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 Copyright © 2022 by Source of Magic Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place, and incidents are

either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factitiously
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Hell’s Storm: Book Three

ISBN: 9798844051395

Imprint: Independently published

Copy editing by Raven Quill Editing, LLC

Proofreading by LiSara Cool Editing

Cover Designed by Open World Cover Designs

Chapter header – Canva

 Disclaimer:
This book contains adult/mature situations.
This book may contain triggers: examples include mention of rape,
retelling of past abuse or even the death of a minor.
This book contains sexual encounters.
This book is a reverse harem.
That means the lead female does not choose between her love
interests and will have multiple sexual partners.

Hell’s Storm ends on a cliff hanger–Sorry!

My cheeks are crusted, dry with tears that have stopped running.
The icy feeling of numbness runs across my heated body, my eyes
are locked on the palace in front of me. My home is completely
engulfed in flames. The tears and the echoes of ached wailing have
finally stopped, but I still cling to the small body in front of me. My
mind can’t wrap around what just happened in the last few hours.
“A-Asura?” Hazen asks, crouching before me, but he sounds
like he’s at the end of a tunnel. Distant and far. His blue eyes are
filled with tears. He reaches up to touch my cheek but pulls back
hissing. “Fuck, she’s hot!”
“No one touch her,” Khazon’s voice comes.
 “Too late,” Hazen mutters, rubbing his fingers.
When did he get here? Had he seen what happened like I
did? Did he… do it? The people are masked… But Khazon would
never hurt me like this. No matter how much he hates me. He would
never hurt the man that was a second father figure, and the boy
who was like a brother to him. I think.
“Asura?” He waves his hand in my face, causing me to blink.
“Give him to me.”
My limbs sag heavily, like I have massive weights around me.
I’ll be sinking into the ground if the pressure sticks on.
“You’re burning him more… Give him to me.”
Slowly, I pry my eyes from the castle before me and onto the
body I so desperately cling to. Fenric’s body is turning to ash…black
instead of his life-filled, pink ivory complexion. It makes him look
even more lifeless. My bottom lip quivers, and my eyes tear up
again.
Crack!
Then a whipping noise filled the air, and my father turned just
in time to see a knife flying into the chest of Fenric.
Bile burns at my throat as waves and waves of coldness rush
over my body.
“Asura?” Khazon reaches out to me.
My breath is gone, and I take quick puffs to catch it. I push
away from my brother and let Khazon take him. Turning away, I
puke, hurling up food from the party. My eyes burn with tears, and I
watch as they drip onto the dry soil before me.
“Let it out, baby,” Hazen whispers.
I cringe, not wanting them to see me like this, but I can’t help
it. My eyes move to the castle again as I wipe my mouth with the
back of my hand. My home is gone. Everything is in flames and
falling to the ground, exactly how it was in my vision. I tried to stop
it. I didn’t know it was going to be like this. I would have tried to
stay away, tried to save…
My eyes move to… Fenric. Khazon has him wrapped in a
jacket, so I can’t see his face anymore. But I see it every time I
close my eyes. His small, taunt face shifts into a look of horror as
that dagger enters his heart. The world around me spins like a top
as the heat of Hell engulfs me. My skin becomes slick, and my
breathing staggers.
“Asura?” Hazen’s words sound farther away than they did
before. My body wavers as I hurtle to the ground and let the
darkness take me.

We all rush out to catch her before she hits the ground. As soon as
Hazen or Jigsaw touch her, they hiss, trying to hold on to her. My
arms wrap around her, using my weight to anchor us from hitting
the ground. I don’t feel the same blazing heat they are hissing
about. Yeah, her body feels a few degrees hotter, but not to the
point where I can’t touch her.
“What happened?” Khazon whispers, looking down at Fenric’s
body.
Hazen is shaking his head, looking down at his blistering
hands. All he wanted to do was comfort her, but he probably
couldn’t because of the flame she inherited.
I look down at Asura. The flame is now more prominent
around her body, swirling a blazing amber around her. Red blazing
lines swirl on her skin. The same magic that her father has—had. It
was the power and reign of Hell. Her curls are messy from the night
she had, and her PJs are almost entirely burned off her body.
“She just started…” Jigsaw starts, running a bare hand
through his shoulder-length hair. He looks like he just woke up too,
but probably with her. He smells like her; her sweat, her juices, her.
“Screaming,” Hazen finishes. “She woke up screaming, and
that’s when the flame ran across her body. Then… the smell of
smoke filled the air. I-I—”
 Killian let out a sobbing cough, drawing my attention. His
body is huddled against Derrick, and Derrick has his arm around
him. I wasn’t even sure he was capable of having feelings.
“When we were leaving… she was clinging to Fen.”
“Fuck!” Jigsaw growls, his hellhound threatening to take the
surface. His hellhound hasn’t been out for a while, and it’s an
excellent reason.
“Calm down!” I snap.
“Me? You fucking calm down!”
“I am calm!” It is a lie. I am not calm. I feel hotter than Asura
probably does with the flame.
“Everyone, calm down!” a voice comes. Heads turn to see
Ryker and his hounds with other Soul Reapers behind him. How did
he sneak up on us? His pink eyes drop to Asura, and his jaw
tightens. I pull her closer to my body, protectively. His pink eyes are
filled with concern, but... I hope he gets burned trying to comfort
her. I was her boyfriend, not him. “Everyone, stay calm. We will take
it from here. Take her to the nearby triage.”
“No!” Khazon snaps. “You can’t just come here and think you
know what’s happening. Asura is Queen now. She can’t—”
“Dad’s dead?” Killian’s small voice asks.
A wave of emotion rushes over me as we all look at him. He
doesn’t know that she has the flame, meaning… the Devil is dead.
“Dad’s dead, too?!” Killian shouts, voice breaking. “How could
someone kill the fucking Devil?! We have guards! My father is
basically immortal! How?”
“Get them out of here. Get the queen and heirs protection,
please. Process and question them all. The slightest scrap will have
you in jail for treason,” Ryker orders the men behind him.
One of the Soul Reapers reaches out for Asura. He has a
medical symbol on his tactical uniform.
I growl at him, pulling her away. “She’s hot. Don’t touch her.”
“It’s fine.” Ryker dismisses my attitude. “He can go with her.
Take them away.”
The group of Soul Reapers start ordering us away like a horde
of cattle. None of us objects to escape the horrors of last night.
 Killian and his brother end up being taken away to be with a
family friend while Asura recovers until it’s safer for them. Jigsaw,
Hazen, and I—after processing—sit in the waiting room in silence,
waiting for Asura to wake up or be cleared.

