Accursed by Amber Benson

loss.
    “Thank you,” Tamara replied.
    But as she opened the door and stepped into the darkened room—with only the dim moonglow to light her way—she felt vaguely absurd. Coming here, dressed this way. She knew now that she ought to have looked in on Father before dressing for the party. The very idea of a party, of any kind of celebration, seemed somehow wrong now.
    She shut the door behind her.
    “Tamara, is that you?”
    The voice floated on the darkness, shuddery with doubt and weakness. Henry Swift had been prone to headaches and a general malaise, not a malingerer but a gentle soul who could not abide conflict in any way. The loss of his wife had only exacerbated the fragility of his spirit, and had made Tamara quite protective of her father, despite the fact that she had little in common with him. He’d been a man of little passion and even less imagination.
    He is, she corrected herself. That sort of thinking made her prey to the very voice that had just issued from the shadows.
    She gestured at an elegant lamp that sat atop the chest of drawers that stood in the corner. “Accendo,” she commanded, and the wick ignited with flame, soaking up oil, sending a flickering light out across the room.
    In a high-backed chair, next to an empty bed, Henry Swift sat with his arms chained behind his back. The bonds were attached to the legs of the chair. Where her father had once been a jovially rounded man, now his features were thin, almost cadaverous. Dark circles stained the skin that sagged beneath his eyes. The moment the room brightened he looked up at her, with an expression that seemed helpless and lost.
    “Tamara?” he offered again in that same querulous voice.
    It would have been tempting for her to think a miracle had happened, hearing that voice, seeing the pleading look in his eyes. But she had learned painful lessons in the past about unfounded hope.
    “Oblis,” she replied darkly. She proferred the bowl of soup. “I brought you something to eat. I am quite rushed, so I’m afraid I won’t be able to endure your usual chatter this evening.”
    “You don’t have to stay at all, daughter,” the demon said, still in her father’s voice. Yet now the trembling was gone, and a malign spark flickered clearly behind his eyes. “I’m quite capable of feeding myself.”
    Tamara sniffed. Next he would suggest that she unchain him. There were magical bonds in place throughout the room, as well, but she wouldn’t even entertain the idea of setting his hands free. It was a game he played, and she had tired of it months ago.
    “You’ve been terribly quiet since my guests departed,” she said, bringing a spoonful of the cold soup to his lips. Tamara fed the demon so her father’s body would not die, and Oblis ate for the same reason.
    “It was rude of you not to bring your friends inside to see your dear father,” he said. “I’ve known some of those young ladies their entire lives.”
    “My father knows them. You do not.” Tamara fed him another spoonful of soup. “What are you scheming so silently up here, Oblis?”
    He gazed salaciously at her, running his tongue lewdly around his mouth as though to relish the sight of her, rather than the flavor of his meal. “How I might split you in two, lovely daughter, how it will feel to fuck you till you bleed.”
    Tamara gaped at him in revulsion, and for a moment she was frozen with her disgust. Oblis brought his knee up beneath the bowl and the cold, clotting soup splashed up at her. With a sneer Tamara raised her right hand and instantly the air crackled with bright green light, magical energy that formed a shield, keeping the contents of the bowl from ruining her dress.
    The bowl fell and shattered on the ground. Cold soup dripped from the air onto the wooden floor. With a hushed sound the magic evaporated, and Tamara lowered her hand.
    “I think that’s all for your dinner this evening,” she said.
    “You asked a question,” the demon replied.