Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel)

by Maegan Beaumont

  He smiled and shook his head. “I told you, the Sisters allowed me to choose—you or your sisters. Foolishly I chose you, but it’s no matter. You are Calliope—superior muse, more powerful than all of your sisters combined. Your death alone will push me through the veil.”

  She felt sick, a violent comprehension churning in her gut. You or your sisters. I chose you …

  “Where is she?” she screamed as she took another step, closing the gap between them.

  David smiled. “She? Don’t you mean they?”

  They.

  Without warning, he brought the scalpel up, slashing it through the air between them, bringing with it the slightest of stings.

  She tried to push past him, using the anger and fear to shield herself against the pain, but he was unmovable, the scalpel coming at her again and again.

  She dropped low, planted a leg behind him and shoved, using his own momentum to throw him off balance. He fell to the side, legs pinwheeling through the air, landing in a tangle of limbs and roses, his bare skin ripped and gouged by the huge thorns protruding from their stems as he thrashed around, searching for escape.

  He howled, pain and rage tearing from his throat, but she didn’t stop. Val. She had to find Val.

  She reached the corner, kicking pots and plants out of the way, scattering soil and breaking foliage. Beneath them she found what looked like a hatch, a heavy iron ring bolted to the top of it. Behind her, David still thrashed and screamed, but it wouldn’t last. He’d find his way out.

  She bent over to heave against the weight of the hatch, planting her boots and pulling with enough force to make her ears ring.

  It wasn’t until the third drop—fat red splatters that fell on top of the hatch—that she realized what had happened. She brought a hand to her chest and pulled it away wet. She was bleeding. Badly.

  Knowing it did nothing to slow her down; if anything, it doubled her efforts. She heaved harder, screaming as her muscles shook and her teeth ached. As if in answer to some prayer, the hinges finally turned against themselves, giving way no more than a few inches. “Please. Please help me … ” she breathed. “Please … ”

  A few more inches, the shriek of rusty hinges echoing in the silence. David wasn’t screaming anymore. No more thrashing. She looked over her shoulder to see him covered in blood, thorns, and broken bits of stem. Foliage protruded from his naked skin. As soon as they made eye contact, he ran at her, scalpel held high.

  Still in a crouch, she kicked up and out with her injured leg, the shrapnel in her thigh chewing and scraping against muscle and bone. The flat of her boot connected with his middle, knocking him back. He sprawled in the dirt, giving her a few more precious seconds.

  A final tug on the hatch gave her a couple more inches, enough to wiggle her way through. She slid in on her belly, feet first, and they met nothing but air. She found the ring on the other side of the hatch and grabbed it before letting herself drop all the way inside. She dangled for a moment before her weight on the hatch pulled it closed, sealing herself inside what looked to be a tomb.

  Dark. The musty smell of damp earth and mold, mingled with the acrid scent of woodsmoke. Her arms suddenly jerked against the force of the hatch being opened from the outside. She bore down on the iron ring, using herself as a counterweight to keep it closed. Another tug came, this one strong enough to jolt her bones in their sockets.

  She released a hand off the ring and felt along the edge of the hatch, looking for … there. Her cramped fingers threw the bolt home, securing the hatch. She let go then, allowing herself to fall onto the dirt, to rest for just a moment. Another jolt sounded from the hatch, but it didn’t give. A flurry of heaves and jerks came next, each one banging into the next, so fast and loud she was sure he’d tear the hatch from its hinges … and then silence.

  “Ares is here, Calliope, as is Melpomene … but you’ll never be able to save them both,” he said from the other side, his voice muffled by the thick wood between them. “You’ll have to choose. Your lover or your sister.”

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Michael rolled over, warm light spilling across his face. Instead of relief, he felt an intense pounding in his head that pinched his stomach and tied it in knots. He rolled back over, breathing in the soft, rich scent of dirt, struggling to put it all together.

  He’d gotten a text from Sabrina—an address—telling him to meet her, and he’d gone without thinking twice. Following the winding, tree-lined drive, he’d received another text:

  Road will fork. Take right. Hurry.

