by E J Frost
Über-male, that’s one way of putting it. I hunch over the paddle. “Whatever. Lin, do you think I’m homophobic?”
She tilts her head to one side. “I’ve never thought about it. Maybe a little. Remember that lesbian couple that came in? You didn’t seem very comfortable with them.”
Because one of them was wearing a vial of blood that very definitely wasn’t hers around her neck. And her aura was as dark as a serial killer’s. “Yeah, I remember. It wasn’t because they were lesbians.”
“Okay,” Lin says neutrally.
I blow a breath up into my overheated face. “I’ve got nothing against it. Seriously. I’d just rather it wasn’t rammed down my throat.” Or blasted through my bedroom wall. “I feel the same about regular sex. I don’t want to see straight couples climbing all over each other in public, either.”
“Why not?” Lin asks. “Physical affection’s a natural thing. What’s the harm in it?”
“Well, I . . . I don’t know,” I stammer. I expected Lin to be on my side on this one. “I guess it’s private. It should be private, I mean.”
Lin shrugs and flips her ponytail over one shoulder. “Sorry, I don’t see the problem. There’s so much sadness in the world. It always makes me happy to see two people who are obviously in love.”
What the demon did last night had nothing to do with love. “Love and lust are different things.”
“You really need a date, Zee. I’m not in love with Matty yet. Are you telling me I shouldn’t be holding hands with him? That we shouldn’t be kissing in public?”
Weeeell, when she puts it that way. “No, of course not.”
“Good, because I really would have to wonder about you.”
I don’t ask her if she thinks I’m a prude. It’s pretty clear what her answer would be.
The smell from the cauldron distracts me. Fresh, like green grass. Nothing like boiled cabbage. Maybe I’m cooking it too long? It’s gone emerald green, so I sprinkle in the powdered amber, give it a stir and step back from the heat.
“Coffee time?” Lin asks hopefully.
“Definitely.”
Chapter 17
I return to the cauldron a half-hour later to finish the potion. The salamander doesn’t even twitch when I cross the pentagram. “Good thing nothing’s come looking for me,” I say to the comatose lizard.
I finish the potion meditatively. Trying not to let what the demon and Lin have said bother me. Failing. I’m not homophobic. At least, I don’t think I am. I’ve always thought that whatever consenting adults did in the privacy of their own bedrooms was fine. As long as I didn’t have to see or hear it. But when it’s in my house, in the next bedroom, somehow it’s a different story.
The realization that I’d have been a little jealous, but not disgusted, if it had been a woman, doesn’t make me feel any better.
The salamander finally wakes up for the last part of the potion. The part where I imbue the magic milk with some of my living energy. It should sap me. Leave me drained. Instead, brewing always makes me feel intensely alive. Like really good sex. I feel like I could build bridges, move mountains, afterwards.
Power flows into me easily when I call it, channel it into the potion. I reach out to the salamander and let some of that energy flow into the little lizard. Not that it actually did anything while I was brewing, but magic is generous. The salamander hisses, laps at the air with its forked tongue. Its spotted crimson and cream body glows. Echoing the glow from the cauldron.
I raise my hands over the potion and call the Elements. Dust, fire and water swirl around me. A rising storm of primal energy. I reach up and the ceiling disappears. Blue sky. The crack of thunder. And then a bolt of lightning sizzles down to explode whitely inside my cauldron.
I lower my hands. The light fades. The ceiling reappears. Only the smell of ozone, and the taste of power, linger.
I smile at the lizard. “Now that’s what I call cooking with gas.”
The lizard flicks its black tongue at me and disappears.
“You’re welcome,” I say to the empty air. Then I pick up a ladle and begin scooping the magic milk into containers.
My last appointment of the day is Mrs. Feeney. She’s been referred by Mass. General’s Fertility Center. Four successful I.V.F. implantations. Four miscarriages very late in the second trimester. My heart aches each time I read her file. A note from a specialist at Mass. General suggests that Mrs. Feeney may be a pre-symptomatic diabetic. But a special diet and monitoring during the last pregnancy didn’t prevent the miscarriage.
