The Lure of the Devil (The Demons' Muse #4) - Auryn Hadley Page 0,97

was sweet. Everything he was saying sounded so wonderful, but his new focus on those words had me a little worried. "Why?" I asked him. "Nick, what's going on?"

He pulled in a breath, and that was when I knew. His little speech had been for a reason. He was trying to brace me for some very bad news, and I wasn't sure I was ready. Then he paused to swipe his thumb across my cheek, buying himself a little more time.

"You fit the Ayala myth," he finally admitted.

"Ok? But Luke said that wasn't a big deal, right?"

He rolled onto his back, tugging to encourage me to come closer. "We didn't tell you all of it. There is a myth and a theory. The myth came first, and because of it, Luke says one of the minor angels spent a lot of time researching the probability of its accuracy. Combined, there's a lot of speculation about this thing. It's kinda like how the CDC in America has a plan for the zombie apocalypse. It's an exercise in thought, not an expectation of reality, ok?"

"Ok," I agreed, waiting for the part he was avoiding.

"Just like children believe in monsters, so do adults. Even outworlders. The Ayala is something we don't think about often. It rarely comes up anymore - until recently. Sia, they call it the destroyer."

"Y'all told me that." I shifted to rest my head on his shoulder. "But I thought we'd agreed that it doesn't mean I have to become bad."

"It's called evil," he added. "It's said that the Ayala will pull at the worlds with an insatiable hunger. That it is punishment, and a weapon that can't be stopped."

"Oh."

His arm curled around my back, holding me against him. "It's not a Muse, Sia. It's something bigger than all of that. A new thing."

"And you said there's never been a Muse like me before," I realized. "Plus, my mother named me Ayala."

He nodded. "I don't believe in God. I never have. I don't believe in prophecies or any of that stuff. And yet, here we are, with all of the signs aligning to point at you. I just don't want you to worry about this."

"How do I not?" I asked, pulling away so I could sit up to see him. That also required turning so my legs were tucked at my side. "Nick, I don't want to be the bad guy!"

"Then be a bad girl," he told me. "Be a bitch, a slut, an arrogant little whatever. Sia, what I'm saying is that you are you, and we all love you. It doesn't matter what you're called. You are kind and caring. You are not a monster, but you will be called one. Just like you'll get called a lot of other names when you don't fit into the boxes that people want to put you in. You were a foster kid, so clearly a fuckup, right? A woman, so weak?"

I knew he didn't really mean that. He was just picking the most obvious stereotypes that he could. He also had a point. I'd been called those things. I'd been told to shut up and let the guys talk now, and the same shit that every other girl my age went through. Never, in all of that time had I thought I was special. Not good, not bad, but just me.

And yet, I'd always looked at the "bad girls" in my school with longing. I'd always wished I could be that brave and carefree. I'd longed to have the guts to say the things they did. Not once had I ever stopped to consider how much our words about them may have hurt. The way we'd called a girl in high school a slut for sleeping with two guys in the same week, or how we'd whispered about another being dirty because her ex-boyfriend said she liked anal sex.

We'd judged, and we hadn't done it fairly. We'd done exactly what Nick had just said. We'd used the fact that we were timid and boring to make ourselves feel superior. We'd labeled us as good and them as bad. Didn't matter which 'them,' either. We were always the good ones, and they were always the bad ones. And when we ended up as the "they," we didn't like it very much.

"So you think I should be bad?" I asked him.

"Sia, anyone who thinks for themselves is called bad, so yes. I want you to make up your own mind, never let