Thomas Cross/Devil's High

From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe

When the red first screamed power and set fire to his flesh he remembered thinking 'this is how God would get high'. He laughed at that now. It was nothing but a gateway drug. Maybe it was God's own high, but the Devil had always known how to have a better time.

His heiress lay nude on an antique couch. Raven black hair cascaded over ivory shoulders. A crimson silk sheet draped and flowed over her center. They were lovers, they had been for three nights now. It wasn't necessary. Not for his high and not for his work, but she was beautiful and he loved pleasure of every kind.

She was seeing someone, of course. A young environmentalist. They met when his cause collided with her father's business. Her business now, since her father's passing. Her crusader had been the one to hold her in her grief. She loved him for it. In two days time there would be a meeting. Her controlling interest would suspend the project and his crusade would end in victory.

She lied to him about Thomas. "He's just a painter, he'll be here for a few days while he's painting my portrait. It was something Daddy always wanted and now that he's gone ... you understand, don't you darling?" She had lied for him before he even touched her with his power. It had come from inside her, from who she was. She was a dreamer, a romantic. She could look at a poor young painter and fall in love with him in a heartbeat.

He didn't need her to tell him that she loved him, but when they woke together this morning she had. "Promise you'll stay, Thomas? Promise that when the painting is done you'll stay anyway. Tell me you need me like I need you. Tell me you love me like I love you. Tell me that you'll stay." He promised her that he would stay as long as she wanted him. Then he told her that he wanted to paint. Now. No posing. No makeup. Nothing artificial. Just her on the couch with the sheets that they had slept between spilling over her.

His promise was true. It was a devil's promise, easy to keep. He would stay as long as she wanted him. Every night as she slept he had slipped into her mind, into her memory and heart. He was looking for something, he couldn't say exactly what. He was guided by instinct. He would know it when he saw it. He spent three nights unfolding a lifetime. Last night he had finally found what he was looking for and today everything would change.

His heiress lay nude on an antique couch. Raven black hair cascaded over ivory shoulders. A crimson silk sheet draped and flowed over her center. For the first time he reached out to her with his power in force. He stole her consciousness. She slept and would not wake until he allowed it.

He breathed in deep. His hands began to tremble. There was an electric tingle at the base of his spine. Anticipation. After days of waiting he was going to have his Devil's high. No drug, no rush of power, no love or hate or passion or euphoria would ever rise to the level of this high. He savored the moment, he drew it out as long as he could bear the anticipation. Until he shook, until he wanted to scream. Then he slipped inside her mind, to the time and place he had chosen, to the memory, to the heart. He felt her, entered into her, became her.

She was six years old, camping with her family. She got up in the night, wandered outside, got lost. She should have been terrified. She wasn't. It was the stars. They were never like this in the city. So many, so clear, so close. She reached for them, like any child would, to see how close they really were. She didn't know anything about meteor showers. All she knew is that when she reached for heaven, heaven reached back.

He swept every corner of the memory, felt every feeling, every breath, every sound, every smell. He went deeper, pulled harder, took more. Vision! Romance! Faith! Possibility! Euphoria screamed through him setting every nerve on fire. This was it! This was the devil's high! To touch a moment that shaped a life, to enter it, to live it! To steal it, devour it, destroy it! He pulled harder. He delved deeper. He tore. It was intimately hers! It was intimately his!

It was gone.

He painted.

When he finished, he let her wake.

She smiled her winsome smile. "Did I fall asleep?"

"You were beautiful, and it's done."

She stood and let the sheet fall away, wanting him to watch her as she walked toward him. She turned slowly to look at the canvas, a painting of a six year old girl reaching for falling stars. She turned back to him, frowning.

"You told me I was your model."

"You were my inspiration."

She laughed. It was a colder sound than it had been before. "There's no way I inspired that. I think you wanted to drink my brandy, sleep in my bed and look at me naked." She stepped back and turned seductively for him. "Then take a long look. But don't get any ideas. You haven't gotten under my skin, Tommy. Not one bit." She looked back at the painting. "Really, I don't know why, but I'd imagined you were better than this. I thought you could do something real. This is a fairy tale." She stepped toward him and trailed a fingertip down his chest. "You're a delicious man and you made me scream more than once. But it seems you're a romantic and that's the last thing I need in my life. Do be a dear and make sure everything is cleaned up before I get back. Do I need to tell you that means that you should be gone as well?"

He shook his head.

She walked out without a goodbye.

We underestimate how the little moments in life shape us. In a single moment when stars are falling you can learn to believe in romance and possibility. You can forget the moment, but it's still there inside you, shaping you. But if you did more than forget, if you lost the feeling, if you lost the moment itself, maybe you would lose the lesson too. Maybe you would forget how to believe.

He called his agent.

"It's done, the vote will go in the client's favor. ... You'll learn I'm a bit more subtle than that. She'll simply be a little less idealistic. ... No, I'm willing to wait the two days, satisfaction guaranteed. ... To the account in Cap Au Diable, please. My gifts are no longer needed here, and it's time I was on the move. ... Yes, there is one more thing. A painting that needs to take a little trip around the world. Have it picked up at this address, crated and sent to Spain. Once it arrives have it recrated and shipped back here, to King's Row. The Brody family. I'll leave the address and a note with the painting."

He hung up.

You should keep it, it is your first.

It's not my first.

The other doesn't count. It was a gift. The vision was a gift from him to you and the drawing was a gift from you to her. Gifts don't count. Gifts don't get you high.

So it's the first since the power?

You didn't do it for the power.

She's better off. A little more discordant, but stronger, more capable. This isn't a romantic's world.

You didn't do it to change her.

The painting is remarkable, like nothing I've ever done before.

You didn't do it for art.

I needed the money.

You didn't do it for the money. You would have done it anyway.

I would have done it anyway. I did it for the high.

My name is Thomas Cross, and I'm an addict.