Voices of Hell

by Catherine Stovall

“Tis my pleasure, young lady.” With a conspiratorial wink, he turned to stir a pot of sauce.

  Seeing that she’d been dismissed, Izzy grabbed up two crystal flutes and went in search of Ash. She’d make him pay for his slight later, but at the moment, she needed the comfort of his presence. Following the sound of the hushed and anxious voices, she discovered that he had decided to oversee the art displays himself.

  “Ash, are you being a tyrant—” The question went unfinished, and the quiet in the room shattered with the sound of crystal exploding on the marble floor. All eyes turned toward her, exclamations and words of concern bombarded her ears, but Izzy could not answer.

  She stared into her likeness, delicately painted in oils. So real, it would have been like looking into a mirror had the work of art not been larger than life. He’d captured the color of her hair, the line of her jaw, and every aspect of her face as if from a photograph. A man she’d never met had rendered her perfectly.

  “Splendid, isn’t it?” Ash laughed, an expression of intrigued amusement on his face.

  Plopping down on the piano bench, knees together and feet splayed sideways, Izzy just continued to gape as she drank from the bottle. The shock of seeing herself looking so real, and yet so unlike herself, was too disorienting for her to care if others saw her taking gulps of fifteen-hundred dollar champagne as if she were a hobo swilling Boone’s Farm wine.

  “Ash, is this a joke?” she murmured around another swig. “Did you give him my picture?”

  Gently taking her by the arm, he pried the bottle away and led her around the maids already were already sweeping away the shattered glasses.

  “Just so you know, there are four more in the collection. All the rest are smaller. This is not my trickery, Iyzebel. I can only assume that the boy is awakening to his destiny earlier than we had expected. Somehow, in the befuddled mess of a human mind, he mistook the warnings in his blood as a wholly different type of omen.”

  “I-I’m sorry that I reacted so absurdly. It’s just the way he painted me, the skill and the similarity. It was a shock,” her voice quivered, as if she might cry.

  “Don’t apologize, Izzy. This just serves as a reminder. Do not underestimate them. Humans are resourceful and creative beings, especially this one. You will need to be diligent.” Ash spoke gently, but with a firm insistence, and she knew he was correct.

  “It will not happen again,” the determination in her voice found its way to her eyes as she ran a trembling hand through her hair.

  ****

  Someone was pounding on the door, but Raf couldn’t manage to drag himself away from the painting. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her, the woman with the bright blue eyes. He hadn’t eaten or slept in days. The movers had come and gone, carting away whatever was dry enough to wrap in the cloths, but he hadn’t even looked up. Dozens of messages blinked on the tiny screen of his cell and his answering machine, but he hadn’t bothered with a single one. Every time he closed his eyes, she was there, begging to be brought to life on the canvas.

  In this particular painting, he saw her on a roof above the city—his roof. Dressed in a crimson velvet robe, she looked out over the night, her mouth turned down at the corners. A combination of tenderness and hatred filled her as the wind caught the edge of the robe to reveal soft curves, and the city lights danced in eyes narrowed in anger. Even the shadows that he darkened here and there seemed to have a sense of duplicity about them.

  “Lady Duplicity,” he whispered. “That is what this one will be called.” Then with a sigh, he added, “If only I knew who you were.”

  He never heard the key in the lock, or the voice calling down the hall as he lifted his hand to add the last touch of color to her robes. His entire being was intent on the woman, the creation, and the burning in his soul that drove him to his canvas.

  “Raf! What the hell, man?” Marty exclaimed as he entered the studio. Taking in the canvases propped along the wall and on easels throughout the room—her face and form covering each one. “There’s got to be at least twenty of them! Are you mad, man?”

  Jumping at the sound of his agent’s voice, Raf’s steady hand jerked, leaving a trail of red across the night sky behind her. “Fuck, Marty! What the hell were you thinking!” he screamed as he grabbed for a rag and dipped it into a shallow dish of turpentine. As he dabbed at the large crimson streak, he babbled. “No, not this one, this was perfect. Duplicity in everything. Ruined now. Why can’t I just work in peace?” Glaring up at his friend and representative, he demanded, “Why are you even here, man?” As he waited for Marty to recover and give him an answer, Raf’s hand continued to pat at the canvas, his actions only working to spread the paint into strange blurred shapes.

