The true nature of cruelty has been debated since the dawn of time. Some say it is born with us, others that it is learned, a sickness taught by example. Whatever the truth, cruelty was the very marrow in the young master's bones.

  He'd belittle the manservants and footmen for the smallest mistakes, striking them for the pleasure of watching their teeth clench and fists ball as they endured it. The pets that came into the household never lasted long, unfortunate accidents or vanishing without a trace. Worst of all was the fate of the maids, their muffled cries of feigned ecstasy when he indulged in his more carnal impulses could be heard around the house at all hours of the day and night. No one dared interfere with this behavior; the old master was either away on business or didn't care, turning a blind eye to his son's twisted nature. Servants came and went, the old hands whispering warnings the new ones never believed until too late.

  It was into this house that young Devora came. A waif of a girl with an apron too big for her frame, she caught the young master’s eye almost immediately. He made his first advance while wearing a mask of charm and false charisma. She declined him politely, saying it would not be proper. He grinned, though his knuckles whitened and he struggled with the rejection.

  The second time was less polite. He cornered her in a hallway and let his voice echo with menace, demanding she meet him in his chambers. Devora stood her ground still, politely declining once more. He struck the wall beside her face, cracking the wooden paneling, and stomped away with murder in his eyes, fuming as he was not used to being told no.

  It was in that uneasy silence that the old master returned. His caravan rattled into the courtyard heavy with spoils from his latest trading voyage; trinkets, charms, and relics destined for clients who whispered their orders in a place few mortals knew how to reach. Among them was a single piece he did not trust to the wagons: a black obsidian idol, squat and corpulent, its garnet eyes sparkling with ambient energy. He placed it in his study, apart from the rest, and said only that a client would come to claim it soon.

  Devora was dusting that very study when the young master made his third and final attempt. The lock clicked shut behind her. He leaned against the door, key glinting between his fingers, and sneered.

  "You, wench. Remove your dress." He demanded, his arms crossed as he leaned against the locked door.

  She turned to see him, and she stepped away, searching for a way out. He rolled his eyes and tossed the key from hand to hand. "There is refusing it this time. Remove it. You'll obey me now."

  She fled behind the desk, reaching for the letter opener, but he was already moving towards her with a lunge. She swung wildly instead, her fist cracked his nose, a defiance that only enraged him further. He seized the idol by its head and swung.

  The blow split her skull. Blood fanned across the shelves, dripping down the wall. Her body slumped onto the rug, staining it dark. He stared down at her twitching form until the light faded from her eyes, then called for his footman to help him dispose of the body.

  The footman dug the grave in the far orchard with the young master watching from the lantern’s edge, insisting her body, the rug, and the bloodied idol all be buried together. He wanted her forgotten by the world, swallowed whole by the earth itself. He swore the footman to secrecy, insinuating a similar fate awaited him should the body ever be discovered.

  The old master returned some days later, his study freshly cleaned and organized, the evidence of what had took place erased from sight. He noticed the statue's absence right away however, and became incensed. He summoned the staff, the young master, and flew into a murderous rage.

  "Answer me!” the old master screamed. “The obsidian idol, with the garnet eyes, where has it gone? Speak the truth now!"

  "The new maid, oh... I can't remember her name. She must have took it and fled some days ago. He haven't seen her or the statue since she vanished." the young master lied smoothly, hoping to neatly tie up both loose ends in a single knot.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  It did not work.

  The old master's face twisted with a fury his son had never seen before. "She what? And you let this happen!? You fool, you ignorant, lazy jack-ass! If that statue is not returned, our fortunes will collapse into ruin!"

  The old master took a deep breath, staring at the young master's bruised nose, and then into his eyes. "And if I find **you** had **anything** to do with this, son, you will be penniless and on the side of the road. I swear on your mother's grave this, I swear it."

  He backhanded the young master with a forceful slap before storming out of the study. The young master held back tears grimly, to be struck twice inside a week. He had never felt such disrespect before.

  That very night, the old master rode out with a posse of servants and lawmen to search for the missing girl.