Come to me, my child, a voice whispers in my head. The voice is

familiar… comforting, like a warm hug. Child… Come here.
Dad? I ask back. My eyes wander about this dark and cold
place that I am in. I don’t have the slightest clue of where I am.
Yes.
The scene of my father trying to reach Fenric enters my head
like a flashback. His body, crawling to get his youngest son… Heat
kisses my body as a growl leaves my mouth. The pain of seeing…
The pain of knowing my brother is… dead.
Diaboli, the voice speaks, almost… almost calming me down.
But the unbearable rage that enters my body shakes me to
my core. I wanted to kill. I wanted to hurt someone or something.
The masked figures. They deserve it. I will kill them! I will kill them!
A body-shaking scream leaves me, flames erupt around me in
the hospital room. They flicker and hit the stainless-steel walls but
quickly die. I let it out, slamming my fist against the wall until there’s
a dent they will never get out. After a moment, which raging fire
inside of me dies down to a sob. Two of the people I love are gone.
“It’s going to be okay,” Khazon’s voice comes from the open
door.
I send him a glare, but he doesn’t waver. He knows I could
burn him to ash by just a thought. He shoves his hands in his
pockets, sad brown eyes meeting mine. His short chestnut hair is
messy, and his eyes have bags under them like he hasn’t slept in
days. He lost someone important to him too. I find my shoulders
starting to loosen up, and my jaw unclench. He was at my house
every day as a kid, hence him growing up with my father, who was
always another important figure in his life. He lost that.
“It’s going to be okay, Asura.”
“You don’t know that!” I growl, clenching my jaw. “You are
just saying that fucking bullshit because you think that’s what I want
to hear. It’s not.”
“Calm yourself,” Khazon snaps. “You’ve already burned
another room before this one.”
Silence fills the air, and my jaw clenches and unclenches. The
anger burning in my chest is intoxicating.
“W-What happened, Asura?”
I swallow the spit in my mouth, which travels down my throat
like a lump. I wish I could answer that question, but I can barely
understand what happened last night. “I don’t know.”
Khazon let out a shaking sigh. “I can’t even imagine what you
are going through.”
My eyes close, and I inhale deeply. The only thing I know
right now is that I have inherited my father’s powers. The flame that
declares me the ruler of Hell. “I can’t be Queen… I can’t protect
anyone.”
“We will figure it out. Right now, you should worry about
yourself and healing. Everything is going to be okay. The council is
here, talking about a plan of action.”
The council? Picking up my head, I rip the small remains of a
cover off my body and stand.
“Asura?”
“Without me?” I ask, moving around him and out the door.
“Asura, get back here. You are unstable and naked!” He let
out a sigh while speaking. Sucking on his teeth, he moves to one of
the cabinets and pulls out a patient gown. I glance down, seeing
that I am indeed stark naked. My eyes meet his, which stay focused
on mine.
I snatch it from his hands and quickly throw it on. The old me
would have waited naked to see if he would break and look at my
body, but now wasn’t the time. I march out of the room and lean
against the nurse’s station in the hall.
The nurse stares at me, visibly shaking. I must get used to
demons shaking before me - because of who I am now, and I
probably look like a crazed girl.
“Have you seen many old, wrinkly, important men around?” I
ask.
Her hand shakes as she points down the hall.
“I’ll take you,” Khazon says, moving in the direction of her
hand. I follow but don’t question his motives. Maybe he doesn’t
want to be burned alive by my rage. Perhaps he’s just as curious as I
am.
Once we get to a conference room, Khazon raises his fist to
knock politely on the door. Fuck knocking. I grab the door handle
and push the door open. The talking of the council reduces to soft
speaking around the huge table.
“Asura,” Thatcher—Death and Khazon’s father—says. “You
should be resting. We—”
“Are you having a meeting without me?”
He sits there stunned. “It’s too soon for you to even think
about meeting with us.”
“I saw them.”
“Who?” Hades asks, standing.
“The people who murdered my family,” I snap as if he should
be able to read my mind and figure out who I was talking about.
“Asura… we aren’t even on that topic. The Soul Reapers will
handle the investigation.”
My shoulders sag. They don’t care that they have died? My
father was their friend for years. Even Hades, the oldest, says my
father was the best ruler of Hell they have ever had. And they didn’t
care to get revenge?
“So, what are you talking about?” Khazon asks.
“You,” Thatcher says, looking straight at me. “You are
welcome to—”
“Join? No. I’d rather figure out who killed my father, unlike
everyone in this fucking building!” My voice fills with rage the further
the sentence goes on. The feeling engulfs me and makes me grow
hotter.
“You must learn how to control the flame. You have—”
“I don’t want it!” I snap. “I don’t fucking want it!” I need to
explode, scream, and let all the anger and heat out of me. I need to
go. I need to leave.
“Asura, calm down!” Hades snaps, along with the other men.
Why is everyone mad at me? I glance over and see the door
with black soot on it. I had been burning it with my anger. Is this
how it’s going to always be? Family dying? People dying?
Uncontrollable rage?
I let out a growl, rushing away. I want to get out of here; I
can’t think or breathe. Everything is so overwhelming.
Ignoring the various shouts for me to stop, I push out the front door.
How are they going to stop the Queen of Hell? They could never
stop me. My cocky self runs right into the chest of someone outside,
stopping me.
“Woah there, Princess Flaming Hot. Where are you going?” a
familiar, cocky voice says.
I look to see Ryker standing before me in his tactical Soul
Reaper gear. He’s in a sleeveless black tank top with arm sleeves
running from his fingers to mid-bicep and showing the ridges of his
muscles. He’s in cargo pants with combat boots. Today, his powder
pink hair is down, hanging to his shoulders and hiding the pointed
ears I know he has. His hands are around me as if the flame isn’t
burning blisters into his hands. “I-I just need to get out of here. I’m
hot and overwhelmed. I-I’m—”
“Are you okay, baby?” He whispers.
“I need to kill someone or scream or scream while killing
someone. Can you take me out of here?” Tears fill my eyes. I’m not
sure what I need, but I know I need to disappear for a moment and
to make time stop. Everything was going by too fast.
He nods, flashing a smirk as he pulls me close. The hospital
lobby blurs as his magic takes hold of both of us. “Hang on.”
The feeling of being punched in the gut washes over me as I watch
her talk to Ryker. I didn’t hate Ryker; in fact, I looked up to him
while he was at the academy. He helped me get through training in
my first year, and he was top of his class, but I hate how she looks
at him like he’s a great guy. He’s not. He’s not demonic that much I
can tell, meaning he’s one of the first non-demonic Soul Reapers in
Hell, and the Shadow World. Ryker plays women, just like Ledger
does. That, and I know nothing about him despite spending a year
training with him. Ryker kept to himself, barely talking about who he
was or where the fae came from.
The Angel of Death inside of me stirs when Ryker wraps his
arms around her. My lips part as I want to say something. What
would I say? Get off my girl? She’s not mine… obviously. Lately, he’s
been hard to control, even with the same medicine Asura takes.
Ledger said he smelled Ryker on Asura the day of the party,
but it wasn’t the “I had sex with her, and now she has my scent on
her” smell.
This was new for Ryker to not fuck a girl the first chance he
got.
And he can touch her.
My hands are raw and healing slowly from even placing my
hands on her for more than a moment. The Flame is blazing hot—
hotter than Ledger’s hellfire.
Ryker’s magic spikes in the air as if he’s about to use it to
transport somewhere else. Where would he go with her?
“Wait!” Hades’s voice has me looking over my shoulder as he
and the rest of the council rush forward, looking at Asura. “Asura!”
But then the two were gone, vanishing in the thin air of
Ryker’s magic.
“Where did they go?” Hades snaps at me.
I shrug. “I don’t really know where Ryker takes her.”
His brows pull together. My eyes are playing a trick on me for
a second, making me think I’m looking at Ozias. Ozias is a bit taller,
almost like a hellhound and his hair has a slight purple tint in certain
lights. His eyes are a cold, lifeless black, and his thin lips are in a
frown. His power radiates like Ozias’s darkness. “Are you stupid?!”
My brows cock.
“Hey! Don’t take it out on him!” My father comes to my aid,
but I’m not a kid anymore. I can handle myself better than he can.
“You and I know that she can’t handle The Flame right now,
and you aren’t even worried?” Hades snaps.
“She’ll be fine once she can control it,” I say, knowing that it
took her father a day or two to control it.
Hades growls, sounding like a hellhound. “With The Flame,
the demon controlling her demonic half is gone. It was expelled from
her body when the Flame touched her, meaning Asura is fully human
right now.”
 A cold sweat runs down my body. No human has ever
survived the Flame, though there haven’t been many to attempt it.
Asura’s father told us a story about how one of the heirs, a long time
ago, gave up his Flame to a human. The human lasted five seconds
before combusting into flames.
“H-How is that possible?” My father takes the words right out
of my mouth. His eyes glance around to make sure no one is
watching our conversation. “Although she’s technically half-human,
she’s a demon too, right?”
“I’ll explain later. Right now, we need to find Ryker and get
her to a safe place before The Flame kills her,” Lucifer says, joining
the conversation. He stands tall, blond hair pushed back with a suit
on.
Did all the rulers of Hell know something we didn’t?
Hades sighs. “Or until those after her finally find her.”
My brain is firing with all the possibilities of what might
happen to Asura, after we just got her back from Earth. She finally
returned to Hell and has only been going to the Soul Reaper
Academy for a short time. I should have tried harder to stop her and
Ryker, but she’s an adult. She can make her own decisions like she
always has, regardless of anyone else’s feelings.
And I was being a dick instead of doing what Ozias was
doing, getting in good with her graces.
Goosebumps rise against my skin, telling me my hellhounds
are trying to find me. My nerves must have ticked them off to look
for me. “Why would people be after her?” I feel like, in a way, I
didn’t need to ask it. Asura was the heir; that’s enough.
“She has the Flame now… She’s the Queen of the
Underworld. Someone can kill her and take the Flame and the
throne. Do you need much more than that?” Hades declares.
Ryker’s magic makes me dizzy, but when I open my eyes, I see we
aren’t at the Shadow World hospital. We are at the blue lagoon… the
place Ryker took me to before, when he kissed me. Only kissed
me. I look up at him and see his pastel pink eyes wander in the
same type of amazement. “I thought you came here often?”
He sucks on his teeth, then sighs almost sadly. “Truly, never
enough. My mother… She used to bring me here a lot when I was a
kid. We’d swim until it was dark and then enjoy the glowing lights.”
The night sky is still pitch black where we are, but with the
bright blue flowers covering the tree or the lagoon swirling with the
same luminous color, I can barely tell it’s night. “What happened to
her?”
Ryker pulls away from me, straightening. “Who?”
“Your mother…” I almost hesitate. He obviously knew who we
were talking about, but why would he bring it up if he didn’t want to
talk about her?
His eyes find me as they fill with sadness. “She was killed.
Much in the same fashion your family was…”
Ice runs through my veins. Somehow for those few minutes, I
forgot about it. Now, knowing Ryker has gone through the same
thing I did, felt… oddly comforting.
“Swim with me,” he whispers into the shell of my ear, earning
a glare. “It’ll cool your skin. Fae waters have healing properties.” He
moves away, unbuckling his black tactical vest and belt, setting them
to the side. My eyes follow the threads of short muscles that line his
broad shoulder and biceps. His ivory hands slide under his shirt and
pull it over his head, ruffling his pink hair. With his black tank top
and arm sleeves removed, I can clearly see his naked upper body, all
creamy skin and muscles, with a long lean torso that has my eyes
dropping straight to his stomach. He has several various pink scars
covering most of his body, even some lining the ab muscles on his
stomach. “Are you going to drool or join me?”
My eyes snap to him. I can join and drool over him. I slip the
hospital gown over my head, not caring that I'm now stark naked in
front of Ryker. I am very comfortable in my skin and have come to
love myself over the years. My skin is abnormally hot with the Flame
stirring around. “How can you touch me?”
Ryker entirely turns, and his eyes lock onto my body. I watch
as they roam over me, taking in every swirling amber line and every
curve. I wonder if he notices the scars that Khazon gave me from
beating me, or the ones Inarian caused me. “Magic. Elves have
spells and almost endless amounts of magic. I make my body cold
when I touch you.” He steps to me, hand cupping my hip and pulling
me into him. My breast touches his chest, nipples pebbling at his
cold body.
His other hand cups my ribs and runs up. His rough, scarred hand
runs over my breast. I arch into his palm, but his hand keeps
climbing higher and higher until his fingers wrap around my throat
and tilt my head up to him.
My eyes drop to his lips, but when he doesn’t make a move to
kiss me, I whimper, “Please.”
His pink lips part.
Does he not want me in the way I want him? Of course, he
did. He flirts with me all the time. We kissed once, but maybe that
was all he needed. Am I mistaken?
“You’re fragile right now… I can’t take advantage of you like
this. I brought you here to help your Flame, not—”
“I am not fragile.” I snap.
“You can’t even control yourself.”
I feel my skin get a few degrees hotter, and that’s when I
realize, after a moment, he is right. He is distracting me, and his
touch is cooling me down, even if he doesn’t notice. With a sigh, I
speak. “Ryker… I like you.”
He lifts a brow.
 “You… helped me when I needed it at the palace with the
intruders.”
He shakes his head. “If I was there, I—”
“Couldn’t do much more because I couldn’t. This is far from
our fault. But right now, I need you again. I need you to kiss me like
you did before and take my breath away. When you touch me, I
can't think. A-And when you look at me, I feel like nothing else
matters, and when your arms are around me—”
He crashes his lips onto mine, obviously telling me to shut up.
A moan escapes my lips as I feel his softness, lips of pure velvet. His
hand moves from my throat to my cheek as his other hand pulls me
closer by placing his hand on the square of my back. I’ve barely
done anything, but I can already feel his bulge pressing into me.
Maybe it’s selfish of me. Perhaps I shouldn’t even be thinking like
this right now, but my body and mind have been in survival mode,
and right now, all I can think about is Ryker. I just need a moment;
even if he lasts five minutes, I just need to feel something else
besides this anger. It is going to consume me, even if it’s only been
a few hours of having the Flame.
He deepens the kiss as I try to pull him closer to me. My eyes
close as I let my mouth explore his.
Ryker lets out a heavy sigh, providing an opportunity to slip
my tongue into his mouth. I feel his sharp teeth scrape my tongue
and I shudder. Then his wet tongue begins to wrestle with mine.
Heat pools between my legs, hotter than the Flame.
His hands roam my body, cooling my skin to the touch. Then
he grabs the back of my thighs and pulls me flush against him. My
legs wrap around his hips, and my arms grab a fistful of his messy
hair. One hand leaves my ass, and before I question it, I feel him
pick up his feet before moving to the water. Glancing back, I see his
pants are entirely off.
The moment the water hits my skin, it bubbles, and steam
hisses into the air. Maybe I was hotter than I thought I was.
Ryker sinks us into the water, pulling back for me to have a
moment to breathe. “Are you okay with…”
“Having sex with you?”
 He nods.
“Yes.” I wasn’t lying. My thoughts are only on how his hands
caress my sore muscles or my hot swirls. My core aches to be filled
with him, to feel close to him.
Ryker lifts me slightly, and then I feel his huge mushroom tip
at my slick entrance. His pink eyes stare at me, waiting for me to
stop him, but I stare right back at him. Then he lowers me a bit but
picks me up again. His tip makes me close my eyes with a sigh. “No.
Look at me.”
Look at him?
I open my eyes, looking down at him.
“Good girl.”
My throat runs dry, and I feel like I’m cracking under the
pressure of his stare. This… feels intimate, something I’ve never
really had before. I barely notice that I’m moaning softly, getting lost
in his eyes.
Finally, his cock fills me, drawing a shared gasp between us.
“You feel so wet for me, Asura.”
I wanted to make a joke about the water around us being the
reason, not him, but I shut up. I don’t want to be the smart, witty
Asura. I want to be in this moment and forget the last few days.
His hands softly caress my cheek, lifting my eyes to his. “Are
you ready for me, baby?”
“Yes… Just get on with it.”
He chuckles. “Impatient.”
Very. The heat in my stomach is blazing and becoming
unbearable. Wrapping my arms around Ryker, I pull him closer to
me. He locks eyes with me before his chilled hand runs down my
spine and grabs my ass. Cooling, and heating my already feverish
skin simultaneously. Then he lifts and slowly lowers me. My head
drops back as I feel his curved dick hitting that spot inside me. My
walls immediately clench around him. Ryker hisses through clenched
