by Jade Eby
“Cupid. Who is Cupid to you?”
The wooden sword trembled in her hands. “I’m not a cop, yet I’ve hunted down the vilest murderers and watched their lives leave their bodies on their days of executions.”
The horse snorted and stomped its fleshy hooves.
The skeleton knight laughed. “So is he a killer?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come.” The knight extended his bony hand.
She caught it and he lifted her in the air, the cold of him running straight through to her blood. She gritted her teeth, hopped on, and tried not to scream as she held onto his ribs. “Where are we going?”
“What is your name?”
“Don Quixote,” she whispered.
“That is a beautiful name for a woman.”
“Thank you.”
They trotted off. Sand kicked up behind them. The world zipped by fast.
On the skeleton knight’s horse, she witnessed haunting images that made no sense to her brain. Scattered musical instruments liquefied on jagged cliffs. Piano keys melted. Violin strings dripped. Saxophones pooled around puddles of trombones.
Two angels fought over a stick of gum next to a dying cactus. They wrestled, punched, and even bit at each other’s cheeks. Blood oozed all over their wings. Feathers fell, each time they cursed. In the end, the gum tore into tiny pieces of nothing, and the angels collapsed onto the desert ground and wept.
Diana leaned into the skeleton knight’s back and whispered, “Why do I feel trepidation sizzle down my spine like an electric charge? Why have I not done what I’m so good at doing—telling the truth?”
“What is the truth? Is he a bad man?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are Don Quixote,” the skeleton knight proclaimed. “You seek justice and chivalry in a world that only has deception.”
“I’m only a woman.”
“Does that mean you’re weak?”
Diana reared back, her face aghast. “Of course not. I’ve conquered more things than any male reporter in my industry, and I did it through stealth and determination. I did it with hard work and an all-powering addiction to know the whole story.”
They arrived at an old wooden inn. Cracked red paint decorated the front. Stress teased at Diana’s temples as she gazed at the foundation that seemed to be softening on the sides. Hard walls melted before her eyes, straighten, hardened, and then liquefied.
The knight jumped off his skinless horse and helped her down. “I know a good man here.”
“I think we’re going to drown in that building.”
“Aren’t those the best places to visit, the ones that will consume you?”
Before Diana could answer, someone opened the inn’s door.
Asher.
He wore some frilly, white smock. His blonde curls glowed in the light. A black cat sat in Asher’s arms. The whole time, the furry animal purred and licked at its paws.
Asher’s voice rang out like a song as he extended his hand. “Welcome to my haven.”
Diana didn’t shake his hand. “Your haven is melting.”
“It does that at times.”
She looked down at the animal on his arms. “What is the name of your cat?”
Asher grinned. “Diana.”
And then the skeleton knight cried out in pain.
Diana turned to her new friend, hoping to help him out.
But it was too late.
Black snakes tore out of his ribcage. His jaw broke apart and dropped to the sandy ground with a boom. The rest of his bones followed. All of them, piece by piece, raining down into a pile. The snakes swarmed around him, slipping and sliding all over the heap of gray bones, gnawing on anything they could get their fangs on.
Diana screamed and ran toward him. “No!”
Asher grabbed her. He must’ve dropped the cat, but regardless, he trapped her shivering frame into his arms. “Don’t cry, Sweet One. Neil was only a skeleton of a man.”
She struggled out of his arms and faced him in horror. “What did you say?”
“Neil was only a skeleton of a man.”
* * *
Screaming and grasping at the covers, Diana woke up in bed.
Asher’s bed.
Cupid’s bed.
Reality slammed into her chest at once. She was no longer in that weird world of fighting angels and skeleton knights, melting instruments and liquid buildings. No relief swam down on her. In that moment, neither reality nor Diana’s dream world appealed to her.
What the hell did that dream mean?
She wiped the sweat off her face, inhaled, exhaled, and fell back into soft pillows.
I know one thing. I’m the cat in Asher’s arms, the one licking its paws. I’m such a fucking curious cat.
She scanned the room and made sure he wasn’t in there, hovering over her with a bow and arrow.
Where is he? What is he going to do next? What does he want with me?
Her thoughts scattered into jumbled logic and crazed notions.
I’m such a curious cat. It burns in me. Curiosity.
She sat up, picked up the glass of water on her nightstand, and swallowed the warm liquid.
I just had to look in his closet. I just had to be curious. That shitty curiosity sits at the bottom of my gut, and swells with a boiling sludge that never gives me any rest. Over and over, that curiosity churns against my insides. It breathes, at times pushing out my chest, expanding my lungs, and filling me with something more powerful than oxygen.
With both hands, she gripped her head and shook it wildly like a mad woman.
And he burns in me,
Asher,
Cupid.
He burns me so many ways, heating that space between my earlobe and neck where his breath brushes my skin. He warms the swell of my breast with his fingertips. He sets my pussy on fire, just from moving inside of me.
Arousal hit her core. If she wasn’t such a coward, she would touch herself, feel just how wet she could become over a…killer.
