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Buffoons! Few expected a goddess as magnificent as Viola to excel in weaponry. But, when you had a childhood as lonely as hers, with no one to rely on, you learned to protect yourself in creative ways.
“Let’s begin our chat, shall we?” Crimson dragged a metal chair in front of hers, his flexing muscles on display. Careful of his wings, he eased down. All the while, his buddy Gangrene paced behind him.
She could guess what they wished to discuss. For months, a third Fallen One with blue skin and silver eyes had tracked her from realm to realm. His name was Brochan, and he was a monster. A true beast. Though he only ever revealed himself to her for two reasons: When danger surrounded her, or when she hunted prey for Fluffy, her beloved soulmate. A Tasmanian devil slash vampire—or rather, devampire.
Fluffy had saved her life on more than one occasion. Literally! He was a better person than most people. Loyal, brave, unwavering no matter the goal. How many others could say the same?
Foolish Brochan had developed a routine. Materialize, save the day if needed, then point to her and intone, “Forsaken” before vanishing. He did no more and no less. Despite his denunciation, he never harmed her or allowed others to do so.
Clearly, he’d fallen in love with her and had no idea how to express his feelings properly. Surprise, surprise. Join the club, big boy.
How Brochan must hate himself for his (understandable) weakness. He desperately hungered for the female who’d stolen his brother’s lifeforce. The eternal battery.
In her defense, she did what she wanted, when she wanted, without fail. It was like science or something. Although, yes, her actions had condemned the Sent One—McCadden—to a mortal death.
Did she feel guilt and regret? Of course. But also, no. Mostly no. Everything she did, she did for Fluffy’s wellbeing. What was there to regret?
There was no line she wouldn’t cross for the little darling. Fluffy had never lied to her. His growls and buzzing noises always proclaimed the truth. He’d never betrayed her or abandoned her, either. Had never bitterly resented her, smiling on the outside while dying of jealousy inside.
What was Brochan’s problem, anyway? It wasn’t like McCadden had gifted her with top-of-the-line immortality or anything. Scarcely a year had passed since she’d fed it to Fluffy, yet her adorable devampire already required another meal.
Viola’s stomach twisted as thoughts of his demise tormented her. Again and again, Brochan had ruined her efforts to procure any sustenance. How many more months—weeks?—could her baby last?
Can’t lose him. So. Her path was clear. Brochan must die. No one endangered her precious and lived to tell the tale. In fact, Viola already considered Brochan a dead man. Now, she had only to decide on the means.
There were two possible paths to travel. Road A: Question her abductors to discover Brochan’s greatest weaknesses, then murder them all. Road B: Stall until Brochan showed up, let him murder his brethren on her behalf, then turn around and murder him.
Good news was, both ways ended in success for her.
If only she could feed these males to Fluffy. But winged Fallen Ones were poison to all other species. Their blood killed vampires, while their souls extinguished phantoms and other spirit beings.
“Goddess,” Crimson snapped. “Are you listening to me?”
“No,” she admitted. “Pro-tip. If you want my attention, be more interesting. Bonus points if you’re even a little handsome. In case no one ever told you, you could be almost okay-looking…if you change everything about yourself.”
His eyes blazed with fiery emotion. Admiration, no doubt. A common occurrence for Viola. He grated, “Why does Brochan protect someone as despicable as you?”
“Despicable?” Narcissism snarled, fury infiltrating every crevice of her mind. The demon demanded adoration, fuel, at all times. Without it, the fiend turned on her, ceasing to hide the worst of her memories, unleashing a river of frothing self-hatred.
Oh, yes. Beneath the surface of Viola’s well deserved and perfectly inflated pride, seethed an ocean of self-loathing. Unlovable! Unwanted! So easily forgotten!
Once she had suffered enough, Narcissism built her back up and started the process over again. Love, hatred. Love, hatred. A vicious tug-of-war she won and lost simultaneously. A horrendous cycle she’d grown to both despise and appreciate. Before this, she’d had no self-love at all.
Every so often, she caught flashes of those dreaded memories, buried so deeply. In each, she was smiling and talking. Which she didn’t understand. How could that type of remembrance hurt her? And yet, deep down, she knew utter devastation awaited her. It always did.
Crimson snapped his fingers in front of her face, pulling her from the dark mire of her musings. “I asked you a question, goddess.”
He had? Oh, yes. “You asked why Brochan is so full of awe for me. A question with an obvious answer. But go ahead and tell me your theories. I’ll let you know if you’re right or not.”
