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“Put it on for me,” Neera ordered.

The man’s nose flared, revealing hair that continued off into both nostrils.

“I know you can put them on yourself...”

“But I can’t, my back hurts,” Neera faked a pout, and wiggled her toes again. “I can afford it, and many others in this shop. Just put it on and let me see if it fits.”

The man hesitated, and Neera could see the reluctance in his features, but he, very slowly, took Neera’s foot and slid the shoe on, before doing so for the other foot.

“All done.” The man grunted.

Neera looked down at the shoes on her feet. They were a good fit, and sturdy, with sharp heels that could be creative enough to use as a weapon if necessary.

“I’ll take it,” she said.

.....

The man raised his head to meet hers, and all the earlier passive snide eyeballing and comments left him. His mustache raised, and Neera could see his cheeks push up from the brackets of his smile.

She leaned closer to him and placed a single finger underneath his scruffy chin. The man’s smile fell, and he was caught in the mesmerizing power of her violet eyes.

Neera snaked a smile on her lips. “Maybe it comes with being a demon,” she whispered to the man, her finger caressing up and down his throat. The man gulped, his Adam apple bopping in her hold.

“But I have a problem with forgiving people who cross me,” Neera finished. Before the demon could make out what she was saying, a claw drew inside his throat. Neera watched as her action registered in the demon’s eyes with pleasure; she watched him switch from oblivion to shock and to panic, and he backed away from her, blood gushing out of his neck.

Neera bent over him and wiped the blood on his clothes. “It’s your voice box, so you’d be gone in some minutes. Relax, let death do its job. Maybe next time someone coughs and falls in front of your store, you’d ask them if they are alright instead of referring to the Queen as a homeless rat.”

The demon’s eyes held surprise, but he sputtered and coughed, blood oozing out from the laceration. Neera stepped over him and went to stand in front of his long mirror, admiring the shoes on her feet.

Memories or not, she wouldn’t go back to a person she didn’t want to be. This Neera she was creating her life, her choices, her tastes, she liked her very much, and wouldn’t let a past crumble all she had built. She liked the taste of revenge, of dares, of the fear she was cultivating in people, and she would want it to stay that way.

“I like the way it makes me look tall, don’t you think?” She asked the struggling demon behind her. The demon made squawking noises and reached out a hand in her direction.

“What? Oh no, you don’t need the money.” Neera said to him. “I’ve been to where you are going, the land of the dead. Money is useless there. I’d take just these shoes,” Neera said to him. Her eyes caught a black shoe on the shelf, with heels designed to look like serpentines. “And maybe that one too. But just before you go, do these come in smaller sizes? I think it’s a little too big for me.”

The demon’s outstretched hand fell, and Neera gave a groan at her unanswered question. She turned to the mirror, looking this way and that, and gave a half-appreciative nod.

“I’ll manage it then. Thank you!” She said to the still demon, and hopped out back into the busy streets with two new pairs of shoes in hand.

....

Penelope grew used to the whispers that would rise in her passing; it was like running through a sandy land, leaving a wake of dust behind. It wasn’t as depressing as she thought it would be, or maybe because she was already tired, and the damage had already been done, worrying about it was useless.

The only thing that she wasn’t prepared for was the isolation she would feel. She hoped it would disappear as the days passed and that the maids would stop stealing glances her way when they worked or kept a grave silence around her, the sounds of their brushes scrubbing filling the air instead of their humming.

She wasn’t the first that Azriel would bed, and certainly not the last. But with her being a maid and according to some snatches of rumours she had gotten wind of late at nights when she was asleep, and the jealousy they felt at her living a life they mostly wanted made her the enemy.

But why would sleeping with the Master be some kind of achievement? To her, it wasn’t, just something that happened with time.

She didn’t regret it, that she knew, but she didn’t want any more of it.

Azriel hadn’t been helpful, and he wouldn’t quit. Sometimes he would appear behind her, whisper a greeting close to her ear, and send an unwanted yet delicious shiver running through her.

Other times she found him staring at her with open desire, something she knew didn’t go unnoticed by his workers, who when they would talk to him but Azriel would render them no response, eyes on her, like she was something to be wholly adored. Penelope would find her gut innards twisting and somersaulting, and she would worry she would combust from the sheer heat of his gaze.

She was assigned his chambers again, and when she had tried to wiggle her way out of it with the maid in charge, Phoebe had passed by, dropping a comment.

“It’s not like you haven’t been inside it, and he, inside you.”

Penelope had experienced her first bout of embarrassment at that remark, and if the older maid had heard Pheobe, she did a good job at pretending not to.