teeth… “Look at me,” he orders, moving his hips to meet the
movement of mine.
I lock eyes with him as he stares at me. I can’t read his
expression, just that he looks like he’s admiring my face, my eyes,
and then my wide nose and full lips.
The tip of his cock starts rubbing my G-spot, making my hips
tighten. I moan, fisting his pink hair. “Ryker, I—”
“Don’t I feel good, baby?” he whispers, gritting his teeth.
My nails dig into his shoulders, I wrap my legs tighter around
his waist and start to move my hips faster, harder, I need to feel his
cock fill and stretch me
“Yes, your dick feels s-so good!”
The sides of his lips curl upwards.
“Your pussy is so tight and wet for me, baby.”
This time I smirk, tightening my muscles around him to the
point he can barely move but still pounds himself into me. His pink
eyes roll back as he moans. That’s the first time, even for a split
second, that he took his eyes off me. “I won’t last if you keep doing
that.”
“Neither will I.” My burning core feels tight and needs a
release that only he can give me. He pounds himself into me, and
my moans heighten. Even in the water I can feel my slickness
gushing. His cock, thick and long spearing me repeatedly. Relentless,
I can feel my sensitive nerves building with that familiar pressure.
My head spins, stuck in a cloud of lust, as I scratch at his
shoulders. He hisses in pain, but it gets him to pound himself further
into me. Water splashes around us. “Ryker!” I cry out, feeling the
start of a release. It rushes over me like a heat wave, hotter than
Hell.
“Yes, baby. Come with me. Come with me, baby.” He moans,
eyes closing.
My breathing stutters, and my toes curl as I stiffen for a split
second. As soon as I feel his cock swell and jerk with his impending
finish, I hit my release, throwing my head back and crying loudly.
Then I shatter around him, finally breathing out. I want to slump in
his arms, a boneless mess…but his dick is still moving in and out of
me, making me realize that he’s still fucking me. Then Ryker spills
his release into me. His moans are loud as ropes of his warm cum
paint my inner walls. After coming to a stop, he presses his face into
my shoulder. His soft lips graze my neck as he breathes out. “Fuck.”
 I lick my dry lips, looking up at him. His pink eyes lock with
mine, and I see it again.
The admiration for me.
I realize… all my other men do this without me even realizing
it. Ledger does it when he teases me, and I tease him right back.
Hazen does it while I’m speaking and watches like he actually
listens. Jigsaw barely looked at me but gave small glances, and I
would catch him with this look in his eyes. Ozias has always looked
at me like this.
Inarian and Khazon haven’t. I genuinely believe they hate me,
and for some reason, it makes me want them more.
Ryker caresses my cheek, bringing me back to reality. “You’re
staring… Is something wrong?”
“I was just thinking. I haven’t slept much.”
He nods. “I can take you back to the hospital or—”
I shake my head. “How about we stay here for a while? If
that’s okay with you, Mr. Soul Reaper.”
He smirks. “As long as you are safe, I don’t care where you
are, Asura.”
“Asura…” my father’s voice comes. Something in my chest tightens
as I open my eyes. I’m back in that dream world, where I first saw
him after he died. The obsidian throne engulfs my father’s human
form. He lifts his head, gray hair slicked back and his dark eyes on
me. He looked how he did when he was alive: pink ivory skin,
blazing red eyes, and a slight smile on his face. I step closer,
wanting to feel his warmth and hear him speak to me again. But he
holds up a hand to stop me. “I’m dead.”
A scoff escapes my throat. “Way to ruin the dream for me.”
For a moment, I forget where I was supposed to be and with whom
I was supposed to be with, but deep down, I know this isn’t real. I
know that he is gone. But his ivory skin and the gray beard he was
growing out look so real.
“Not a dream. A vision of sorts. I’m dead, but my
consciousness still remains in the Flame.”
Stinging fills my eyes, and I have to blink it away. “Please
stop saying you’re dead. I know. I saw—”
Sadness fills his eyes as he pushes up from the throne and
starts toward me. “I’m so sorry you had to see Fenric—”
I swipe out my hand, feeling heat rushing through me with the
onslaught of rage. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
But even without the Flame on his skin, my father ignores it,
moving closer. It’s because he’s dead. I’m dreaming and wanting him
to be real. I want nothing more than to go back to before they were
killed by those masked people. But I can’t rewind time, and I can’t—
My father wraps his arms around me, and I feel nothing but
peace for the moment. “I’m so sorry that this has been burdened
onto you. I knew I was going to die, and I’m so sorry you had to
witness it.”
Rage rushes through me, and I press my palm into his chest,
pushing him away. My teeth grind as my fingers flex into a fist. “You
knew? You knew?! I hate this. I hate life. I don’t want the fucking
throne. I don’t—”
“You have to control it, Asura!” my father says in a pleading
voice.
Part of me wants to stop and give him the comfort he needs,
but I’m still not entirely sure that this isn’t my dream, just talking.
There is probably some guilt in my subconscious.
“Asura! Asura!”
I fist my hair, confused and screaming out, “Shut up! Shut up!
Shut up!”
We had barely been looking for Asura when Ryker finally returned
her to the living room of Hades’ home. I am with Hades and Ledger,
and we have been trying to figure out where she could have been.
They had disappeared entirely from the radar.
Ryker drops to his knees as soon as he leaves his tornado of
transport. Asura is in his hands, burning a bright red. All her clothes
and most of his have been burned off.
“What did you do?” Ledger snaps protectively.
“We were sleeping, and she woke u-up screaming, and I-I—”
Ryker finally can pull away from Asura once Ledger takes hold of her.
She lays limp, sweat pouring from her body.
“It’s the Flame,” Hades explains, ushering Persephone to get
all the stuff he had explained we would need when we found her.
Ledger hisses in pain. “She’s burning me! How?”
Ryker has moved to the kitchen without being noticed and is
running his blistered arms under the cold water. “She burned me
too, despite my magic.”
“Fuck!” Ledger says, about to drop her.
Instinctively, I reach out for my Soul Reaper and wrap my
arms around her. Steam is rising from them, but not a single part of
me burns.
Hades lets out a breath of air. “You got her? You’re not…
burning?”
I shake my head.
“Of course not,” Ledger growls under his breath. “Let me take
her.”
I lift her up higher against my body. “And burn yourself? You
might have Hell’s fire embedded in your skin, but you won’t be able
to handle The Flame.”
 “And of course, you will? You are just a glorified freezer.”
“Stop!” Ryker snaps, running his hands over his burned arms,
and with a flash of pink light, his skin slowly gets rid of the white
blisters that had formed. “Let’s focus on Asura!”
I glance at him, getting a whiff of her… juices… on his skin. A
smirk curls on my lips when my icy dark eyes move to Ledger, who
just noticed it too.
“We still have that bed,” Persephone says. “But it’s down in
the basement.”
“Bed?” Ledger asks. Obviously, he wasn’t paying attention
when anyone else was speaking before. Stupid.
Persephone moves around the wall corner to the basement
door, leading the way. “The bed Wells used when he got The
Flame.”
Wells.
That was Asura’s father, the Devil.
Was.
He hadn’t been gone that long, only a day, but it felt like an
eternity since I last saw him at the party. The party was for Asura
getting all her hellhounds. I glance down at Asura as we go down
the swirling steps to the basement. Her face is screwed up in pain,
and her skin is clammy. The even tan that she usually has is pale.
She has been through a lot in one day, losing her brother and her
dad while gaining The Flame and the throne.
None of us were prepared for this.
I am now the hellhound of the Queen of Hell.
But neither Hazen, Jigsaw, nor even I are celebrating. Part of
me wants that silver-tongued, witty girl back, and part of me is
worried about her. Asura isn’t okay, mentally, and physically.
Persephone quickly cleans and makes the bed for Asura
before I can set her down on it. When I pull back, I see my sleeves
are burned, but not the skin below the shirt.
My eyes move to Ledger, whose crimson eyes are on my
arms. Not because they aren’t blistered, but…
Glancing down, I see the row of fleshy pink scars against my
pale skin. Swallowing, I place my arms behind my back, out of sight.
That gets him to turn his attention back to Asura.
“I’m going to get some ice water and a rag,” Persephone
says.
“I got it,” Ryker says. “Sit down.”
Persephone grabs her round stomach, long, dark purple hair
settling against her shoulders.
Hades nods a “thank you” at Ryker and pulls a chair beside Asura’s
bed.
I open my mouth to speak, but a herd of footsteps stomps
down the steps. Before I can process who the fuck is coming down,
Khazon has Ryker by his collar and is pushing him into the cellars
stone wall. “What did you do to her?!”
Ryker’s jaw clenches as he pushes him away. “Nothing. She
fell asleep, and she woke up really fucking hot.”
“Yeah, she could have gotten the treatment she needed at
the hospital if you didn’t take her away.”
His chest starts heaving, and the tips of his elf ears are
growing red. “She asked me to take her away, and I did.”
“And you took advantage of her,” Ledger snaps.
“What?!” Hazen barks. Electricity runs through the air from
him.
“Fuck off. I didn’t do anything to her that she didn’t want me
to,” Ryker states, looking at Ledger. That makes Ledger charge at
him, looking like a vicious dog about to rip his head off. It takes a
whole crowd of us to keep Ledger from Ryker while Ryker just
stands and stares at him.
“Stop it!” Ozias snaps, voice laced with a hint of darkness that
he gets from his parents. “Asura is over here dying, and all you care
about is who fucked her and who didn’t. You are all fucking
pathetic.”
Agreed.
“She’s not dying,” Hazen says under his breath. “Is she?” His
bright blue eyes move to Hades. I almost feel bad for Hazen. The
rims of his eyes are red, and he seems far more upset than anyone
else in the room, or at least he’s the only one who shows it. All
Ledger knows is “smash anyone that hurt girl,” like the savage
cavemen he is. Jigsaw hasn’t shown a single ounce of emotion
behind his eyes; his jaw just tightened.
Hades sighs. “Her body can’t handle the Flame like her successors.”
My brows pull together. “Why? She’s the heir, is she not?”
“Asura is different from them.”
“A female?” Ozias asks, brows pulling together.
Hades nods. “But that’s not it. Every line of the heir has
been… demonic. The Flame raises their temperature, and they have
to learn to control it, but not nearly as bad as Asura will have to.”
“What makes her different from all the rest, if not her being a
female?” I ask.
Ledger sends me a glare as if I asked a stupid question. I
glare back, wanting to taunt him that Asura currently has four
boyfriends and will most likely gain three more, especially since
Ledger and I both know Khazon is now single. But my eyes flicker to
Asura. She doesn’t look the best to be dealing with our bullshit.
“Asura is fully human.”
My head snaps to Hades. Silence fills the room as we all try to
understand what he just said. “Wha—”
Hades holds up his hand. “For once, everyone needs to listen
and shut up. This does not leave this room. Asura’s mother was
human and fell in love with Wells. The night Asura’s mother
conceived Asura, Wells left a while later to take care of the gates of
Hell opening. Although the accident was short and dealt with, Wells
never returned to Earth. The night Asura was born… Her mother
summoned someone she thought was Wells. Instead, she
summoned a high-level demon who made a deal with her.”
“Circe,” Jigsaw says. I knew this name from him. Jigsaw had
talked about it to us after Hell’s Storm destroyed the academy, but
neither Hazen nor I knew what he meant or who that was. “Is
Asura’s demon the person that was summoned at her birth?”
Hades nods.
My eyes land on Hazen for a moment, and I expect a reaction
from him. Instead, he just stares at the gray floor.
“You knew?” I ask him.
 His eyes lock with mine, and he glances at everyone around
him.
“You knew that Asura wasn’t fully demon, and we were going
to follow her as a Soul Reaper?” I snap. “Is this why she can’t pull
out her fucking weapon or didn’t even fucking try?”
Hazen shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
I glance around at all the calm faces around us. “The Queen
of Hell is human, and no one else is freaking out?”
“Could you shut up so we can hear the rest of the story?”
Ryker snaps.
“Could you not take advantage of a woman who just lost her
family?”
Ryker’s ears turn red, but he doesn’t charge like Ledger would
have when I taunt him. Deep down, I don’t think Ryker took
advantage of Asura; if anything, she probably made the first move.
Apparently, men can’t refuse her.
I’m sure Ryker tried to, but Asura probably said she was okay.
The girl could handle herself, especially when she didn’t want to be
touched. I heard what she did to Eames when they first met at the
club.
“Continue,” I say to Hades with a huff.
Hades nods. “Asura’s mother gave her life to save Asura.
Circe, the demon, was planning to claim the throne as a reward for
keeping Asura alive. Circe would have been the reason that Asura
would have survived this.”
“But?” Ledger asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“The Flame kicked Circe from her body, leaving Asura…”
“Fully human. What do we do?”
Persephone kneels next to a clammy Asura. “We do what we
can do; just wait.”
Inarian snaps at something Ledger says while trying to hold Asura
close to his body. The ice hellhound—although reluctantly—has been
cooling her down with his magic. He took the news harder, and I
think, in a way, I understand. He feels betrayed, like Asura hid this
from him as his Soul Reaper, instead of thinking of it like she was
protecting him.
I sit back, crossing my arms over my chest. I think back to
my Earth elemental hellhound, Alexis. I had done the same thing to
him, and he took it the hardest out of every one of my hounds. I hid
who I was, and he didn’t like that.
 My skin prickles as I feel my powerful hellhounds getting
closer and closer to us with someone else who is just as powerful.
Hades has my hellhounds escort a mage that can help with the
Flame. Apparently, this had been the same mage that helped her
keep Circe down with medicine that Asura had to take daily.
“Stop it!” Ozias snaps. “Will you both shut the fuck up?” His
anger is directed towards Ledger and Inarian.
Inarian’s jaw ticks and tightens as he places a hand on Asura.
Her face calms, and steam raises in the air.
I snicker. “I feel like Inarian being pissed off helps him cool
her down more.”
Ozias rolls his eyes but smirks. His parents had left, leaving all
seven men downstairs with Asura. Maybe they got tired of the
bickering or had more important things to attend to. “Did you guys
really…”
I look up to see his black eyes on me. They weren’t hurt, but
there’s a type of sadness I’ve only seen when a man loves a woman
that doesn’t love him. “Have sex?” I finish before nodding. I half
expect the room to explode and each one to hate us.
“How could you be thinking about that right now?” Ledger
asks in a grumble like he hasn’t been trying to fight everyone over
Asura since he found out about her and Jigsaw. I only found out
because he snapped at Jigsaw when Hades and his wife went
upstairs.
I shrug. “We weren’t. She asked me to help her not think.” I
wanted to taunt him more. Ledger is so easy to piss off, but I bite
my tongue from telling him how I got her to not think.
“So, you stuck your dick in her.” Khazon scoffs, crossing his
arms over his chest.
I roll my eyes. “You can’t talk! All the Soul Reapers in the
headquarters know what you did to her.”
His dark eyes narrow on me, brows pulling. “How?”
“Ask your girlfriend.” I taunt, cocking a brow.
Khazon groans. Grim’s daughter, Miya, told everyone about
Khazon and Asura. I heard about their little fight and him treating
her like she’s not the heir of the throne of Hell. He disrespected her,
and that pissed me off.
“Let’s focus on the task at hand,” Hazen says.
“You’re okay with this… this pink freak touching our girl?”
Ledger asks.
“Our girl is about to die, and all you care about is who is
sleeping with her!” Hazen snaps. “Why is that? Is that all you care
about? owning the girl?!”
“No!”
“Really? Then why are you picking fights with everyone?”
Electricity fills the air for a moment, as well as silence. “I can’t
even touch my girlfriend, and you aren’t even fucking worried about
that! Fuck! You guys don’t fucking deserve her!” With that, Hazen is
moving up the stairs with lightning bolts hitting the wall behind him.
I am the first to get up and actually follow him up the stairs.
“Are you okay?”
After the basement door closes, Hazen takes a deep breath at
the top of the stairs. “Peachy. Sorry… I—”
I shake my head. “Don’t be sorry. You are completely right. I
would never have slept with her if I knew her life was in danger.”
Hazen pats my shoulder, shocking me a bit. He’s so soft. I
almost forgot he’s a foot taller than me and a powerful hellhound.
“Ledger is… deflecting. He doesn’t know who to blame and doesn’t
want to be thinking about how, in a way, we failed Asura.”
Letting out a sigh, I shake my head. “You didn’t fail Asura.
You have been by her side, and she knows you are there for her. I’m
unsure what you could have done to stop what happened.”
“Just a lot is happening…”
“I know. My best team is trying to figure out what happened
last night.” I nod.
Hazen nods. “Oh… That spell you used to touch her; can you
use it on me? I want to be able to comfort her.”
A smile crawls over my lips. Whether she knows it or not,
Asura picked a good hellhound and boyfriend. He was more kind and
in touch with his feelings than those dummies downstairs. Not a
single one even told Asura how they felt about her.
 My skin prickles as I look towards the front door. There… I
feel them.