  “The show is tonight, Raf. They demanded that I bring you. They are going to pull the plug if I don’t have you there and half decent by the reveal. I tried calling, I used my key to get in when you didn’t come to the door. I thought you were dead. Look at you. You’re a fucking mess. Are you on drugs?”

  Rafael’s hand fell away, dropping the stained cloth at his feet. Slowly, sanity crept back in a glaring realization that he’d spent days painting a woman he didn’t know. Spinning in a slow circle he took in the studio. Her face looked back at him from every direction, trying to pull him back into the madness, begging him to create her image until she devoured his world.

  “Raf?” Marty’s voice was a whisper.

  “Yeah.” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Shit, man. I am sorry. I have to shower. Shit. Do I have time?”

  “Yeah, you got time. It’s early yet. We will make the whole event if you hurry. Probably best to arrive a little late and make an entrance anyway. And, Raf, how’d you know?”

  Stopping mid-stride, Rafael turned around, “How’d I know what?”

  “How’d you know Iyzebel and Ashur Daeza were the ones hosting the gala? I never told you their names.”

  “What are you talking about, Marty. I don’t know either of those people.” Raf’s eyes narrowed.

  Pointing to a painting that was clearly Iyzebel standing in a barren wasteland with her bare legs peeking out of a flowing white dress, Marty clarified, “The woman in this painting, in all of these paintings, is Iyzebel Daeza.” He paused for a long moment, “Right?”

  “No. I dreamed about that woman. I’ve never seen her before in real life.”

  “I’m telling you, Raf, I saw that woman today. It’s definitely Ashur’s sister, Iyzebel. They are the strangest pair. Oh, hell. Go get ready. We can talk about it on the way. Tell me you have a suit.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I got a suit.” Raf headed for the bathroom, still shaking his head.

  The name Iyzebel fogged his brain as the steam from the hot water stirred him into full awareness. The idea of seeing the face of the real woman who had disturbed his every moment for days excited him. Scrubbing down and shaving as fast as he could without leaving his face a bloody mess, he fought against trembling hands.

  The stirring in his gut was either a reminder that he hadn’t eaten in days, or it was butterflies. Choosing to ignore the idea that he could be so thrilled at meeting any woman after having his heart crushed, he promised himself that he’d choke down some of the overly rich hors d'oeuvres that were bound to be served at the party. He would have preferred a stop at the local burger joint, but he’d already risked his chance.

  Trying to remember the days where he’d done little else but paint her again and again, was like trying to look through opaque glass. He understood how crazy it had been, but it just didn’t seem important. He knew he should be concerned, maybe even scared, but the fluttering of his nerves and anxiousness to see her drowned everything else..

  She’ll be there. They took the large painting of her face. I am glad it wasn’t one of the smaller, less detailed ones. She’s going to see my rendering of her, and she will know how much I love—

  “What the hell?” Raf stared at himself in the mirror, his bloodshot eyes wide in a
look of pure horror. “You are losing your mind, man. Get a grip.”

  For one second, he thought he saw his reflection move. Jerking back without ever loosening the white-knuckled grip he held on the sink, he blinked profusely. He watched himself in the mirror, waiting for something that he couldn’t explain. When nothing else happened, he turned away.

  Dressed in a dark blue suit and pressed white shirt, his hair spiked up in careful disarray, Raf wasn’t sure if he felt more human or less. Preferring paint splattered jeans and t-shirts over monkey suits, he dreaded social affairs that required formal attire. However, being clean and groomed did lift his mood and chase away the fear that he was seriously going crazier than Van Gogh.

  “Are you ready?” Marty called from the living room. “We’ve got just enough time to make the drive.”

