Page 87 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

I hum low in my throat. “No, I really don’t think you are. You pay lip service to your god and then indulge your depraved appetite every chance you get. Chances facilitated by Dr Ignatius Whyte.”

His eyes widen and his mouth clamps shut.

“Yes, I know all about Whyte’s demon club, and if it’s any consolation, you won’t be the only one punished for every single moment of pain you have caused in order to sate your cravings.”

“Who are you?” he growls.

“I am Cordelia Crawshanks. I am Death.”

“You think I’m afraid to die?” He sneers. “I will be welcomed back into the arms of my god, whereas you, satanic spawn, will burn in Hell.”

“I think you have that the wrong way around.” I smirk. “I won’t be sending you into the arms of your god, as you put it. He doesn’t want you. I will, however, be sending you somewhere else entirely. Somewhere you’ll suffer…for eternity.”

Before he can say another word, I begin reading from the book once again. This time, it’s not the language of my heart. It is far older and more powerful, a language I instinctively understand and can speak fluently although I have never been taught it. The knowledge is inside me.

I continue to murmur the words over and over, no longer needing to look at the book. I step into the circle and, kneeling, press my bloody palm to its centre.

Blood magic, the strongest magic there is.

The ground begins to shake and heave beneath my feet. I stumble back, scooping up the book and cradling it protectively in my arms. The floor splinters, boards cracking and spearing up, as something tries to break through from underneath.

Two thick arms reach up, followed by a head of thick, curly black hair, a torso, and then, finally, thick legs.

I look at the demon I have summoned and bound to me with blood, and a dark thrill whips through me, heady and seductive. This is true power.

The demon’s smooth skin is a beautiful golden colour and shimmers in the firelight.

“Ishaan.” When I speak his name, his blood-red eyes snap to me. His power makes the air ripple and seem impossibly heavy. It also carries with it a rich, spicy, and smoky scent.

“You know who I am?” I ask him.

He bares his pointed teeth and growls. “Yes.” He bites off the answer.

“Say it.”

He growls at me again.

“Say it!” I snap forcefully.

His eyes narrow. “Mistress,” he spits out, his eyes filled with hatred.

“Good.” I smile at him coldly, then my gaze slides across to the cowering bishop. Ishaan’s eyes follow. For the first time, the demon banks his belligerence and smiles almost gleefully.

“No! No! Please, I beg of you! Mercy! Mercy! I am a man of god! You can’t do this. Please god, save me!” the bishop babbles in panic, his voice shrill and his eyes wild.

I glare at him in contempt. “Your god is not listening.”

Ishaan looks to me.

“Make it hurt,” I demand.

And as the first limb is ripped from Bishop Fairchild’s flabby body, his screams of terror and agony are more beautiful than a symphony.

20

Isit up on a gasp, my stomach heaving and moisture flooding my mouth.

In that instant, I know I’m going to be sick.