I had little hope that I’d be able to help Mrs. Feeney after our first consultation. The magic milk’s not a cure-all. But reading through my family’s handbooks, I found a recipe written in my great-grandmother Jeta’s spidery hand and marked, ‘best for ladies who lose late.’
It’s taken a month to brew. The recipe was very exacting. But it finally finished aging a few days ago, and when I opened the oak cask sitting in my herbarium, it smelled right.
I set out a cup and a gallon container of the potion on my desk. The potion’s a deep orange, and it glows like a pumpkin in the late afternoon sunlight slanting through my office windows.
Mrs. Feeney arrives late, breathless and sweating. I let her catch her breath while I explain about the potion.
“And you really think this will help, Doctor?”
I correct her gently. Lin’s the doctor, not me. “I think we should give it a try. Say a month. Finish the jug.” I give the gallon container a pat. “And then I’d like you to have some blood work done. See if anything has changed.”
I’m hoping there will be some clinical change. I can’t ask her to go through another pregnancy and risk losing another baby, only to find out if my great-grandmother’s recipe works.
Mrs. Feeney nods tremulously.
“Could I ask you to take the first dose now? I’d just like to observe you for a few minutes afterwards.”
“Observe me?” she asks, looking alarmed.
I’d like to smell her, actually. She’s always smelled a little strange to me. Sickly-sweet. Like overripe bananas. I want her to drink the first dose and see if it makes any change in that funny odor.
“Some women feel light-headed or dizzy afterwards. I’d just like to wait a few minutes after you take the—” I catch myself before I say potion. “Formula. And see how you do.”
Mrs. Feeney gives in gracefully. She drinks a cupful of the potion with a small grimace. Guess it doesn’t taste as good as it smells. I take her into Lin’s recovery room and let her relax in there with a magazine for fifteen minutes while I clean off my desk and dictate a file note. I hear the front door buzz as I’m going to check on Mrs. Feeney.
“Have a great weekend,” I call to Lin. “Bring me back a peck.”
She doesn’t answer; she must be out the door already. I continue down the hallway into the recovery room.
Mrs. Feeney tells me she feels fine. No light-headedness or dizziness. I nod sagely and pretend to peer at her pupils while I’m really leaning close enough to get a good sniff.
Still that sickly-sweet odor. Strong enough that it wrinkles my nose. But maybe it’s just a little less. And now there’s a different scent. Fresher. Slightly starchy. Like just-cut potatoes.
I feel the faint rush of euphoria I always feel when I know my magic’s working. Not all magic has to be flashy. Some works quietly. Either way is fine with me, just as long as it works.
“That’s great, Mrs. Feeney. I think it’s okay for you to go. Why don’t you give me a call in three weeks and tell me how you’re feeling? Then I’ll send a referral slip over to Mass. General for that blood work.”
She thanks me and shakes my hand and says she’ll show herself out. I tuck away the magazine she’s been reading and head back to my office.
My desk clock reads five-fifty. If I leave now, I’ll be home in time for dinner.
Cold sweat pops out on my forehead, slicks my palms. Another night with th
e demon in my house. What will I hear through my wall tonight?
“Witchy-poo, are you done fucking around in there?”
I freeze. Choke on a scream.
The demon strolls through the open door of my office. Relaxed and casual in jeans and a black tee. His mane of red dreadlocks corralled by a leather thong. He’s spinning a small, multi-colored ball idly on the tip of one finger. A demonic Dennis Rodman.
“How, how—” I stutter.
“The baby dragon let me in on her way out. Not that your piece of shit security system could keep me out if I wanted in.” He stops a few feet away, leaning against one of my guest chairs. His head lifts. Nostrils flare. That neon-blue glow fills his eyes. “What’ve you been doing?”
My mind does a guilty canter. Nothing. Wen-Long never called . . . “B-br-brewing,” I stammer.
The demon paces towards me. His burning pupils expand, swallow the world. I retreat behind my desk. “What do you want?”
“A taste.” He sets the ball down on the edge of my desk and follows me. “C’mere.”
Conscious thought shuts down. The screaming begins in the back of my head. Instinctively, I reach for my new kama.
