Inspire (The Muse #1)(6)
Author: Cora Carmack

Maybe this is my curse, but I don’t have to share it. I don’t have to push it on other people.

Mortals … they’re fragile. They can die or break or ruin. And I suppose I’m not immune to those last two either, but I’m stronger than they are. And I’ve been so very selfish for so very long.

Some already mad part of me rejoices at my decision. Greedy for it, for the way I feel right now. I give in to it.

And when I stumble out of my house, my fingers smudged with ink, it’s dark and I am so very alive.

Chapter Three

Since I had come to the States, I had lived in almost every major city in the country. They each have their quirks and specialties, but move around enough and they all start to feel the same.

Austin doesn’t feel that way. At least not yet.

It is this eclectic mix of modern culture and southern charm and creative freedom. And the best part?

I had nothing to do with it.

All the imagination and uniqueness is entirely a product of the people who live here. And they are my favorite part. The people are all so different. Hipsters and old money and artists and cowboys and geniuses of industry and technology and musicians and actors. Nowhere else but Austin could they (or would they) all fit together … interact like there are no differences between them.

Keep Austin Weird, as they say.

I weave through the crowds along Sixth Street downtown. It’s a mile or two south of campus, but now that I’m here, I don’t even remember the walk from my apartment. Which should worry me more, but it doesn’t. My mind and body are barely connected at the moment. Or maybe they’re more intertwined than ever … so in tune that I don’t even have to think about where I’m going or what I’m doing. Which frees up my mind for other things.

This section of downtown has been blocked off to traffic, and pedestrians teem through the streets, laughing and talking and singing. Neon signs glow in every other window, music drifts from doorways, and the smell from food trucks and restaurants wafts through the streets. I soak it all in, revel in it. I hear a catcall or two, but my focus is on the lights, the colors. When something catches my eye, I turn and follow.

An older man busks on the street corner, his guitar slung over his shoulders and his case open before him. The glint of the coins catches my eye, and then the music curls through my mind, lifting me up and onto a new plane. I stay with him for a while, sometimes dancing, sometimes singing along, until some new thing draws my attention.

Eventually, I find my way into a club, up a flight of stairs, and into the crush of bodies on a dance floor. This isn’t at all the kind of dance I used to inspire, used to enjoy, but there’s still something about it that makes me pause.

Sweat-slicked limbs.

Bodies pressed close.

Bass thrumming right through my skin.

There’s a strange kind of poetry in it. Raw and animalistic and desire in motion.

Once upon a time, I considered myself Greek, so I know a thing or two about hedonism. These days I don’t really claim any place as home. I belong nowhere, so nowhere belongs to me.

When I’m in the middle of the crowd, I stand still, picking out shapes and lines in the writhing bodies around me. It really is something to see—the way people interact. Whether they’re friends or lovers or strangers, everyone is connected on this dance floor. One body touches another that touches another without any insecurity, and I wish I weren’t the only one to see the beauty in it.

That gives me an idea, and I draw in a deep breath. What if they could see it? What if I could make them? Stretching out my arms, I push that breath out, expelling some of the energy swirling in my chest with it. My fingers graze and drag along anonymous skin.

For a second, the whole room shudders, contracts and expands like a heartbeat. The crowd seems closer, bodies tight against mine. Hands settle on my hips, and a warm body presses at my back. But I barely feel that through the rush of power leaving me.

Now that the floodgates are open, the swell of pleasure that comes with the energy release overwhelms me. I don’t focus, I can’t. Heat rushes up through my skin, and my head spins in a way that feels simultaneously alarming and brilliant. All I can do is ride the wave as it leaks out of me and spills across the room. Sound. Touch. Sight. Smell. It’s all somehow heightened and muted at the same time.

Long minutes later, the bliss begins to fade and my head starts to clear. Too late, the horror dawns and I try to throw up my walls, try to pull back the energy, but my wits are scattered, and I’m exhausted.

I don’t realize how much all that energy had eclipsed my own thoughts and emotions until it begins to disappear. Suddenly panicked, I whip around, scanning the room, and my stomach heaves in fear. On the surface, the only obvious difference I can see is that the once frenzied movements of the crowd have begun to ebb and flow in a way that’s almost in sync, almost choreographed.

But the people nearest me, they’re the real problem. A few just seem manic, their eyes dazzlingly bright, smiles wide, laughter pealing from between their lips. Two have begun to dance so intensely that the crowd has stepped away, forming a circle around them, watching. One woman is sobbing, and her friend next to her is staring on in a mix of wonder and horror and fascination. The guy behind me, the one who’d had his hands on my hips, now drags those same hands back and forth between his ears and his eyes, undecided as to which he wants to cover more.

It’s too much. It’s all too much. And all I can think of is Van on that stretcher. He’d been with me longer, but I influenced him slowly, artfully. There was nothing careful about tonight. I’d dropped my walls and the magic had flowed from me unharnessed, uncontrolled, a blunt force trauma of power. I have no idea what that could do to people. Especially people I’ve not carefully studied and vetted.

The guy behind me collapses to his knees, and no one around us notices. It’s someone farther out who pushes through the people to get to him. I reach out a hand, to help or soothe or something, but then pull it back fast.

I shouldn’t touch him again. I’m still giving off waves of power, less now, but even slight contact between our skin could push him over the edge.

I wrap my arms around my middle and do my best not to touch anyone as I shift my way through the crowd. A fight breaks out behind me, and I hear people screaming.

I squeeze my lips tightly together, clamped between my teeth, until it feels like I might cut right through the skin. I know I’m crying, have been crying, when I taste salt even through my closed lips. More screaming erupts upstairs as I stumble out the door and over the uneven slabs of concrete on the sidewalk. I barely catch my balance before I go sprawling out on the street.