I’ve been sitting in the dark for what felt like days, unable to escape.
“Hello, child,” a voice says, and I twist around, finally able to see
some light. Blinking away the stinging of the light, I see an old, tall,
ivory-skinned lady. She looks and sounds familiar. “How are you? You
were so tiny when I first saw you,” she says, crouching next to me. I
avert my eyes. “I’m Agnus. I’m here to help you with your feelings.”
I scoff. “No.”
She slaps the back of my head. “Don’t give me an attitude.
Your father was the exact same way. Rude.”
My hand rubs over the spot she hit as if it hurt. “You knew
him when he got the Flame?”
She softens. “He was one of my dearest friends. Your
brothers are staying with me while you get your shit together.”
A gasp leaves my throat. I had forgotten about Killian and
how he must feel. “Are they okay?”
She nods. “Killian is worried about you and is… sad.”
My heart tightens. “I need to go see him.”
She shakes her head. “See him again when you are ready.
Right now, you need to take care of yourself. Are you ready to wake
up?”
I let out a sigh. “Why? So, I’m alone? Dad is dead. Fenric…”
She rubs my hair. “You are never alone. Do you want to see
why?” When she holds her hand, I stare at it. I feel alone, and I
don’t know much that can change that feeling. In a huff, I take her
hand.
Another random document with
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better classes. After viols were introduced, every gentleman's house
contained a chest of them and the chance visitor was expected to
take his part at sight in the impromptu concerts which were a favorite
form of social diversion. 'Tinkers sang catches,' says Chappell,
'milkmaids sang ballads; carters whistled; each trade, and even the
beggars had their special songs; the bass-viol hung in the drawing-
room for the amusement of waiting visitors; and the lute, cittern, and
virginals, for the amusement of waiting customers, were the
necessary furniture of the barber-shop. They had music at dinner;
music at supper; music at weddings; music at funerals; music at
night, music at dawn; music at work; music at play.'

