The Deal (Closed for WhisperedDesires)

[Apollo Wilde]

He has to be up to something.

It was a thought that echoed louder and louder with each passing day that she spent time outside of the house, before she went to bed, while she picked at dinner or watched a movie. Since their last explosive coupling on the couch, there had been no further attempt at physical intimacy, the two regaining their typical steps, her wounded pride biting more and more painful.

Since the picnic, Ava had been surprised that she had been firmly drawn into the bosom of the neighborhood, Freya acting as her guide and her protector. And now, she felt herself ensnared in obligations and promises and duties that were faintly overwhelming, and though she had to steel herself for them, blunted the edges of her sharp personality and brought her into a warm that she was quite unprepared for. Now she could say that she had…friends, though nothing as close as a “best friend” - but people who seemed to honestly care for her and look out for her, to ask about Marlow and wink and nudge and bring her into their circle. Exchanges of recipes, carefree discussions of magic and gardening, the changes in the weather; all were privy to her, and though she could feel the curiosity about her own skill, she said nothing of it, and for now, all were content, seemingly, to leave it be.

I don’t like that he’s around the children.

Another refrain that started whisper quiet, a tugging of that warning sense deep within her, that became a scream every time she saw Marlow with them, when Helen would mention how much they’d taken to him, Ellie especially, and how he’d been such a love and baby-sat when they were suddenly called away. The children had been in her home once or twice - Helen and her magic being powerful enough that she bludgeoned her way into everyone’s personal space with an alacrity and fondness that wasn’t intrusion as so much as a welcome, meddling sister who clearly meant well - but there still lingered that feeling, that unspoken desire, that Ava was meant to have her own dark corners and privacy, a Sphinx entitled to all of her secrets. It had been minor incursions into her home, under the pretext of seeing her garden and her vibrant flowers, or that they were thirsty, could they have some water, and these things, even under Marlow’s shepherding, she had allowed, but made sure that her books were undisturbed, that her bedroom remained off limits.

I don’t like that he’s ignoring me.

If she were to be honest, this bothered her slightly less than his involvement with the children. That was the most troubling, she reminded herself, keeping her priorities straight, but he hadn’t so much as watched with any kind of interest as she undressed, bathed, noted what she wore. It was yet another bitter pill - from the loss of friendlover, best bedfriend, cradler of her heart, to this creature who she had to pounce upon to get any sexual release from, and now - he had less time for her than anyone else.

It came to a head when her brain made the connection - he’s focusing more on Ellie than me - and the connective spark sent ripples of rage and fear into her, and then, she was dialing the number she’d convinced herself that she had forgotten, that she swore she’d never reach out to. And the voice that answered, old honey and dry brittle bones, to its credit, sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her, called her darling, cosseted her with kind words, reached into the depth of her wounded ego and laughed it off, not unkindly, but reminding her that she was a beautiful, desirable woman in her own right, as all women truly were when the lights were out and when there was no one there to judge, no pointing and laughing and questioning of morals or standards, but it sounds like the demon that she summoned was an ill match, perhaps even defective, since such things were possible, and no, it wasn’t her skill that was in question, but rather his - was he who he said to be, after all, he’d given no name, and Ava’s skill was that beyond the confines of mere grimoires, it was possible that she could have summoned someone, something beyond all of that, and as such, there were no rules for him, and though Ava knew it was a ploy, she allowed herself to be drawn in, because flattery sometimes contained a kernel of truth.

I’m doing the right thing.

Soothed her as she lulled to sleep under the great mock universe of her bedroom, her senses dulled, thankfully. Through the interactions of the day, the smiles with Freya, that small, but growing tugging that she should confess to someone, anyone, here in the neighborhood, then the ultimate swallowing of it all back. It made no difference, she had made the mess, and now she was going to clean it up, and no one would ever the wiser, and then she could start again with a fresh slate, isn’t that what everyone wanted -

There wasn’t a long wait. After months of inaction, weeks of quiet since that explosion in the living room, the couch mended, there was a knock on the door, a rapping that tested the wards that Marlow had carefully lain, and with soft laughter, blew them away as if they were little more than spiderwebs. It was delicious power on the other side of that portal, power from individuals molding together as a great, physical thing, making the air grow heavy, nature shrink back in horrified disgust -

Another knock, and it would be Ava, fresh from her routine, to answer the door. Behind it were three, pleasant looking old women. They could have been traveling grandmothers, a thought that made Ava smile despite the power she could feel emanating from them, a power that shook her bones and threatened to turn them to jelly, but oh, so familiar, so warming, the power in them that spoke to her, a future looking at its past with some fondness.

