Collection

Hello my darling, my love.
You came back?
Always, always. I never really left.
The sigils?
Dust and chalk my love, dust and chalk.
He squirms deeper into the chair, long limbs curling over the leather.
You think of everything.
One of my many talents.
A grin splits the dark air in front of him. Its teeth are very white, and when the firelight flickering from the grate catches them, pointed.
I saw Isabella.
Ah. That went well?
As could be expected. She fought like… well you remember how she fought.
Like a demon.
Yes. A demon.
A long arm reaches out and buries itself in in the coals. It strokes over them, like the hand of an old man on his favorite cat.
She tasted of high summer, and gunsmoke, with the high bitter taste of adrenalin lancing through it like fox musk.
A long, red tongue darts over the white teeth, shocking as blood on bone.
The adrenaline bittered her, soured her. It was like drinking wine that's gone to vinegar while you waited patiently for it.
And me? What will I taste like?
Do you really want to know?
Grant an old man his wish.
You’re not old.
Not on the outside.
A scuffling sound near the grate, then he felt a hand, still warm from the fire caressing, tasting his arm, tapping over it with light fingers.
Like the night sky, whispers the voice and the hairs at his neck quiver, and ozone and the way a bird sounds. The clear air of an October morning, the roasted dust smell of leaves dancing across the fine blue sky.
Good, then?
Delicious.
The stroking fingers move away. He rubs his arm, which feels like he's just shaken hands with an electric fence.
The demon turns back to the fireplace.
Will it hurt?
I will be taking all your yesterdays, all your tomorrows. Your future, your dreams, your little wounds of madness will be mine. All the little traumas and memories that make you what you are, all the hatred and desire, fights lost and won. Not a droplet of personality will escape me; not a shred of love. I will squeeze your mind over a bucket and drink what comes out.  I think that's likely to sting a bit, don't you?
He is rubbing his hands in the fire now, his many joints creaking.
The man smiles now. It is startlingly bright against his dark face.
Somehow, I always thought you wouldn't come.
I would never leave you.
Yes, I know. You’re a loyal thing, aren’t you?
I am that.
The demon walks to him, hands smoking from the fire.
I’m afraid.
says the man.
Yes.
He kisses him, and the man can taste Isabell, can taste smoke and gunpowder and an October sky. Then he can taste nothing at all. He feels nothing. He stands.
Is this how it is for you? he asks through his sharp teeth.
Yes, the demon replies, I’m afraid it is.