II
From this intensely musical England came the band of colonists who
landed at Jamestown, Virginia, in 1607. About half of them were
'gentlemen' and the remainder were soldiers and servants. The
proportion of gentlemen—'unruly gallants,' as Capt. John Smith calls
them—was less in later emigrations, though it was always
comparatively high. Many soldiers came, and some convicts and
young vagrants picked up in the streets of London were sent out as
servants. Starvation, disease, and the attacks of Indians left very few
survivors among those who came to Virginia during the first ten
years. Afterward the population grew very rapidly and contained, on
the whole, representative elements of all classes in England, with a
comparatively large proportion of the upper classes. In 1619, as we
learn from a statement of John Rolfe, quoted in John Smith's
'Generali Historie,' the first negro slaves were introduced into
Virginia. A description in the 'Briefe Declaration' shows Virginia about
two years later as a country already in the enjoyment of peace and
prosperity. 'The plenty of these times,' says the writer, 'unlike the old
days of death and confusion, was such that every man gave free
entertainment to friends and strangers.' About that time land was laid
out for a free school at Charles City and for a university and college
at Henrico, but the project was not then carried through. As yet,
however, there was not any pressing demand for public educational
advantages, as the proportion of children was still very small. Later
years saw a great increase in the population, both native and English
born. During the Civil War there was a large exodus from England of
cavaliers, as well as merchants, yeomen, and other substantial
people, who found the troubles at home little to their taste or profit.
There must have been little to distinguish the Virginia society about
the middle of the seventeenth century from English society of the
same period. The colonists lived well; they were prosperous; they
had good, substantial houses equipped with good, substantial
English furniture; they entertained with open-handed freedom and
generosity. 'The Virginia planter,' says George Park Fisher, 'was
essentially a transplanted Englishman in tastes and convictions and
imitated the social amenities and culture of the mother country. Thus
in time was formed a society distinguished for its refinement,
executive ability and generous hospitality for which the Ancient
Dominion is proverbial.'[5]

The population of Virginia always remained largely rural, but

nevertheless there was social life aplenty. Education was mainly in
the hands of the clergy, who, as a rule, were Englishmen of culture.
But steps toward public education were taken at a very early period.
The attempt of 1621 failed, as we have noticed, but in 1635—three
years before John Harvard made his bequest—Benjamin Syms left
an endowment for a free school in Virginia. This, to quote a recent
writer, 'was the first legacy by a resident of the American plantations
for the promotion of education.' Another free school was established
in 1655 by Captain Henry King, and two in 1659 by Thomas Eaton
and Captain William Whittingdon. In 1670, according to a report from
Sir William Berkeley to the Commissioners of Foreign Plantations,
the population of Virginia consisted of 40,000 persons, of whom
2,000 were negro slaves and 5,000 white servants. The 2,000 negro
slaves probably included a number of mulattoes, for even then there
must have been traffic between white men and negro women, as we
may infer from the law which gave to a child the status of its mother.
The remainder of the population was almost exclusively English.
What we have said of Virginia in the seventeenth century applies
also in a general way to Maryland and Carolina, both as to
population and conditions, though the Huguenot emigration to
Carolina in 1685 made a decided difference in the character of the
population there subsequent to that date.