The demon bats it out of my hand. I hear it skitter across my desk, but I can’t look away from those hypnotic, glowing eyes. “Not now,” he admonishes. “We can play rough another time.”
He hooks two fingers over the collar of my work smock and pulls me toward him. He flicks the fingers of his other hand at my desk. Computer, phone, Dictaphone, pens, pencils, stapler, kama, all fly clattering off my desk to zoom in elliptical orbits around my guest chairs.
The demon pushes me down on the cleared desk. I lie there immobile for a second, staring up at him. And then his weight’s coming down on me. His chest crushes my breasts, forces the air out of me in a grunt. He reaches down, hands hot on my thighs through the fabric of my pants. He pushes my legs apart, lifts my knees around his hips. His groin, and the firm bulge there, press hard against my pelvic bone.
“Now gimme that mouth,” he growls. His dreadlocks spill around my face. His nose brushes mine. With the first touch of skin on skin, power rises, burns through me like a fever. I gasp with the strength of the surge.
His mouth presses to mine. Not hurting. Not forceful. Just the warm, wet touch of skin. The heat and weight of his body on mine. And an amazing, rising Nor’easter of energy.
Open your mouth. Lemme taste. A liquid, gliding brush across my lips. His tongue slips inside my mouth to flick over my teeth, touch my tongue. I feel him inhale, his chest pressing harder against mine, and power flows from me to him in a hot rush.
The rush leaves me reeling, light-headed. Sharing power usually makes me feel stronger. But this isn’t a sharing; this is a taking. I lift my hands and push weakly against his shoulders. He shifts, but doesn’t rise off me. One hand slides up to cup my face while he kisses me deeper. The other hand slides under my back, arches me to him while he grinds his pelvis slowly against mine.
I shudder. With fear – Ro told him to drain me and that’s what it feels like he’s doing – but also with a queasy sense of excitement. A hot fluttering in my belly. He can really kiss. And the energy flowing between us is intoxicating, even if it is flowing the wrong way.
The weight on me lessens slightly. A tug between my breasts. Then he’s opening my work smock, and the sweater underneath. Pushing up the cloth. Cool air kisses my skin for a second before his weight descends again. The scorching, silken heat of skin on skin.
You are so tasty, he purrs into my head. He reaches between us and begins unbuttoning my pants. I can’t remember any human so tasty. Let’s skip the part where you tell me all the reasons you can’t and just get down to the fucking, sweet meat.
His thought jolts me, allows me to make a desperate grab for sanity. No.
He pauses, his mouth still welded to mine. Is that a real no, or a ‘fuck me, big boy’ no? His fingertips tickle along my stomach.
It’s a ‘no, you can’t have my soul’ no.
He sighs into my mouth and turns his head to nip along my jaw up to my ear. I can’t help but shiver. I have a thing about ears. He seems to know it, too. He sucks the lobe into his mouth, tugging in a rhythm that echoes the slow grind of his erection against me.
How ‘bout we just fuck? No souls. No damnation. Just grunting and sweating and a whole lot of coming.
It’s tempting. God, it’s tempting. His mouth on my ear is making me crazy and I can’t help but remember the noises from my guest bedroom. It sounded unbelievably good. He is a demon, after all. And it’s been so very long since Saul.
But I don’t trust him. He’s a demon. And sex with demons is a bad idea. No matter what they promise.
No.
He blows a warm, tickling breath into my ear. Follows it with the wet tip of his tongue. I shiver uncontrollably. That a real no?
Yes, it’s a real no.
To my surprise, he nips my earlobe a final time and lifts off me. He holds himself above me, arms braced against the desk, biceps and shoulders bulging. He watches me for a moment, his glowing eyes hooded, and I can’t tell if he’s furious or calculating or merely indifferent.
“Have it your way,” he says.
I sit up slowly and he lets me, pushing off the desk until he’s standing. I tug my shirt back down. “That’s it?” I shouldn’t question my good fortune, but I can’t believe he’s just backed off.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, that’s it.” His leer returns. “Until I can convince you otherwise.”