What’s wrong with me? I want more. But Asher ... Cupid ... is a murderer. Think, Diana. Think.
She’d remembered taking the pills and falling asleep last night. But there were other things she couldn’t get out of her head. Right before she’d entered Cupid’s last crime scene and read his carved-out message, Asher, the killer himself, had said the most haunting thing to her.
“I hadn’t planned on our evening going as it did, but now curiosity trapped the cat, and the cage... it is a big one, a whole island, and you’re stuck here, my cat. Don’t make me prove it.”
Asher leaned her way and landed a kiss onto her shivering forehead. “This isn’t to scare you. I just don’t want you to do anything stupid, when you walk into the crime scene, witness the gore, and decide that one of those buffoons in uniforms will help you. I’ll need you to rethink a foolish escape.”
Diana had been about to beg for him to stop talking crazy, “Asher—”
“No, you’re not a cat. Curious, yes. But you’re not a cat. You’re a bird.” He brushed his lips against her ear. “Ovid Island and my mansion is all your cage, and you are my bird. And like a lovely bird, I want to keep you all to myself. Do you have any questions?”
She’d had tons of them, but she couldn’t move her lips. Couldn’t form words. What more could she have done in that moment?
Back in Cupid’s bed, Diana returned to her predicament.
Last night played over and over in her head, banging hard against her skull and delivering a long, continuous ringing sound to her brain. She couldn’t think, and though she’d slept, she was still exhausted.
What the hell was my dream telling me? That I’m a mad woman, similar to Don Quixote? And like the crazy man from that story, I’ve donned an old suit of armor and embarked on a quest to breathe justice back into the world? No.
She closed her legs, her wet pussy smoothing together, those moist folds hugging the desire in. A soft moan fled her lips
.
This isn’t about justice. This is about sex and my desperate attempt to make this man my hero. I have to stop this, and really figure out the mystery. Vigilante or serial killer?
She sat back.
The men Asher killed weren’t innocent. They hurt so many. Was it Asher’s place to play God? Was it his place to kill a man who loved raping girls? Was it his place to carve his name so crudely into the flesh like a jeer to the police?
“I’m Cupid—come find me.”
I don’t shed tears for the men Cupid killed. Not even my husband. Is the world better off with these men dead?
Sunlight filtered through the bedroom window. She remained in bed, struggling to conjure up justifications for not running away.
She was sure that she’d done the right thing by leaving the crime scene with Asher and returning to his mansion. It would be safer for Diana to be near him and watch her own back, than if she’d fled and always had to glance over her shoulder.
And the truth was that she was more afraid of what lived inside of her. The ribbon of righteousness that drummed through her. No, she couldn’t imagine killing for fun. But did she blame Asher for doing what justice should’ve done?
I’m not a coward, but I’m scared, terrified that my weakening loyalty to the real world is crumbling beneath me. I stood for something. Once. And then Neil happened. And then Asher happened.
And then I realized that I fucked a murderer.
I am insane.
All day she sat there, mumbling and writing deranged sentences in her head. It was like her heart and mind couldn’t deal with what had happened in the past weeks—Neil’s death, her desperately falling into bed with Asher so quickly in some fast attempt to feel whole again, finding the bow, arrow, and gloves, Asher’s confession, and dear God, the message he’d written in blood above his last victim’s body.
It was a wonder Diana could even form sentences in her shivering brain.
I can’t be Don Quixote. The dream is wrong. Quixote rechristened his horse Rocinante and renamed a peasant woman Dulcinea del Toboso, his queen and lady with hair of gold, and eyebrows like rainbows, cheeks of roses, teeth of pearls, and eyes like suns. He created the reality around him, and truly lived.
She chewed on the end of her hair, realized she was doing it, and then switched to biting her nails.
My life is not a book.
I am not a heroine in a dark romance.
No.
I’m a cat, just as curious. And although the famous proverb states that curiosity killed the cat, I never forget the ending of that same proverb, the one my parents and my society tried to hide. The one nobody wants fellow cats like me to remember.
Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.
And I have nine lives.
Or do I?
Two
Diana
Asher didn’t show his face the whole day, never came into the room. She didn’t even think he’d slept in the same bed with her last night.
Good.
Hours after she woke and battled with her scattered thoughts, a servant brought breakfast.
Her foot sat on a tray with roses carved into its wooden edges.
So beautiful.
For hours, the toast and sausage sat there untouched. A few flies drew near and landed on the bread. The ice melted in the orange juice, liquid pooling around the glass and wetting the pink cloth napkins. Warm, cheesy scrambled eggs transformed to cold, uneaten bits of flesh on a bone white plate.
She hadn’t even picked up the fork, just stared at the butter knife for hours and wondered if anyone would report that it was gone.
Can I sneak it away, without anyone knowing it?
By the afternoon, she remained between the sheets and drowning in anxious thoughts. Her phone vibrated occasionally and she simply ignored them all. How could she possibly talk to someone after the events she’d experienced? How could she be expected to live in the real world when she felt as if she were cascading through a dream?