  He wasn’t sure exactly when he realized it was a trap. Maybe when he arrived at the end of the road to find he was alone. Maybe when he’d tried to call Sabrina to find that his cell was suddenly dead. All he’d known was that it hadn’t mattered. If there was even a small chance that Sabrina was in trouble and in need of help—his help—he was willing to risk it.

  He’d walked along a cobblestone path lined with topiaries, each one stranger and creepier than the next. Mythological creatures cast in shades of green.

  Do you know who Ares is?

  Croft had told him everything. This guy no longer wanted to romance Sabrina with notes and flowers; he wanted to kill her because he’d seen the two of them together. Michael was Ares—or at least that’s what this guy had managed to convince himself. In his mind they were both Greek gods—brothers—rivals for the love of the muse Calliope. Michael didn’t have the capacity to understand that kind of crazy.

  He tried to get his arms underneath him to push himself up, locking his elbows against the pounding the effort created in his skull, but as soon as he put weight on them, they buckled into a pool of worthless jelly. His head pounded even harder, the pain rolling through his stomach to stir up the pancakes and coffee he’d eaten for breakfast.

  He rolled on to his back, breathing through the urge. Short, shallow pulls that stabbed at his ribs and stomach. What the fuck was happening to him? He forced his eyes open, squinting against the watery light like he was staring directly into the sun.

  The maze … he was in the maze.

  He remembered parking. Getting out of his car—quickly realizing that Sabrina was nowhere to be found. He’d walked the open path that surrounded tall, dense hedges. A maze, like one you’d see in a movie. Creepy trees … one shaped like a half man, half bull, standing alone at the entrance of the maze. Instinct had kicked in and he’d pulled his Kimber … he didn’t have to feel for it now to know it was gone.

  No gun. He fumbled a hand in the dirt beside him. His knife was gone too.

  He remembered entering the maze and veering to the left, almost immediately hearing the sound of a woman crying. Begging and sobbing. There were drag marks on the path in front of him. Moving fast, almost reckless, he followed the sounds deeper and deeper into the maze. Gun gripped tight in his fist as he rounded one corner after another, following the deep furrows in the dirt, pushing himself to move faster. There. He rounded the corner just in time to catch a glimpse of a bare foot as it disappeared around the hedge … A mist. He’d passed under some sort of misting system, a fine vapor raining into his eyes, nose, and mouth.

  The effects had been immediate. A burning in his sinuses, like he’d snorted hot coals. A crawling just beneath the surface of his skin, like a million insects had hatched and began to squirm underneath it all at once. He’d staggered, dropping his gun, but he kept going, kept moving toward the woman, knowing that if he’d move just a bit faster, he’d be able to reach her.

  Suddenly she was there, in the middle of the path. Small. Nude. Crumpled on to the dirt like a pile of used rags. His vision began to blur, tears and mucus leaking from his eyes in defense against whatever had been pumped into the air. It wasn’t Sabrina, but he knew the woman. Valerie. It was Sabrina’s friend, Valerie.

  He took a few more staggering steps forward before falling to his knees. Insti
nct gave him another push, this time making him reach for the blade he kept strapped to his calf. He grappled with it for a few seconds before pulling it free; the weight of it in his hand bolstered him. Reminded him who he was.

  Opening his mouth, he tried to tell her it was going to be okay, even though he was pretty sure it was a lie. Catching movement in his peripheral, he turned, sluggish and drunk from the vapor that’d set his mouth on fire. That’s when he felt it. The glide of cold metal across his skin. Wet. He rounded, twisting his torso toward the assault while bringing the blade up in a swinging arch, dragging it through flesh. There was a moment of savage satisfaction, and then nothing but black.

  Now he twisted around to where he’d seen Val. She was gone.