“Why, Ava, dear, you’ve grown up beautifully,” rasped one woman, her skin dark as rich earth, making her stark white hair all the more contrasting. Said hair was bundled into a heavy braided bun that sat at the back of her head, nearly weighing it down. She was a raisin of a woman, the youth sucked completely from her, leaving her a collection of deceptively soft skin and angular bones and the memory of beauty.

“I would agree,” chimed in the Second, her skin as pale as clouds, but her hair youthfully dark, so dark to be unnatural in its utter blackness, lending itself to a strange blue sheen. She held up thin hands, weighed down with silver rings and bloodied stones, and took Ava’s hands in hers. Her flesh was cool, dry as old leaves.

“Beauty is a passing curse,” finalized the Third. Unlike her compatriots, she seemed a bit younger - age whispering past her, scared to dwell too long on her face, to carve too deeply into her skin. Still, she had not gone untouched - lines traced on her forehead, at the corners of her eyes and what was once a full, seductive mouth, reminded her, every time that she looked into the mirror, that youth was steadily slipping from her. Her hair was girlish - two long black braids that sat on either side of her face, trailing down to her waist, drawing attention to the fact that it still clenched in with a firmness that others would envy.

“I welcome you, Angelmakers,” Ava breathed, the words feeling stiff, but powerful in their own right, a welcome and a sealing of an unspoken pact.

“And we are gladly welcomed,” spoke the Three in unison, the air fairly shuddering around them.

“I am eager to see him,” spoke the First, her obsidian irises floating on a sea of yellowing marbles.

“As I am,” spoke the Second, clasping her hands together, coquettish excitement.

“He is here, is he not?” Spoke the First, less of a question, more of a statement, but she would not lower herself to looking curiously into the home.

“He is. Marlow?” Ava did not turn away from the three women, held in place by the mere suggestion of their strength, feeling a bit of the old awe snake round her stomach, hook into her heart.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

It had been an unusually quiet day. The demon was not used to such things, lately there was always someone about, usually one of the children, unflinchingly curious and content to barge their way into the demon's, or Ava's, presence. More than that, however, there was always something going on magically, some subtle hum of power that flowed through the area, the flickered on the edge of attention. Today, even that had seemed to retreat, as if the magi were magically holding their breath, as one might when hiding from some greater predator.

He hadn't felt them at first. They'd done well to hide their presence, their slow, purposeful approach to the house. But the sudden shaking of the world, the unnatural stillness, the heavy weight of magic in the air, even the natural world silently screaming- All gave signal, called the demon's attentions to those who could cause such a thing. To many, it might have been mistaken for ill discipline, the inability to hide one's power. If they were weak, untrained, even the demon might have made that assumption. But he was not blind to them, and they made little effort to hide the way their power wove together to form a greater whole. It was not bravado or weakness that let them display their power so. It was the calm confidence of a storm, ultimately uncaring of damage it might leave in its wake. They were a presence that could not, WOULD not, be missed by those around them. A display of strength, in the same way demon's displayed their strength, so that those lessers would know their place. It was with some interest that he noted, among the woven three, that he recognized the telltale magical signature of one. It was much changed since he'd encountered it, centuries ago, stronger now, wizened, more focused. But unmistakable to a being who's very essence was forged of magic, who's power had once been called upon by such a being... what then had called such a person, who had cheated, in some small way, time itself?

When they had come to the door, when Ava had greeted them, he was not far off, hidden around a corner, eyes narrowed and power flexing in preparation. They had casually shredded his wards, a not inconsiderable task. Though he doubted they could have accomplished that individually, few humans could, it would be with grudging respect that he recognized the unity of cultists, witches, warlocks, and others who sought the darker paths. A coven could accomplish much that an individual could not, and humanity had ever been the greatest at banding together. That did not mean he enjoyed the intrusion into his wards, the disrespect was clear, but as he listened he came to understand that they had been invited, and from the sounds of things, had been invited because of him. Suspicion and paranoia, admittedly absent in the most recent passage of time, came back in force, the demon's mind searching for the angle. Many presented themselves, many and numerous, but the game must be played, even now, and his name was called, Ava drawing him forward to greet this newest puzzle.

