Beauties and the Beast by Eric Scott

achieve full focus on the girl. “Who are you anyway? You seem somehow familiar.”
    â€œProbably an acolyte from one of your Black Masses,” said Billy. “You depraved old bastard.”
    Thornton ignored the singer manfully. “Who are you?”
    â€œMy name is Angela Caduti.” she said, with a renewed air of innocence.
    Thornton paused, thinking, reaching into his mind for the relevant information he sought. He sifted, sorted, and then located it. “Caduti. If my memory serves me correctly, Caduti, in the original Latin, means ‘falling’ does it not?”
    Angela and Diana exchanged an amused glance. A wicked, knowing glance. Mickey shuddered. Pictures slid in to his mind, images of the Spanish Inquisition, a flaming torch, kindling, a woman screaming in pain. A dead witch. Maggots.
    Angela spoke and thankfully cleared his brain. He was sweating cold sweat
    â€œAlmost, Mr Thornton,” it was the cat’s purr again. “The literal translation means fallen.”
    â€œFallen,” Thornton pondered then laughed out loud. “Angela Caduti. Fallen angel. Where on earth did you get name like that. No-one is called Fallen Angel.”
    â€œNo-one is called Belvedere Thornton either.” The comment came as a blast of Arctic breath from Diana.
    â€œExcept me,” countered Thornton.
    â€œYou started life as Harry Williams.”
    â€œTrue.” Thornton appeared unfazed. “But I became an actor. I needed a stage name. I chose a rather splendid one too didn’t I? Belvedere Thornton.” He savoured the words. “It has quite a ring to it, you just admit.”
    â€œSo does Angela Caduti.”
    Thornton eyed the blonde thoughtfully. “So you are an actress. Maybe we met in Hollywood? You must have been to Hollywood.”
    Angela laughed it was throaty, marshy and dark. “Hollywood, yes,” she spoke like a faraway trumpet, muted brass, “and Rome, London, Paris, New York. Just about every place there is - and some that probably aren’t.”
    Mickey and Billy caught the mystery of her words and exchanged a puzzled glance, but Thornton heard nothing. “Hollywood, it was. We must get together, talk over old times.” For a reason inexplicable to him, Thornton rammed his hand into his pocket and found a photograph. It was there, and so was the memory. “How did you come to choose such a poetic Latin name?”
    Angela licked her lips and cast a flickering lizard glance at Diana, who shook her head imperceptibly. Angela slid back in her chair, a pout forming on her lips.
    â€œCome on darlin’, tell us.” Billy called out.
    Angela looked at her, pleading. A little girl smile. Please?
    Diana smiled. “You have an audience,” she said. “How could I come between you and an audience?”
    Eagerly Angela leapt to her feet and advanced on the three men. “When I was a baby I had white blonde hair and a fair skin, which is why my mother called me Angela. Later I developed a flair for acting - the cameras loved me.”
    The picture of Angela formed in the minds of the men. She was beautiful, with a hint of mischief behind the baby blue eyes. There were men, men fighting to be close to the child. Paedophilia! Touching, being touched. The pre-pubescent child and the mother turning her back; the horror soared through the linked minds of the trio. But the horror was worse as they saw the face of the girl.
    She laughed. Her eyes glazed with lust. A baby, a sprite, a demon sent to lure men? Impossible!
    She grew taller, the hair kept baby blonde by the bottle. Her breasts grew. The girl was breathtakingly beautiful and there were still the men, different men, men who had not been driven to suicide or confession by their sins.
    She played, teased, and pleaded with them, driving them to uncontrollable passions until they attacked her, raped her. Afterwards, passion spent, they stared in horror at the