  The movement caused the stabbing pain in his stomach to intensify, as if someone was twisting and pulling on his guts, and he rolled over again, this time unable to fight the undulating wave of nausea that attacked him. He threw up, his stomach convulsing in wave after wave as if it had no intention of stopping. Through the waves he heard another sound. Another woman. This one wasn’t crying. She was screaming. Anger and determination carried on the sound, a voice he knew well.

  Sabrina. She was here.

  Michael dug his hands into the hard-packed dirt and began to drag himself toward the sound. Toward her.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  The hatch opened directly onto a tunnel. Sabrina followed it, not knowing where it led. Dim bulbs strung along the low-slung ceiling lit the way as she limped, deeper and deeper into the tunnel.

  Ares is here, Calliope …

  There was no doubt in her mind who he meant. Somehow, he’d managed to lure Michael here.

  You’ll never be able to save them both …

  She pushed the thought away. Concentrated on nothing more than moving forward. Looking down, she saw her shirt was slashed in several places, blood soaking the dark fabric. She had no idea how many times he’d gotten her with the scalpel, but it didn’t matter.

  Keep walking.

  She pushed herself along until the tunnel split off into two different directions.

  You’ll have to choose. Your lover or your sister …

  She closed her eyes for a moment, praying for guidance, for some sign to show her the way, but it didn’t matter which direction she chose—either way she’d lose.

  Go right, darlin’ …

  Why she listened, she couldn’t explain, but she did. Veering to the right, she followed the string of bulbs until they ended at a door.

  A pair of heavy iron bolts bracketed a ring, and she threw them both open before pulling on it, the damp hinges announcing her arrival with a protesting shriek. The door opened onto a candlelit room, the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke even stronger, mingled with the more delicate scent of rosewater.

  Flames crackled in the fireplace set in the corner of the room, the small space dominated by the large altar erected in its center. Sabrina rushed forward, the smell of rosewater growing stronger, rising from the stone basin beside the altar. Val lay stretched over it, naked, her olive skin pale against the black satin draped across it, eyes closed, chest still.

  Her hands went everywhere all at once, poking and prodding against Val’s cool, dry skin. Searching for wounds. A pulse. Hope that she was still alive. “Please, please, please … ” The same word over and over, both prayer and plea.

  She felt a sluggish drum against Val’s wrist a second before she caught the faintest of breaths, her chest rising slightly.

  You’ll never be able to save them both …

  “Watch me,” she muttered to herself as she moved. Michael’s knife was still tucked into her boot, but it wouldn’t be enough to stop him. She needed …

  A gun.

  She stood still for a moment, waiting for it to vanish into no more than wishful thinking, but it didn’t. It was real. Michael’s Kimber was on a long workbench cluttered with test tubes, beakers, and what looked like some sort of still.

  What you waitin’ for darlin’, an engraved invitation? Take it.

  She picked it up, ejecting the magazine. Fully loaded. She slapped it back home, refusing to dwell on what this meant. Michael never would’ve let David take the gun from him. Not unless …

  She tucked the Kimber into the small of her back and limped back to the altar. Lifting Val off the table, the woman moaned, a pitiful sound that tapered off into a series of dry heaves as she did her damnedest to push Sabrina’s hands away. “It’s okay. It’s just me … It’s Sabrina. I’m here,” she said softly hugging her friend to her chest as she hooked her arm behind her knees. The scalpel wounds opened at the effort, a frigid sting against her chest and abdomen, weeping blood.

  She took a few staggering steps toward the door, ready to go back the way she’d come, but that was as far as she got. Her leg wobbled and then was gone, like someone kicked it from underneath her. She went down hard, Val still clutched against her, head bobbing against her shoulder. No way would she be able to carry her out of there.

  Drag her …

  Reaching over, she pulled the long swath of black satin from the altar and spread it out on the ground as best she could while still holding Val. Once it was as straight as possible, she deposited her friend onto it, careful to keep as much pressure as possible off her bad leg. Gathering the corners of the fabric together at Val’s feet, she tied them together and pulled. The makeshift litter slid across the dirt floor and she turned again, headed for the door.

