God of Ruin (Legacy of Gods #4) by Rina Kent

Unknown Number: On second thought, sleep while you can. You have a very chaotic life ahead of you and you need all the energy you can get, muse.





8





LANDON





The idea of a muse has often eluded me.

I understand the concept and the general consensus, but the overrated obsession of artists with the existence of a muse has always left me in a rare state of bewilderment.

And that’s coming from someone who used sand to sculpt at the age of two. It was a female devil with a long, pointy tail, inspired by a painting in Grandpa’s house. I recall that first time I created a sculpture and the raw feeling of the wet sand slithering between my small fingers.

I also recall the unperturbed emotions that ran through me when I watched that she-devil get washed away by a wave.

It was only later that I found out my apathetic reaction to the destruction of my first creation wasn’t the norm and that I was, in fact, the definition of neurodivergent.

My steady relationship with art in general, and sculpting in particular, has been persistent throughout my twenty-three years of life. My world-renowned artist mother calls it a natural talent. The world labels it as genius genes.

For me, it’s been the sole method I could use to cope with my beast, his demon friends, and dull humanity without resorting to an extreme. Like transforming someone into stone, for instance.

Every artist has a muse—or so they say.

Since I’m a very important—if not the most important—member of a family of artists, I have come to the realization that I don’t share Mum’s, Bran’s, or Glyn’s over-idolization of their imaginary friends.

In my mind, that’s what a muse is all about—an imaginary childhood friend whose constant chatter they couldn’t lose during adulthood, so they decided to give them a fancy name.

The idea of a muse has always been redundant, useless, and categorically ridiculous.

But since I’m a master of blending in and fitting societal expectations, whenever someone has asked me about my muse, I’ve said geniuses don’t talk about their muse, as if it’s some sort of MI6 intelligence.

Now, don’t get me wrong. There’s no doubt that I’m the definition of an artistic genius who brings the sculpting community to literal tears. However, I’ve partaken in the absolute nonsense of the nonexistent muse and fake superstitious rituals to divert the horde’s attention.

I also figured my muse manifested in the massive creative energy that’s impossible to satiate.

She was the inner sadism of my outward charm.

The violence that burst at the seams whenever my plans faced an obstacle.

But that lousy half-arsed explanation lasted until yesterday.

Not in my wildest dreams did I figure that a muse could manifest at the most random time.

When I was facing an enemy, no less.

When I saw the youngest Sokolov running toward the car park like her little arse was on fire, I figured I’d toy with her and provoke those wildflower eyes—to tears if I felt like it.

After I left her tending to her crushed pride, I had a fleeting curiosity about how her eyes would look when she was crying and begging for my nonexistent mercy.

Since the blasphemous blood bath incident, I’ve been concocting a multi-phase plan, all dedicated to her demise. In a nutshell, I’d start by tormenting her and end with using her against her brother and cousins.

While those plans remain in the background, there’s a slight hitch in the process.

The way she froze up when I approached her.

I’ve never seen a human go so completely still—professional art models included. There’s always the rise of a chest here, the flaring of nostrils there, and micro-movements to remind me that the fools aren’t really stones.

Mia, however? She was the definition of a lifeless statue.

It was my sign that it’s never too late to find the perfect human stone.

I release a long puff of smoke and then stub the cigarette in the middle of the crowded ashtray. My cancer-inducing habit has been going on since my name started making the rounds in the art circles about eight years ago.

The prodigy.

The special one.

The gifted child.

It’s by no means due to pressure. If anything, the sudden surge of marketing my name experienced has stroked my ego in all the right places and given me better pleasure than a pro choking on my cock.

Smoking simply gives me the right balance while I’m using both hands to produce people’s next favorite sculpture.

My fingers hover over the countless pieces of clay I’ve created since I retreated to my studio after Mia ran away.

At that time, I had two options—follow her or purge the burst of inspiration that suddenly crashed into my skull.

I opted for the second, and ever since then, I’ve been modeling miniature sculptures in search of the right image of the inspiration I had at that exact moment.

A million mini sculptures later, I’ve exhausted my clay supply and I’m still not satisfied with any of them. I’m certainly not using them on a real sculpture.

If my art professors at REU were to see them, they’d fall arse over tits and call them masterpieces like everything I’ve made with my supremely gifted hands.

I don’t.

Something is missing.

If that little fucking shit had just remained still for a few more minutes, I would’ve gotten the full image. But she was more pressed about escaping me.