The servant had already knocked, slipped in, grabbed the breakfast tray, and left another one for lunch. The new food teased at her rumbling and empty stomach—grilled crab legs floating in truffle butter, shrimp risotto topped in shredded fresh parmesan, and a tall glass of lemonade with bits of fruit swimming throughout the sugary liquid.
Right as she gave up on starving herself, she picked up the glass and her phone buzzed.
It made her jump, and she released the lemonade so fast, that it dropped to the ground and spilled all over the ivory carpet.
She didn’t bother to saturate the liquid with a towel, instead, she grabbed the phone and checked the text.
Asher: We’re going to a charity event, tonight. Your gown and shoes will be delivered to your door by this evening.
She wasted no time and typed a reply.
Diana: What charity event? Why? What time?
He never responded.
That put her on edge even more.
What was going through his head? He obviously didn’t plan to keep her locked up forever, so what did he want to do with her? Would he be surprised to learn that if he just talked to her, they might find a common ground?
Her lunch turned cold on her plate. The crab legs looked like cut-up corpses, the splattered lemonade, urine. The risotto appeared more like a small hill of rotting maggots.
Just when Diana thought she might vomit, someone knocked on the door.
Grace entered, and disappointment filled Diana.
What is going through your mind, Asher?
She’d been tired of waiting for what would happen next. If he was going to torture her, then do it. If he had plans for other things, then let them begin. It was the waiting in dark confusion that had her gripping the sheets and sweating.
“What happened?” Grace stepped into the room with a huge white box in both arms.
“What do you mean?” Diana froze.
“Did you spill your drink?” Grace laid the box on the bed and pointed to the lemonade’s mess.
“Um, yes.” Diana gazed at the walls and wondered if Asher had some sort of spying device in the room. “I spilled the lemonade.”
Grace eyed her with curiosity. “Are you okay, Mrs. Carson?”
Will he kill me, if I try to get help from Grace? Jesus. Would he kill Grace?
“Y-yes. I’m fine.” Diana cleared her throat. “What’s in the box?”
“I’m not sure. The maids are on their break so I figured I would be nice and take the delivery up to you myself. They’re always helping me out in the kitchen.”
Diana gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you, Grace.”
“When they finish with their break, I’ll have them come up and clean this mess.”
Diana’s voice screeched. “Sounds great.”
Grace stared for a second longer. “Are you sure you’re okay, Mrs. Carson?”
“Of course.”
Grace left, and Diana rushed over to the box and tore it open. Gasping, she lifted the gown out of the tissue paper.
Asher had delivered a piece of fashioned art, draped in crimson pearls.
It was a breathtaking gown, dripping with glamour and sophistication. She was sure it would form around her body in perfection. Each crimson pearl was hand-sewn into the silky fabric. There’d been great care when the person made it.
However, upon gazing at that lovely gown, all Diana could think about was how similar it looked to blood. Like the deep crimson stains splattered across last night’s crime scene.
Her phone buzzed again. She placed the gown back into its box and checked the text.
Asher: Do you like the dress?
Diana: Yes, but you never answered my questions.
Asher: Be ready by eight o’clock. I’ll meet you downstairs.
Diana: What charity event is this?
Asher: The Monster’s Ball.
Is he serious? Is that a joke or a threat?
The rest of the day l
ifted her out of depression. She spent hours researching the charity event, which actually was The Monster’s Ball.
Why is he taking me to this? What’s going on?
When the skies darkened and the moon replaced the sun, she dragged her behind out of bed, jumped in the shower, and did her best to gain control of her thoughts.
She’d been doing just fine, until a knock came at the door, and Asher’s dark voice sliced through the hard wood. “Diana? It’s eight o’clock. Are you ready?”
“I...” She breathed in and out, counted to ten, and breathed in and out some more.
“Diana?” He knocked again and opened the door. “Are you okay?”
She stepped back and stared at him.
Even though there was only dim lighting from her dresser’s lamp, she saw every detail of his beauty. Her skin shivered in need. She couldn’t help but lick her lips, and taste herself, wishing the whole time that it was him on her tongue,
and inside her mouth.
I’m even worse off than I thought. I’m sick.
He wore a beautifully cut tuxedo, one that hugged his body with perfection and displayed that chiseled frame. Those blonde curls were slicked back. The style showed off his gorgeous face and couldn’t hide the haunting edge of his jawline, those cheekbones, and full lips. It didn’t deafen his exotic allure.
Wicked lust rose within her flesh and disturbed her mind all in the same moment.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“No. I’m not your bird. I’m a curious cat,” she whispered to herself, “And I have nine lives.”
“What did you say?” Asher stepped inside the room.
She inched back, nearly tripping over her new red stilettos. “Please, stay right there.”
“I told you that I won’t hurt you.”
“It doesn’t mean we need to be next to each other. Please, stay right there.”
He obeyed. “I can barely hear you. What did you say?”
“Nothing important.”
“Anything that comes out of your mouth is important to me.”
“Why?”
He dug his hands into his pockets. “You’re my obsession.”