  “Yea, just give me a second,” Raf’s voice carried out of the studio. Gently wrapping a wallet size painting in cheese cloth and sliding it inside a velvet bag, he tucked the gift into his coat pocket. Just in case she liked his work, he thought he might give her the miniature. A gift for reasons he didn’t want to admit, because it would mean he’d have to recognize the strangeness of it all.

  Chapter Three

  People filled the rooms of the house, mingling and chatting as they drank from long stem flutes and ate dainty bites of tiny expensive foods. With each person feeding off the exhilaration of the others, the excitement churned in the air like the heat from a blazing fire. In the middle of it all, smiling as if she were actually enjoying herself, Izzy stood at Ash’s side.

  The humans edged around them in a circle, the ebb and flow never ceasing as they vied for introductions or the sharing of meaningless sentiment. Izzy couldn’t help but be amused by their ambition. They wanted to know the rich siblings—a cover story long established—who spent money like water and shined with beauty, but their instincts kept them at arm’s length. A natural sense of self preservation held most people back from staring too long or standing too close, as if they could feel the damned souls beneath the flawless flesh.

  Normally, she would have toyed with them, like a cat with a mouse. She enjoyed those types of games, because she always won, and the poor human always ended up devastated from the encounter. However, as she nodded and greeted the guests, her mind was pulled away from the simple pleasure of shredding someone’s heart.

  The guests were curious, and they all wanted to know just where the artist was. They wanted to know who he was and when would he arrive. The ladies wanted to know where she and Ashur had found him, and the men wanted to know if they were investing in the art. Greed and lust burned in their eyes as their words constantly reminded Iyzebel that, beneath one of the ivory white cloths, there was a picture of her that had been painted by a man she’d never even met.

  “Iyzebel, so good to see you!” a squeaky voice cut through the crowd.

  Looking up just in time to avoid the overly voluptuous embrace of a lavishly dressed middle aged woman, Izzy gave an inner groan. “Camilla Westington, it has been awhile.”

  “Too long, my dear! I was so hoping to see you at the cape this summer. So many eligible bachelors there during the season.”

  “Oh, Millie. I keep telling you, I have no interest in marrying quite yet. I’m still young.” Plastering a huge fake smile on her face, Izzy deflected the notorious matchmaker’s attempts for what felt like the millionth time.

  Her inner demon growled, Someday I’m going to turn you into a drooling minion with three horns, you busybody old cow.

  “Well…” she whispered in a voice loud enough to carry, “I hear this artist of yours is quite the looker. Sabina Tamin says she met him last year at one of those little bohemian parties she frequents, and he is a dark skinned angel from the Middle East.”

  Izzy felt Ashur tense beside her, the woman’s unfortunate choice of words making him cringe. “Oh, Millie, you are something else. Excuse us, please. I see Mr. Dahl, and we really must catch him before he has too much sherry.”

  Without giving the woman a chance to say more, she grabbed Ashur’s elbow and dragged him away. Whispering out of the side of her mouth, she admonished, “Stop shooting daggers out of your eyes at that old bat or you might turn her into one.”

  His serious expression broke, and his brilliant smile revealed even rows of bright white teeth. “As if you weren’t wishing you could do the same.”

  “Actually, I was thinking more of a three-horned minion, but a bat might be more fun.”

  Ashur bent to say something in her ear, but the demon butler appeared at their side.

  Izzy turned a cold eye on the creature, “What is it, Ogwald?”

  With a deep bow that made the fleshy cheeks of his human disguise sag forward, his drawn out voice answered, “Mr. Denat has arrived.”

  In way of dismissal, Ashur gave him a quick, “Thank you,” and the demon servant scurried away.

  Iyzebel’s hand tightened on Ashur’s arm. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t even begin to form words enough to explain the fear she felt. “Ash, there’s something you are not telling me about this man. Who is he, really?”

  With a patronizing smile, he reassured her, “Iz, he is just a man. A descendant from the Archangels, for sure, but still just a man. He is certainly no match for your charms.”