This brief incursion into general history has been made, not to prove
anything, but to bring forward a few facts which may be found
suggestive. The Southern colonists during the seventeenth century
were predominantly English people of the first and second
generations. They were fairly representative of contemporary English
society, though the proportion of 'gentlemen' was higher among them
than at home. They came, as we have seen, from a country where
music was practised enthusiastically by all classes. It is preposterous
to think that in the new country they discarded their musical tastes
like a worn-out garment. There is no reason why they should have
done so. After the first years of famine and turmoil and death they
were comparatively peaceful and prosperous. There were among
them, it is true, a certain number of stern-faced Puritans, melancholy
preachers of the sinfulness of pleasure; but on the whole the attitude
of the Southern colonists toward life was that of the gay, gallant,
laughter-loving cavaliers. There is little doubt that these same gallant
gentlemen kept up in the colonies that devotion to the joyeuse
science for which they had been famed since the days of Cœur de
Lion. In the announcements of the early concerts at Charleston in
the first half of the eighteenth century we find that the orchestra was
often composed in part of neighboring gentlemen, who were good
enough to lend their services for the occasion, or sometimes that
certain gentlemen, of their courtesy, obliged with instrumental or
vocal selections. Whence we may infer that the custom of keeping a
chest of viols in his house for the use of his family and his guests, so
generally observed by the English gentleman at the beginning of the
seventeenth century, was still honored by the colonial gentleman at
the beginning of the eighteenth.

The cultured colonists followed English fashions very closely in all

things, and the music they played was doubtless the music in vogue
in London drawing-rooms and concert halls. The humble colonists,
presumably, were less concerned with the mode, and sang and
played the old English tunes which they and their fathers and their
grandfathers had brought across the sea. American historians have
taken for granted, with a good deal of smug complacency, that there
was no real musical life among these people. The assumption
seems to be based—if it has any basis—on the fact that the
population of the South was preëminently rural. But that there was
little urban life does not mean that there was little community life. On
the contrary, life in the South was much more intimately gregarious
than is usual in towns and cities, and it is in hospitable social
gatherings rather than in stiff-backed attendance at concerts and
operas that the musical soul of a people finds real expression.
Furthermore, the Southern colonists had a communal
consciousness, as we may see from their early essays in public
education, and it is probable that this consciousness expressed itself
in other ways of which we have no evidence. The churches brought
them together, also, perhaps for social as well as religious
gatherings. It is, indeed, a plausible surmise that musical reunions of
some sort, apart from purely private entertainments, were not
unknown to them.

The music of the colonial proletariat was English, that of the

gentlefolk largely so. Among the common people this music may
have undergone some alteration in the course of time, and certain
gifted ones among them may have made original music of their own.
We can conceive that the gentlefolk occasionally occupied
themselves with musical composition, and some of their efforts,
perchance, percolated through the classes and became the property
of all the people. We cannot say, but it is possible; it is even
probable. If English music did not undergo a change in Virginia and
Maryland and Carolina, we can be sure that it altered somewhat in
the hands of the pioneers who carried it to Kentucky, to Missouri, to
Texas. One hears in the Southwest many quaint, characteristic old
songs and tunes of unmistakably English origin. We can safely
assume that by the time they reached Missouri and Texas from
England they had absorbed quite a little local color.
Nor must we forget that the music of the American negroes is the
music of the English colonists strained through the African
temperament; or perhaps we should say the African temperament
strained through the music of the English colonists. In any case,
Afro-American music is a blend, and the mixing, we may suppose,
began with the beginning of slavery in the Southern colonies. The
negro slaves were an ignorant, impressionable people set down in
the middle of a white civilization from which they naturally and
immediately began to absorb the things that were appreciable to
their senses. The most easily appreciable, perhaps, of these things
was music, and such music as the negroes heard among the white
people they absorbed and, to some extent, assimilated.[6]

Just how much all this has to do with American music we cannot say,
any more than we can say just what is American music. National
music, we take it, is the composite musical inheritance of a people,
molded and colored by their composite characteristics, inherited and
acquired. And the music of the South is undoubtedly part of the
musical inheritance of the American people. How much of that
inheritance we have rejected and how much retained will not appear
until some historian arises with enough scholarship to analyze our
musical heritage in detail; with enough genius in research to trace its
elements to their sources; and with enough patriotic enthusiasm to
lend him patience for the task. In the meantime, surface conditions
fail to justify the arbitrary ruling out of the South as an utterly
negligible factor in our musical development.

III
In approaching the history of the New England Puritans one is in
danger of making serious mistakes, due to temperamental
prejudices and to a misconception of the Puritan attitude toward life.
The term Puritan itself is more or less indeterminate, covering all
sorts and conditions of men with a wide diversity of views on things
spiritual and temporal.[7] There is a very general impression, totally
unsupported by historic evidence, that the Puritans frowned
intolerantly on every worldly diversion, including music. Many of the
zealots did, it is true—in every movement there are extremists—and
the general trend of thought was influenced somewhat by their
thunderous denunciations of all appearance of frivolity. In such
circumstances the average human being, uncertain how far he may
safely go, is inclined to avoid the vicinity of danger and seek the
haven of a strictly negative attitude toward everything about which
may hang the very slightest suspicion of impropriety. We have many
instances in history of this same tendency. The early Christians,
taking Christ's warning against the world and the flesh in its most
extreme literalness, adopted a course for avoiding hell and gaining
heaven which, if consistently followed, would soon have left the
world barren of any beings from whom the population either of
heaven or of hell might be recruited. We are apt, however, to
exaggerate the self-denying habits of the Puritans. On many points
of conduct and dogma they were fiercely and uncompromisingly
intolerant. Their Sabbath observance was strict to the point of
absurdity. But in general they were not disposed to deprive the world
of innocent pleasure.

The New England Puritans were more or less of a piece with their
English brethren, and we have every evidence that the latter
tolerated music, even cultivated it with assiduity. Milton's love of
music is well known.[8] John Bunyan, a typical lower-class Puritan,
speaks of it frequently and appreciatively in the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'
'That musicke in itself is lawfull, usefull and commendable,' says
Prynne in his 'Histrio-mastix,' 'no man, no Christian dares deny, since
the Scriptures, Fathers and generally all Christian, all Pagan Authors
extant do with one consent averre it.' Even the anonymous author of
the 'Short Treatise against Stage-Playes' (1625) admits that 'musicke
is a cheerful recreation to the minde that hath been blunted with
serious meditations.' Not only Cromwell, but many other
Parliamentary officers, including Hutchinson, Humphrey, and Taylor,
were sincere devotees of the art. Colonel Hutchinson, one of the
regicides, 'had a great love to music,' according to the 'Memoirs' of
his wife, and often diverted himself with a viol, 'on which he played
masterly; he had an exact ear and judgment in other music.' In the
retinue of Balustrode Whitelocke, who was sent by Cromwell as
ambassador to Queen Christina of Sweden in 1653, were two
persons included 'chiefly for music,' besides two trumpeters.
Whitelocke himself was 'in his younger days a master and composer
of music.' On one occasion, during his stay at the Swedish court, the
queen's musicians 'played many lessons of English composition,'
and on another occasion, after the ambassador's party had played
for her, Christina declared that 'she never heard so good a concert of
music and of English songs; and desired Whitelocke, at his return to
England, to procure her some.'

Ecclesiastical music was indeed vigorously suppressed, but solely

for reasons touching the propriety of its employment in the worship
of God. Outside the churches the Puritans showed no particular
objection to the art. In fact, the practice of music was common
enough among them, if we are to believe the statement of Solomon
Eccles, a professional musician, who was successively a
Presbyterian, an Independent, a Baptist, and an Antinomian, and
always found it easy to make a living by his profession.
Notwithstanding the ban on theatres, public operatic performances
were inaugurated in London in 1656 and were continued without
interference. The publishing of music flourished under the
Commonwealth as it never did before in England, and large
collections of Ayres, Dialogues, and other pieces remain to us from
that period. Such activity in music publishing could have been
stimulated only by a corresponding demand, and a demand for
printed music could not have co-existed with a neglect of musical
practice.[9]

However, we must not jump to the conclusion that the American

Puritans were as freely inclined to the practice of music as their
brethren across the sea. As a matter of fact, they had no musical life
whatsoever. There are some points in the psychology and condition
of the New England colonists which may help to explain this seeming
anomaly. A large proportion of the people of England were Puritans
merely because it was not safe or convenient for them to be anything
else, and they changed their moral and theological complexions just
as soon as a change in fashion rendered the transformation
desirable. Many of the most prominent members of the
Parliamentary party were drawn into the movement more through
political ambition or democratic ideals than for religious reasons.
Cromwell's famous 'Trust in God and keep your powder dry' might
well express the mental attitude of more than a few of them. Even
among the religious leaders were a goodly number whose only
desire was to reform what they considered the ritualistic abuses in
the English church of their time and who had not the slightest
ambition to suppress the harmless pleasures of life or the ordinary
manifestations of human instincts. The New England Puritans, on
the other hand, were a select group of people who were driven
across an inhospitable ocean to the barren shores of a strange land
by the indomitable zeal of their convictions, the stern intractability of
their consciences and the adamantine obstinacy of their
independence. They were not Puritans merely in externals; they
were Puritans to the core. Their view of life was uncompromisingly
serious. The world was not to them a place for dalliance; it was a
place for work, for the earnest sowing of seeds that might bring forth
a harvest of grace and godliness, a harvest worthy to be garnered by
the Master into His eternal storehouse. So, however kindly they may
have looked upon music, they could not conscientiously have
allowed it to engage much of their attention. They could with
consistence postpone the gratification of their musical tastes to the
next world, where, for all eternity, the practice of music would be
their chief occupation. Besides, the life of the first settlers in New
England was not such as to encourage any indulgence in
unnecessary relaxation. What with the stubborn barrenness of the
soil, the ferocity of the Indians, and the extreme inclemency of the
climate, they had little opportunity for the cultivation of those gentler
arts toward which by taste and temperament they were not, in any
case, very strongly inclined.

