s got the whole mystery factor with his odd ties and tattoos combo. And he’s sweet. And he’s caring. And he doesn’t need anything from me.

But is that really enough to explain the tight pull I feel toward him now? It’s almost as if there’s …

My mouth goes dry.

A string. That’s what I’d been about to say. I feel as if there’s a cord between us, and no matter where I go or what I think, I can still feel its weight, the reminding pressure that he’s there, that he’s not going away.

I’ve never seen the fates, the three beings whose strings decide the life of every mortal and every god alike. They always remained separate from the rest of us. I think the greater gods didn’t like the reminder that they weren’t entirely in control of their own destinies, that in some ways they aren’t that different than the mortals they place themselves so high above. But I’ve heard stories. I’ve heard that they appear both old and young all at once, their countenances shifting between one blink and the next. Some say that they are time. Others maintain that they’re the only thing not affected by it. They are at once old and young, alive and dead. They are the past, present, and the future. Always.

I’ve never seen the fates, no. But I’ve felt them.

I clutch my damp dress close, but not even the cold fabric can keep me from tumbling into the memory.

Mel.

I don’t think of her often. Not anymore. You don’t live as long as I have without learning how to compartmentalize. And soon, you have so many thoughts stored away in so many boxes that they all sort of fade into the background.

Melpomene was one of my eight sisters. And for our early life, she was the chief muse of tragedy. The plays and poetry and music she inspired … there was a depth to it that wasn’t rivaled by any of the rest of us. There was something about her that enabled the artist to dig deeper, to examine the darkest portions of the soul, but because of that she had … well, she had a higher rate of incident than the rest of us. Sometimes the artist would go so deep that she wasn’t able to get them back. And while she might have dealt in tragedy, Mel wasn’t swathed in darkness. She was light and brilliance and beauty. And she felt guilt. It clung to her more stubbornly than the rest of us.

Century after century, it weighed on her until her light began to fade. Somehow, even though she renewed daily like the rest of us, she began to look older. She had no wrinkles or graying hair or any other signs of age, but even so, we all saw it. Her eyes carried her years, the curve of her mouth was dragged down by the past.

In December of the year 557 A.D., we were in Constantinople. It was Brumalia, a festival for the winter solstice honoring the gods who held some connection to the harvest. By then, the gods had been re-christened with Roman names. Saturn. Ceres. Bacchus.

It was supposed to be a celebration. Wine and food and dance. But Mel wouldn’t celebrate. By that point, I’m not even sure she could. She’d stopped taking on artists. She couldn’t handle it anymore, and looking back, she’d lasted far longer than I had before the effects set in. She withdrew inside herself. I can remember looking across the room during the festivities, and she was standing by the wall, so still that she nearly blended in with the statues decorating the hall. It hadn’t been like it was with me. When I gave in to the power, it had been a chaotic euphoria. Melpomene reminded me of a woman drowning. She’d been still, not struggling to survive; silent, not gasping for air. But even so … I could almost envision the way her hair would bloom around her in the water. I could nearly see her sinking down into a darkness where I would never reach her.

Then between one instant and the next, she collapsed. She writhed on the floor and howled, the noise a keening that was simultaneously desperate and furious. The energy hadn’t just leaked out of her; it had exploded, filling the space until even I was choking on the potency. The gentle celebratory music swelled to a cacophonous roar. The room burst into movement and noise. Some reacted with glee, others malice, and still others in terror. There was going to be a riot. A stampede. A massacre. You didn’t need to be an oracle to prophesy that future.

Maybe if I could get to her, maybe she would still have the strength to pull back. But I couldn’t even see her on the floor anymore through the throngs of people. They rushed for the doors, uncaringly trampling over anyone who fell in their wake. I couldn’t see Mel, but I could hear her, screams so melancholy they neared a song. A dirge.

Then between one step and the next, I felt something pull tight in my chest, constricting, making it hard to breathe. And though it wasn’t a familiar sensation, I knew instinctively it had to do with Mel. Then whatever that binding was, it gave way, it tore loose as if someone had tugged hard enough to tear it free. I was so busy trying to steady my feet and catch my breath that it took me several seconds to realize that Mel was no longer screaming. And I suddenly felt as if gravity had lessened, as if there was one less thing holding me to this earth.