  The young master waited until the house was dark, then roused his footman. Together, they ran to the far orchard to dig the idol free before his father returned. But when they reached the unmarked grave, only the rug remained, poking free from the disturbed earth. The soil had been turned, as if a wild animal had dug up whatever lay inside.

  The footman bent to drag the rug up from the hole, searching for any sign of the girl or the idol. But claws erupted from the shadows and split him open before he could scream. His entrails spilled with a sound like al dente pasta splattering into the dirt as he stumbled backwards, his face stuck in shock as his life left his body.

  The lantern fell from the young master’s hand as Devora rose from the dark, hair caked with soil, eyes burning with garnet fire. Her apron hung in tatters, her skin was pale and monstrous, her teeth jagged as glass. She tore into the corpse of the footman, each bite voracious. With each gulp, the wound the young master had inflicted on her seemed to mend.

  The young master stumbled backward, dazed, whispering for mercy while praying to a god that ignored him. She turned to him slowly, blood soaking her smile.

  “Take. Off. Your. Clothes.”

  He attempted to run, but to no avail as his legs struggled to move at all. She was on him, her claws pinned him to the ground as he writhed and shrieked. She laughed, low and rattling, the sound of a beast playing with its prey. His cries ended in a wet squelch as her teeth sank into his throat. She fed on the two men by moonlight, feasting on those that had wronged her so.

  The far orchard was silent for some time, save for the crunching of bones as she ate. However, the bushes stirred once, and he emerged.

  A vast figure waddled into the clearing, his fine suit pulled tight across his portly frame, a tragic comb-over gleaming with oil and sweat. A small mustache hung just above his upper lip, his black eyes highlighted by the fallen lantern's glow. He sighed, taking in the carnage before him.

  "Signorina, signorina, look at this mess." He stated with a sigh, his voice smooth as hot butter sliding off a knife's edge. "All this, this stuzzichini."

  Devora froze, then sank to her knees, bowing her head at his feet. She could feel it, this newfound power was his presence inside her, like a second soul. The idol and its power had not been lost, just relocated.

  "Tsk. I can guess what happened to the statue," he stated, bending down to brush her hair, looking at the mostly healed wound now.

  "So, my little boon was cracked open, eh? I was hopin' to reclaim it, but instead," he wiped blood and dirt off her cheek with a couple fingers, gently, "I find a gal wit' an appetite."

  He extended a meaty hand down to help her up. "Stop bowin' already, mia piccola. You're family now."

  She took his hand and rose to her feet. She told him of her story, of the happenings at the manor, of the masters young and old, the staff that watched in silence. His face remained impassive, save for the slow grinding of his teeth during the more sordid details.

  "Then we ain't done yet," He rumbled, spitting on the young master's remains, Bae's acidic bile hissing as it ate through the exposed bones.

  "There is still a whole pen of swine needin' butchered."

  They returned to the manor together. The maids were allowed to slip away, clutching their belongings in bundles with trembling hands, but the rest of the staff, the ones who had turned a blind eye, were not so fortunate. Devora fed until her apron was stained dark red like the merlot wine she once served the old master, with Bae at her side, patient and also indulgent.

  By dawn, the halls were silent except for the dripping sounds of what little remained of the bodies inside. The two of them sat on the porch, sated, waiting for the old master’s posse to return. Bae wiped oil from his mustache and smiled faintly. He leaned back, hands folded over his stomach.

  “Y’know, I neve' had a daughte',” he said. “But I think you’ll do just nicely. Can ya cook, piccola?” His eyes gleamed like obsidian catching dawn's light.

  She smiled at the words, a kindness she still wasn't used to, and nodded. "Of course. I.. I'm Devora, by the way."

  "You're family, Devora. Stick with me, I'll show ya the ropes of the Market."

  On the horizon, torches flickered as the posse made their way home. Bae patted her knee, his hand heavy and reassuring.

  “Finally. Dinner might be done. But ya know, after dinner…” His grin widened, toothy and knowing.

  “Well, you should never pass on dessert.”