And, indeed, from such information as we are able to gather on the

subject, it would appear that the practice of music, even in its
simplest forms, was practically unknown to the New England
Puritans before the end of the seventeenth century, though some of
the Leyden colonists, according to Winslow, were 'very expert in
music.' Out of the forty-odd psalm tunes in use among the Pilgrims
only five were generally known to New England congregations a
generation later, and, even of these five, no congregation could ever
perform one with any approach to unanimity. 'In the latter part of the
seventeenth and the commencement of the eighteenth centuries,'
says Hood, 'the congregations throughout New England were rarely
able to sing more than three or four tunes. The knowledge and use
of notes, too, had so long been neglected that the few melodies sung
became corrupted until no two individuals sang them alike.' The Rev.
Thomas Symmes, in an essay published in 1723, tells us that 'in our
congregations we us'd frequently to have some people singing a
note or two after the next had done. And you commonly strike the
notes not together, but one after another, one being half-way thro'
the second note, before his neighbor had done with the first. This is
just as melodious to a well-tuned musical ear as Æsop was beautiful
to a curious eye.' 'It's strange,' he comments further on, 'that people
that are so set against stated forms of prayer should be so fond of
singing half a dozen tunes, nay one tune from Sabbath to Sabbath;
till everybody nauseates it, that has any relish of singing.' In fact, the
reverend gentleman confesses that if anything could drive him to
Quakerism or Popery it would be the style of singing in vogue among
his co-religionists. John Eliot, son of the Indian apostle, in an essay
published in 1725, says that 'often at lectures, and especially at
ordinations, where people of many congregations met together, their
ways of singing are so different that 'tis not easy to know what tune
is sung, and in reality there is none. 'Tis rather jumble and confusion.
Altho' they all doubtless intend some tune or other, and, it may be,
the same, yet they differ almost as much as if, everyone sung a
different tune.' The effect must have been delightful. Samuel Sewall,
who was precentor of his church for twenty-four years, makes the
following plaintive entry in his diary for February 6, 1715: 'This day I
set Windsor tune, and the people at the second going over into
Oxford, do what I could.' Under date of February 23, 1718, he writes:
'I set York tune, and the congregation went out of it into St. David's in
the very 2nd going over. They did the same three weeks be.'
Certainly the vocal efforts of the New England saints must have
been excruciating when they moved the Reverend Thomas Walter to
declare that the singing of his congregation 'sounded like five
hundred different tunes roared out at the same time.' It is almost
unbelievable that people of intelligence, as most of the early New
Englanders were, should be so utterly callous to ear-splitting
discords of that kind, but the testimony of their own pastors puts the
matter beyond doubt.

Now much of this extraordinary chaos in the congregational singing

of the seventeenth century New England colonists was probably due
to the prevailing doubt as to whether singing was, after all, quite
proper to the worship of God. Until well into the eighteenth century
the propriety of singing psalms in church was a subject of heated
controversy. John Cotton published a tract in defense of the custom
in 1647 ('Singing of Psalms a Gospel Ordinance'), and, as late as
1723, a number of clergymen published a tract called 'Cases of
Conscience about Singing Psalms, briefly considered and resolved,'
in which we find the proposition: 'Whether you do believe that
singing Psalms, Hymns and Spiritual Songs is an external part of
Divine Worship, to be observed in and by the assembly of God's
people on the Lord's Days, as well as on other occasional meetings
of the Saints, for the worshipping of God....' Those who had taken
singing in church as a matter of course, and had made of it such a
cacophantic horror as is described by Eliot, Walter, and others,
characteristically championed their own style of singing, which they
called 'the old way,' and zealously opposed any attempt to sing by
rule as a step toward Popery.

But, apart from all differences of opinion upon church singing as

such, no people who were in the habit of practising music, even in
the most elementary way, could make such a hopeless mess of
ensemble singing in unison, when the tunes were so old and familiar
and the number of them so limited. Ensemble singing by a mixed
gathering of untrained people is likely to be pretty bad in any case,
but even among a heterogeneous and untutored crowd there are
always a number whose accuracy of ear and intonation suffices to
keep the others more or less close to the melody—especially when it
is a familiar one. Among New England colonists, however, the ability
to sing must have been about as common as the ability to dance on
the tight rope. The Rev. Thomas Symmes assures us that he was
present 'in a congregation, when singing was for a whole Sabbath
omitted, for want of a man able to lead the assembly in singing.'
Certainly the good people of that congregation on the whole must
not have counted singing among their diversions—if they had any.
We have no ground for stating flatly that the New Englanders of the
seventeenth century absolutely abstained from singing on all
occasions; but if they did sing it was in a most primitive and
haphazard fashion.

Instrumental music certainly was taboo to them. As far as we know

there was not a musical instrument in New England before the year
1700. If there was, it has shown remarkable ingenuity in escaping
detection. Before leaving this world for a better one, the New
England colonist was meticulously careful in making out a full and
exact inventory of his material possessions. He told in painful detail
just how many pots and pans, bolsters, pillows, tables and chairs he
had been blessed with and in just what condition he bequeathed
them to posterity. Nothing detachable in the house was too small nor
of too little value to escape his conscientious enumeration. But of
musical instruments the testamentary literature of New England
contains no mention. The first suggestion we find of the existence of
such a thing is a laconic reference in the diary of the Rev. Joseph
Green under date of May 29, 1711: 'I was at Mr. Thomas Brattle's,
heard ye organs and saw strange things in a microscope.' We have
no means of knowing, unfortunately, what were the musical qualities
of Mr. Thomas Brattle's 'organs'; perhaps they were as strange as
the things the reverend diarist saw in the microscope. Anyhow, as far
as we can discover, they were unique in New England. Perhaps they
were the same that Mr. Brattle bequeathed to the Brattle Square
Church of Boston in 1713. The congregation of the church did not
'think it proper to use the same in the public worship of God,' and the
instrument was consequently given to King's Chapel, where it was
introduced in the services, to the consternation, anger and disgust of
Dr. Cotton Mather and the greater part of the population of New
England. This organ is still preserved for the benefit of the curious,
and, though its musical possibilities apparently were limited, it at
least marked a precedent which, as we shall see in a later chapter,
was followed by good results.

It has been mentioned that most of the New England congregations,

at the end of the seventeenth century, knew not more than five
psalm-tunes. Those, it is assumed, were the psalms called 'Old
Hundred,' 'York,' 'Hackney,' 'Windsor,' and 'Martyrs.' The early
Pilgrims, presumably, were more eclectic. They used the volume of
tunes compiled by the Rev. Henry Ainsworth, of Amsterdam. The
version of Sternhold and Hopkins was used in Ipswich and perhaps
elsewhere. In 1640 both the Ainsworth and the Sternhold and
Hopkins versions were generally superseded by the 'Bay Psalm
Book,' though Ainsworth's psalter was retained by the churches of
Salem and Plymouth for some time longer. The 'Bay Psalm Book'
was compiled by a number of Colonial clergymen, including Rev.
Thomas Weld, Rev. John Eliot, of Roxbury, and Rev. Richard Mather,
of Dorchester. It is interesting chiefly as containing some of the
quaintest verses ever written. Thus:

'And sayd he would them waste; had not

Moses stood (whom he chose)
'fore him i' the breach: to turn his wrath
lest that he should waste those.'

and again:

'Like as the heart panting doth bray

after the water-brooks,
even in such wise, O God, my soule
after Thee panting looks.'
The settings of the tunes in the New England psalm-books were
those of Playford and Ravenscroft, but, as we have seen, the
congregations habitually introduced original harmonizations of their
own. The general method of singing those psalms was known as
'lining out.' That is to say, the minister or deacon first sang each line,
to give the key, and the congregation followed his lead—more or
less. The results of this system were often ludicrous. For instance,
there is the well-known example, cited by Hood, where the deacon
declares cryptically:

'The Lord will come and he will not,'

and follows this up with the perplexing injunction:

'Be silent, but speak out.'