Marlow emerged then, settling himself just a step behind Ava to regard the three. Eyes took in their forms one by one, the presence, tasting their magic, putting signatures to faces. The second and third were new to him, interesting only for the power they wielded and that they were here at all. The first, however, shriveled with age as she was, remained unmistakable to him. A distant memory, of a deal half forgotten. One of the ones who had, in her time, called upon him, much the same way Ava had. She'd played the game well, from what he could remember of her, and he'd little doubt she'd still retained the same skill. But the game must be played, all the more necessary with such a brazen display of magical prowess.

"Visitors? What an... unexpected surprise."

He favored the three with a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, gaze flickering between the crones. His demonic power roiled within him, eager to rise to the unspoken challenge of the three's power, but still he restrained himself, waited, watched. That did not mean, however, that he couldn't address one of their number. All the better to hopefully glean their reasons for being here.

"You've grown stronger since last we met, crone. Age seems to have granted you wisdom and insight, or perhaps it is merely that you've rid yourself of those who'd shackle your growth so long ago. What has it been... two centuries? Three?" He could not remember when exactly he'd made that deal with her, so long ago, nor could he remember what she'd sought. All the same, the price had been paid, though not with her own soul, a sign of her own caution and understanding.

He could feel their attention, magical and otherwise, focusing on him, attempting to pierce beyond the veil he'd placed over himself. He granted them that their power, woven together as it was, dwarfed his own, restrained as he was by the ancient laws and contracts that bound him to this world. But as they gazed at him, he gazed back, tasted of their power, saw the way their power was spun together. All it served was to make him more wary of them, to draw his power more securely about himself, grasp it with the ready hand to unleash it upon those who would so suddenly intrude.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The Three around him, just at the threshold of Ava’s home, were sharks silently encircling them, watching, waiting, beautiful strength and deadly power, calm, waiting, placid. Between the three of them seemed to lay the whole of written history, magics old, new, forgotten, recently remembered. Though they would seem to be two old women and one in middling age, the years between them were sand in an hourglass.

“You again,” said the First, looking with practiced surprise at Marlow. “Still as rude and distant as ever. But, do tell me,” she looked towards Ava, “Is he as good as a lover as I recall?”

The other Two tittered in merriment, old women sharing a joke, a memory. Ava felt her cheeks darken. It wasn’t the fact that she’d had carnal knowledge of a demon - such things were expected, if not even routine to the point of boredom among the Angelmakers - but that it was so obvious, that her heart had been wounded and twisted enough to shove her into his arms when she, for years, had struggled to be above that, to be above the mewling needs of her body, her heart.

“There, there, dear,” said the Third, taking Ava’s hands in one of her dark wizened ones. She gave off the smell of incense and the whispering heart of the deep woods, soothing green magic dancing around dark places and old blood-stained stones, “We know.”

“You always did have such a heart,” whispered the Second, her voice, loud within the confines of the house, was rough and hoarse, scorched by hellfire, by speaking unspeakable power, that no amount of healing could reverse.

“So she did, and does,” the First finished, turning her attention to Marlow. Demons among the higher ranks were unique, and his signature was familiar. But there was much more in the air than just him, that quiet hum of power that throbbed in her veins like electricity. Delicious; he would be so good for them. Even if it would only be temporary - it would be quite the boon for them, and their ultimate goal. And Ava - how she had grown! This creature, “Marlow”, as she called him, called forth without the aid of a Second, or without more of a promise than her blood, and that contract? It was wonderful, far beyond what she had ever expected, and she knew that the High Dark One would be pleased. She was so impressed by Ava’s show of power that the even the vestiges of what could have been called jealousy were scared back into the small corners of her heart. If she had a fraction of the power that Ava had at her youth, why, there was no telling what she could have done. But time had brought wisdom to the ancient First, and now, she looked upon Ava with what could have been called a maternal fondness, the only bitterness there was that she had not been there at the summoning, had not played more of a guiding hand for this girl. “Which, indeed, is why we are here.”