I pull my sweater and smock back around me and side off the desk. “You can’t.”
“Never say never.” He tilts his head, fanning the dreadlocks. “It’s the Legion of Darkness’ marching song.”
I shiver as I straighten my clothes. It probably is. Which is more than I want to know. And I don’t know how much temptation I can stand. Wen-Long better call soon.
“Who dresses you, witchy-poo?” the demon asks.
“What?” Knocked off balance by the non-sequitur, I frown at him.
“Today’s ensemble? Looks like you picked it up at Goodwill. You can’t go out in that.”
I shake my head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“No?” The demon’s voice drops, becoming so deep it could be echoing up from underground. “Someone thought you were.”
The demon reaches around me and picks up the multi-colored ball from the edge of my desk. He pinches it between two fingers, gives it a shake, and the ball stretches into a long shadow. A silhouette that fills out slowly. Legs, arms, head. Nice solid chest. A shock of black hair that falls over one eye.
I put my hands over my mouth. “Peter.”
“Yeah,” the demon says. “Pee-ter.”
The outline finishes filling out and Peter stands limply next to the demon. His head lolls forward, eyes closed. He could be asleep. But I know he’s not. I can feel it. Peter’s not home.
I swallow hard against the bile that squirts into my throat. “What have you done to him?”
The demon scratches his dreadlocks. “Well, lemme think. When he showed up on your doorstep with his overnight bag in hand, we had a little talk, man-to-demon. Established that his heart is pure and his intentions honest. Then I tied him to your bed, fucked him unconscious, and stuffed his soul into the sugar jar. Wrapped up his body, and brought him down here to see what the fuck you thought you were doing.”
He snarls the last few words and I back a step away.
“Let him go. He has nothing to do with this.” I feel a tear spill, wipe it away angrily. “He’s a null.”
The demon drapes his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “You think?”
Seeing him touch Peter makes more hot tears flow. “Please. Please! Let him go. He has nothing to do with this.”
The demon scratches his chin. “You know, witchy-poo, you sound so sincere. Like you’d give anything for poor Pee-ter here.” His leer stretches into that shark’s grin. �
��What would you give to have Peter walk away from this and not remember anything? Me fucking him this afternoon brought back all those memories you and the dead bitch suppressed. You should have heard him howlin’.”
I curl into myself, clutching my stomach. What have I done?
“He kept going on about a werewolf. You haven’t been showing the nice null the darker side of reality, have you?”
The scream I’ve been suppressing for so long finally tears out of me. “Stop it!”
“No!” the demon snarls. “Give me what I want and boyfriend here walks away clean. Keep fucking with me and it’s Pee-ter’s screams you’ll be hearin’ through the wall tonight. An’ it won’t be because he’s comin’, either. This is one boy who does not like catchin’ when I pitch.”
I reach desperately, pulling the kama to me from where it’s circling my guest chair. The demon’s too far away to slap it out of my hand this time. I raise it in a shaking fist.
The demon watches me raise the blade, eyes glowing brighter than the CITGO sign.
“You wanna play rough, witchy-poo? Let’s play rough.” The shark’s grin stretches so wide it could swallow the universe. He shoves Peter aside carelessly.
The demon reaches back and pulls his tee off over his head. Tosses it over Peter’s crumpled form. Steam billows up from his dark gold skin. His dreadlocks fan and flare in a breeze so hot it could be blowing up from Hell itself. A pair of black horns unfurl from his forehead, growing impossibly, until they arc in deadly, graceful curves high over his head. The sharp tips scrape the ceiling tiles. He stretches out one arm and a huge wooden staff stretches from his clawed fist to the floor. Above his hand, a gleaming blade appears, curving back over his shoulder into a scythe longer than my body. He stretches, flexing all that massive musculature, turning his head slightly so the fading daylight gleams on the curves of his horns.
“Mine’s bigger ‘n yours,” he sneers.
I fall to my knees. Terrified and in awe. He’s beautiful. And terrible. He could kill me with a flick of that scythe. With a thought. I have no chance against him. I let my knife sag to the floor. “Not my soul,” I whisper.