  Every argument that screamed through her head instantly quieted as the crowd parted, and Rafael Denat stepped into the center of the room. The light from the chandelier kissed his ebony hair and brought out the shadows under his large dark eyes. The tailored suit fit his body like a comfortable glove, outlining the strong arms and torso, even as it accentuated the a-shape of his frame.

  He stood out, not in dress or manner, but in the hungry look in his eyes. She could easily tell he was not one of the artsy rich, definitely not a son of an investor or mogul. The leanness of him spoke of hard work, late nights, and missed meals. Instantly, she wanted him. The desire to possess every aspect of his being until he was completely bent to her will filled her mouth with the taste of copper and spice.

  She barely noticed Ashur dragging her forward until she was standing a few feet from the man. As he turned, a large grin brought creases out around his eyes, and she thought she would die. Yet, when that smile faded into a look of shock and confusion, sadness overcame her. Emotions spinning in a whirlpool of madness, her vision tunneled in on him as if no one else existed, and his intense gaze froze her in place.

  Ashur shoved a flute of champagne in her hand, and the sound of his tapping on the crystal felt as if it might shatter her already aching head. Still, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the painter. His large hands, calloused by the wooden handles of his brushes, hung at his sides, making her long to know the feel of them on bare skin. The open collar of his shirt, revealing smooth, dark skin, beckoned to trail her lips across the collarbone. Izzy was melting, right there in the midst of two hundred people, she was pooling into a little puddle of fire.

  “Ladies and gentleman, our artist has at last arrived,” Ashur’s deep voice rumbled over the din of voices, calling all attention to their little three person group.

  A light smattering of applause rolled through the room, and Raf startled. Jerking, he plastered the smile back on his face and look out to the revelers, Iyzebel could feel the world return to normal. Her skin cooled and her heart stopped pounding as the need for him drained away. Even as she looked him over once more, the fierce desire faded into a lackluster interest.

  Draining her drink, and snagging another from a passing waiter, Izzy slipped away. She tried not to down the whole glass again, but the burning thirst in the back of her throat was too much. The cravings began, stronger than they had been since she’d been new to the demon race. The smell of human innocence and guilt mixed like a cocktail with her heighten emotions, causing her to hunger for their souls. Licking her lips, she tasted the champagne, but she desired the bitter sweetness of death.

  Her wandering led her away from the crowds a
nd into the formal ballroom, with its high ceilings, crown moldings, and the canvases all covered in drop cloths like ghosts in the dim light. She hadn’t meant to end up there, standing in front of the large portrait, her hand tugging the cover away. Yet, she was and she did, and the eyes of the painting burned into her as if they could read the thoughts in her mind.

  Slowly tracing her eyes over the figure in front of her, she tried to place the subtle differences that made it her, and then not really her. This is not me as a demon. This is the woman that this human body would have become. If I hadn’t been chosen, if Ashur had not….

  As her thoughts trailed away from the memories she didn’t want to relive, a soft voice whispered to her, “Do you like it?”

  With a little gasp, she turned, red lips instantly turning into a grimace. He had come so close to her that she found herself looking up into his eyes, his face only a breath away. Her demon pulsed, it screamed for him as if it were an entirely separate being, lusting for his essence.

  “Why did you paint me, Rafael?”

  "You've got pretty eyes."

  Izzy laughed, widening the dark lashes that rimmed liquid pools of sapphire blue. "People say that to me all the time, but I will tell you a secret."

  Raf leaned in, grazing a finger down her cheek, "M'yes?"

  "My eyes are only beautiful because they are the windows to my soul."

  "You must have the soul of an angel."

  More laughter rang out as she curved her mouth into a thin-lipped smile. "No. Not at all. You see, people do not wish for goodness. They are drawn to the serial killers, the train wrecks, and the evil that swells up in this world like a bloated leech feeding from society's vein. It is the reason they sit, mouth agape in front of their televisions, as tragedy screams at them in high-def color. People love the nightmarish revelation that there is something far worse than them in this world. That is why they love to look into my eyes."

  Raf froze, his hand still lingering in the air as he stared at her in confusion. “What could possible make you so terrible?”