Ava took three steps back, counting each one silently in her mind. There was a comfort in the number, no real meaning here. She knew that the magic that flowed through the Three was similar to a dog whistle; higher than her own senses could detect, but unmistakably there. She would not feel the same threat as Marlow would; no maliciousness there. Ripples on the surface of a deep pool, arching through her, soothing in the way it whispered, tugged at the fine hairs on her arm, the nape of her neck, not alarming, but, no, soothing, the whisper of a much missed voice.

“There’s no need to be reintroduced,” said the First, her arms by her sides, as causally as if she were speaking of the weather, “Since he has deigned to remember me,” the slice of a smile, sincere, if not somewhat mocking, the absurdity of a demon remembering a human, and from such a long time ago. “Might I invite you to come with us, Marlow, was it? Your contract with Ava, our young one, has been ended. And for your benefit, might I add - as you are as capable of love as time is winding backwards.”

“That was incredibly clever, my dear,” the Second rasped, nudging Ava gently in the side.

“Still too kindhearted - one day you’ll find one worthy of it,” chirruped the Third, those black doll eyes cheerful, romantic. “I will gladly burn incense for the promise of that day.”

 

[WhisperedDesires]

He watched them warily, saw them drawing around him, saw Her stepping away, distancing herself. Suspicious and paranoia was swiftly becoming alertness and outright hostility, and his eyes narrowed as they spoke to him and around him. He felt the distinct impressions of those holding themselves higher than him, and hackles rose at the mere suggestion that mortals could stand above his existence. But even worse, that they'd come specifically for him, with the intention of separating him from his contractor.

The betrayal stung, even if it was at least expected. He chided himself more than her, for letting his guard down, for growing too comfortable in his place. That did not excuse her entirely, or remove the Wrath that surged through him, the rage directed at Ava for her backstabbing. They had struck a deal, had bound themselves together, and she chose instead to run to others, to seek refuge, to refuse what was promised to save herself. An unsurprising eventuality, and ultimately he could respect the attempt even as he plotted his vengeance. She would suffer, in this life or in the next, for daring to renege on their bargain.

He wondered then at the choice of words. They'd spoken aloud that the contract between he and her had been ended. They'd know, surely, that such an ancient thing could not be broken so easily, with the same casual disregard as one might tear a scrap of paper. Spoken for her benefit then, to give her some sense of peace? Or perhaps they truly felt they could shatter the contract bound by such unknowable, ineffable, forces. Still... he couldn't say for certain that they couldn't do what they proposed. Humans were an industrious sort, eager to poke and prod at things best left alone. While they spoke truth as well, love was something beyond him, he had little interest in giving up his place or the soul promised to him.

"I think I'd prefer to remain where I am. A soul was promised to me, Her soul, and I've little interest in relinquishing my claim."

Even as the words were spoken he knew that the contract between them, perhaps not severed, was at the least suppressed, magic forcing it to slumber beneath layers of seals. The viel around him weakened in response to his emotions, fingers sharpening into hard claws, eyes glowing with hellfire, jaw filling with jagged fangs. Cracks formed in his skin, blackened, chitinous armor peaking through the frail human flesh of his mask as he readied himself. Arcs of demonic power surged outward, testing the will of these that surrounded him. He knew, even now, that he would lose. Three woven together were stronger than him, as much as it displeased him to admit it. But that did not mean he would go quietly, and they would know of his rage before he was brought low and bound.

"So if it is all the same to you, I think it best if you leave."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“We who were invited in cannot be cast out by anyone other than who invited Us.” The voices of the three women converged, shuddering, shifting, braiding together, forming a solid wall of power. Their voices spoke new possibilities into existence, frayed the edges of reality.

And yet, Ava stood and watched.

Marlow’s transformation, the shifting into the Other, once, would have scared her. Would have made her submit, to realize that she was dealing with things far beyond her control. In the presence of the Angelmakers, her spiritual predecessors, the low thrum of power that coursed through her veins, welcomed her to stand with her.