  That ain’t the way, darlin’ …

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder. There was another door, set into the wall a few feet from the fireplace. She knew for certain that the door she’d come through would lead her out. She also knew that wherever Michael was, she wasn’t going to find him back the way she’d come.

  Val moaned again as her body suddenly seized, muscles and joints going stiff, back bowed against the pain.

  Best hurry now, she ain’t got much longer …

  Without stopping to think or reason, Sabrina turned toward the door by the fireplace. This one opened onto another tunnel and she stepped into it, pulling Val along behind her, no light to show her the way.

  EIGHTY

  Michael was pretty sure he was dying.

  He crawled along the path, forcing stiff, aching muscles and joints into compliance, fighting against the numbing tingle that inched its way through them, deeper and deeper, every time he moved.

  His eyes were weeping, his vision blurred by the mucus that clogged their swollen membranes. Sound battered against what felt like cotton in his ears, muffled and distant. His heart tripped and stumbled, an uneven knocking against a chest that felt wet and heavy, like he was breathing underwater. He ignored the feeling as long as he could until he was finally forced to stop, racked by a series of hacking coughs, a traffic jam inside his lungs that cut off his airway, drowning him from the inside out.

  Yeah … he was dying, alright.

  If asked, he’d say he’d been crawling and puking for hours, but he knew better. It’d been ten minutes at the most since he’d heard Sabrina, her frustrated screaming being chased by a flurry of banging and yelling. She was still alive, and whatever she’d done, it’d pissed that fucker off. Michael laughed, the sound triggering another round of violent coughs, blood-streaked sputum flying from his mouth, splattering against the dirt. He forced himself to breathe, finding a pocket of air somewhere in his spongy lungs and gulping at it like a man dying of thirst. The much-needed oxygen cleared his vision just a bit, enough to show him a building—a lot of windows set in a white metal frame—surrounded by those dense green hedges.

  He kept crawling. Hands and knees moving through the dirt in a discombobulated shamble. After what felt like another lifetime, he sensed, rather than heard, movement on the path behind him. He coughed again, this one forced out to buy him a few seconds while his
hands groped in the dirt he was sprawled in, searching for … his hand closed over a rock, no bigger than a tennis ball. As far as weapons went, it was pitiful, but he’d done a lot of damage with a lot less.

  His legs were dead weight, but he forced them underneath him, drawing himself up onto his knees, knuckles driven into the dirt, rock concealed in his fist.

  “You’re dying, Ares.” The voice behind him sounded labored, its words chased on a hissing breath, racked with pain.

  Michael kept moving, eyes fixed on the building in front of him. “No shit … asshole.” He took another wet breath, fighting against the hacking cough that threatened to consume him.

  Movement again. This time to his left, pacing him. “Where are you going, brother? Are you hoping to save her? Rescue her?” Laughter, genuine amusement twisted around a rotten core. “Calliope made her choice, and she chose to let you die.”

  Keep moving. Keep him talking. Give Sabrina time to get Valerie away from here.

  It was all he wanted. More than he had a right to hope for. “Maybe … but she … loves me,” he said, pushing the words out between wheezing breaths with enough effort to cause black spots to flicker across his blurry field of vision. “Me … not you. Brother.”

  Exactly as he’d hoped, a foot was planted into the small of his back, shoving him to the dirt on a howl of rage. The foot hooked under his armpit, to flip him over. He clamped his arm down on the foot, using the momentum of being turned to drag his opponent to the ground. But the thing suddenly beneath him didn’t look like a man. It looked like a monster, slick with blood, covered in thorns and bits of broken stems. It slashed at him with something thin and silver, the glint of it catching the light. It slid against his cheek. Again at his ear, trying to blind him.

  Michael blocked another pass, taking the wound in his shoulder. Finding the creature’s throat, he used the last of his strength to pin it down while he swung a rock-filled fist into its shrieking face. Once. Twice. Over and over until he heard the crunch of bone and shrieks replaced by a gurgling wheeze.