Owing to the efforts of John Cotton and other cultured clergymen the
people as a whole soon came to accept singing as proper to divine
service, but many decades passed before they could be persuaded
that the cultivation of the voice or the use of any outward means to
acquire skillfulness in singing was decent or godly. Not to the
outward voice, they argued, but to the voice of the heart did God
lend ear; and, though their singing was verily as the bellowing of the
bulls of Bashan, it mattered not except to the ears of their neighbors,
who, in truth, must have been sufficiently calloused to the discord of
harsh sounds. This peculiar attitude lasted until well into the
eighteenth century. Even as late as 1723 the 'Cases of Conscience,'
to which we have referred, contained such questions as:

'Whether you do believe that singing in the worship of God ought to

be done skillfully?' and 'whether you do believe that skillfulness in
singing may ordinarily be gained in the use of outward means by the
blessing of God?' By the efforts of enlightened clergymen like
Mather, Symmes, Dwight, Eliot, Walter, and Stoddard the people of
New England were finally brought to a realization of the fact that their
praise would be just as acceptable to God if offered on the key; but
their conversion was a slow and painful process. Two decades of the
eighteenth century had passed before they began to pay any
attention to the cultivation of church music, and, as we shall see in
the next chapter, this awakening interest coincided with the first faint
stirrings of a general musical life in the Puritan colonies.

W. D. D.
 FOOTNOTES:
[1] The sentence quoted opens Frederic Louis Ritter's 'Music in America.' In the
next sentence the author admits the prior arrival of the Cavaliers on these shores,
but hastens to add that they exercised very little influence on American musical
development. 'It is a curious historical fact,' he says, 'that earnest interest in
musical matters was first taken by the psalm-singing Puritans.' It is curious. We
quote further: 'From the crude form of a barbarously sung, simple psalmody there
rose a musical culture in the United States which now excites the admiration of the
art-lover, and at the same time justifies the expectation and hope of a realization,
at some future epoch, of an American school of music.' Quantum sufficit. Louis C.
Elson, in his 'History of American Music,' also tells us that 'the true beginnings of
American music ... must be sought in ... the rigid, narrow, and often commonplace
psalm-singing of New England.' If these things be so, well may the American
composer exclaim in the words of the immortal Sly 'Now, Lord be thanked for my
good amends!'

[2] We are leaving out of consideration the Spanish settlement of Florida as well
as the French settlement of Quebec, and have in mind only those early colonies
which formed the nucleus of the United States.

[3] See Max Seiffert in Vierteljahrschrift für Musikwissenschaft, 1891.

[4] Thomas Morley, 'A Plain and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke,' 1597.

[5] 'The Colonial Era,' in the American History Series, New York, 1892-1902.

[6] See Chapter XI for a further treatment of negro music.

[7] Strictly speaking the Pilgrims who came from Leyden to Plymouth were not
Puritans. They were Separatists, and their movement antedated the Puritan
movement per se. It would be highly inconvenient, however, in a work of this
character to draw constant distinctions between Pilgrims and Puritans and we
shall consequently speak of them in general as one.

[8] Cf. Sigmund Spaeth: 'Milton's Knowledge of Music,' New York, 1913.
[9] For a full statement of the Puritan case in respect to music, see Henry Davey:
'History of English Music,' Chap. VII. London, 1895.
 CHAPTER II
THE BEGINNINGS OF MUSICAL CULTURE IN
AMERICA

Composite elements of American music—New England's musical

awakening; early publications of psalm-tunes; reform of church
singing—Early concerts in Boston—New York, Philadelphia, the
South—The American attitude toward music—The beginnings of
American music: Hopkinson, Lyon, Billings and their
contemporaries.

The whole history of early musical culture in America—obscure

enough at best—is additionally obfuscated by the persistent illusion
of American historians that the New England psalm-tunes formed the
absolute basis of our musical development. This illusion may be part
of the widespread impression that the church has been the exclusive
fons et origo of musical art. Thus Ritter: 'Musical culture in America,
as in the great musical countries of Europe—Italy, France, Germany
—took its starting point from the church.'[10] As a consequence of
this view of things we find the early chapters of all existing histories
of American music strewn with 'psalm-tunes,' 'church choirs,' and
'clergymen,' as thick as autumn leaves in Vallombrosa. All of which
would be perfectly desirable if the importance of these factors in our
musical development were apparent. Neither in our popular music
nor in works of our serious composers can we trace the influence of
New England psalmody, though we can trace the influence of
German folk-songs and Scotch reels and Irish jigs and negro tunes
and the writings of every European composer, from Bach to Brahms.

We have no desire to belittle the achievements of New England or

the magnitude of its part in the history of the country. But—owing
perhaps to the fact that literary production in America was for many
generations confined almost exclusively to the New England states
—we have had imposed on us a habit of thought which is a sort of
historical synecdoche—New England being the figurative whole. Of
course, it does not make a particle of difference to American music
what we may think or say about its parentage. But, as long as history
is to be written, it is well that it shall be written with some attempt at a
disinterested attitude, and assumptions that the genesis of our music
lay in New England or in any other circumscribed locality are entirely
ex parte. Most of our composers have been disciples of some
recognized European school or eclectic students of several schools.
We can point in them to the influence of Bach or Mozart, of
Beethoven or Brahms, of Schubert, Mendelssohn or Grieg, of
Wagner, Strauss or Debussy, just as we can point to such influences
in the writings of every European composer, great or small. The
musical inheritance of the American composer is not American; it is
universal. For a variety of reasons we have not yet developed a
distinctively national school, but, among our younger composers who
are unmistakeably American, where are the traces of Puritan
psalmody? The ethical influence of Puritanism is still strong in the
land; it still colors our literature, art and public life; it even colors our
music. But purely æsthetic influence is quite a different thing.
Frankly, we believe that the music of colonial New England has had
no more influence on our music of to-day than the writings of Cotton
Mather have had on the work of O. Henry.

These prefatory remarks are made simply to emphasize the fact that
the following sketch of the beginnings of musical culture in New
England and elsewhere is intended only as a statement of historical
facts and not as an argument for the influence of the New England
colonies, or of any other colonies, in the development of American
music. Little information is obtainable concerning the musical life of
America before the end of the eighteenth century, and in these early
chapters we are merely trying to arrive at an approximate estimate of
what that musical life may have been, leaving philosophical
deductions therefrom to those skilled in the drawing of such. If a
predominating amount of space is given to the New England
colonies it is chiefly because our available information concerning
them is very much fuller than that which we possess concerning the
rest of the country.

I
We have already seen that up to the end of the seventeenth century
there were not, as far as we can discover, even the most elementary
attempts at a musical life in New England. The writer of
'Observations Made by the Curious in New England,' published in
London in 1673, remarks that there were then in Boston 'no
musicians by trade.' It is to be assumed that there were none
elsewhere in New England. The installation of Mr. Thomas Brattle's
organ in King's Chapel forty years later necessitated the importation
of a 'sober person to play skillfully thereon with a loud noise.' This
person was a Mr. Price, who appears to have been the first
professional musician in New England. He was followed by Mr.
Edward Enstone, of England, who came over as organist in 1714. To
augment his salary of £30 a year, Mr. Enstone, on Feb. 21, 1714,
filed a petition 'for liberty of keeping a school as a Master of Music
and a Dancing Master,' but the petition was 'disallowed by ye Sel.
men.' In the Boston 'News Letter' of April 16-23, 1716, the same Mr.
Enstone inserted the following explicit advertisement:

"This is to give notice that there is lately sent over from London, a choice
Collection of Musickal Instruments, consisting of Flageolets, Flutes, Haut-Boys,
Bass-Viols, Violins, Bows, Strings, Reads for Haut-Boys, Books of Instructions for
all these Instruments, Books of ruled Paper. To be Sold at the Dancing School of
Mr. Enstone in Ludbury Street near to Orange Tree, Boston.
 "'Note. Any person may have all Instruments of Musick mended,
or Virginalls and Spinnets Strung and tuned at a reasonable Rate,
and likewise may be taught to Play on any of those Instruments
above mentioned; dancing taught by a true and easier method
than has been heretofore.'"

Mr. Enstone was a person of versatility. Apparently he triumphed

over 'ye Sel. men,' and, in addition to this gratifying fact, we may
infer from his advertisement that musical instruments were used to
an extent in Boston prior to 1716. If Mr. Enstone's consignment were
the first he would hardly have failed to mention it. He is exhaustively
informative. The allusion to the mending of musical instruments also
suggests that already they were not uncommon. 'Virginalls and
Spinnets' were strung and tuned by Mr. Enstone, though they were
not included in his imported collection. We have been unable to
discover any information which would throw light on the extent to
which musical instruments were used in New England during the first
half of the eighteenth century. Even toward the end of the century
their use was not very common. But probably they were used to
some extent among people of culture as early as the year 1700, and
to an increasing extent as time advanced and old prejudices
weakened.

Among the people at large the most potent factor in developing a

musical life was the formation of singing societies for the cultivation
of a proper method of singing psalms. This reformation had long
been advocated by the most enlightened clergymen of the colony.
Prominent among them was the Rev. Thomas Symmes, who thus
interrogatively argues his cause:

'Would it not greatly tend to promote singing of psalms if singing

schools were promoted? Would not this be a conforming to scripture
pattern? Have we not as much need of them as God's people of old?
Have we any reason to expect to be inspired with the gift of singing,
any more than that of reading? Or to attain it without suitable means,
any more than they of old, when miracles, inspirations, etc., were
common? Where would be the difficulty, or what the disadvantages,
if people who want skill in singing would procure a skillful person to