“And now, you belong to Us.” The one voice that was three slipped around him, as solid as chains. There would be no breaking, no negotiating, out of them. He was strong, but they were stronger, solely through the combination of their powers. Not even the First, as powerful as she was, as old as she was, could have bound him, let alone rip the contract away from him. Though, perhaps, “rip” would not be quite the right word; the contract, binding as it was, taking a part of Ava to hold it, shifted - rippled: went from a rigid, unyielding thing to malleable. The contract became a tangible thing; the inner workings of it shifting like sand. The Three could not undo the contract - but they could remold it to their purposes.

Ava clung to the wall, watching, paralyzed by the sheer power that washed over her, the room, the house. As if they’d ripped the very fabric of space and time; like she ceased to exist, her breathing, the sound of her heart, like they belonged all to someone else, and she was merely watching. The Three, their eyes closed in focus, were pencil sketches of figures, more lines of themselves being brushed away by the power that emanated from the roots of the earth, beyond, pulling deeper, stretching cosmic roots into all that surrounded them. It was no mere show of power - it was the culmination of centuries of work, the human desire to learn more, to push past all boundaries, to innovate.

And it took a great, great deal of power. All that they were, all that they could have been, was funneled towards Marlow, wrapping him, twisting him, bending him to their will. Draping a collar about his neck, materialized out of the aether. It would serve as a binder, a physical reminder that he was now under their control.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

Their power surged like a tidal wave, and he the fragile island who could merely weather the storm. Demonic power rose to meet it, smashing against their woven tapestry, tearing at the threads of magic that were being spun into existence around him, but any damage that was done was swiftly fixed, woven to completion once more. Metaphysically there was little hope of victory, the power of one meeting the power of three, and the one found wanting. Two he was certain he could take, the interchange between them would have been strong but not unbeatable. But three had always been a number of power. There was a reason it showed up so often within mythology and religion, a reason it was so intrinsic to so many things in the world.

“And now, you belong to Us.”

It was just words to the human ear, a simple statement. To the demon the words thrummed with power, wrapped bindings around his essence and demanded subservience. The roar that tore from his throat was once more inhuman, the demon darting towards one of the woman. But they had caught him unprepared, and though the veil was fraying at the edges it was not thrown away entirely, and reality insisted that no human could move as quickly as a demon should. His clawed hand halted mere inches from his target's throat, the collar that sprung into existence forcing that most ancient of laws upon him. They had subsumed the contract, established themselves as the "owners" of the contract, and therefore he could harm them none at all. All the more their will forbade it, the weight of their command and desires falling upon his limbs. That he was standing at all was a testament to the power and will he wielded even now, for though he could not harm them his muscles still strained against the bindings, still sought their blood and flesh.

His power lashed out, writhed against the suppression they forced upon him. If there power was a blanket of energy, pulled from the earth to bolster their not inconsiderable strength, his was storm, a torrent of rage and anger that snapped and coiled in endless desire to be unshackled. They had caught him, but they had not broken him, his essence already working at that which bound him, seeking a freedom that would be denied him, but which he would continue to seek regardless. That which bound him did not stop him from struggling against his new chains, nor did it halt the hatred that spilled from his form like a waterfall. It was directed at the Three, at Ava, at everyone it could reach.

"Your souls will find there way to my hands someday... and I shall enjoy your torment more than any other." The vitriol in his voice was palpable, the grave promise spoken into the empty air with such wrath that it seemed to spark in his mouth, fire spilling forth despite the still very human face. His eyes found each, memorizing the taste of their souls in turn, before finding Ava's eyes with his own, hellfire seeming to burn all the brighter. There wasn't much to be said of the loyalty of demons. It was a flimsy thing at the best of times. But call him unique, this particular demon viewed his contracts as binding, agreements to be seen through to the end. That she would break a deal made between them, and worse have others do it in her stead... "You especially, Betrayer. I shall ensure your pain is endless when your time comes. You'll have a special place in the depths of the Abyss, where you can feel the most personal tortures at my hands."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

For the first time since all of this had started, Ava recognized the cold, sour taste of fear in the back of her throat. She felt physically ill; his words chilled her to the core, stirred a maelstrom of emotions. Fear, yes, but something more - sadness, regret. Had he been something, anything different, this could have been avoided. And so fear was swallowed back, hard, and she tilted her chin upwards, posing defiantly even if she didn’t feel it. Her thread of power would be the one, that additional hold, that pulled the magic together, even if she wasn’t fully aware of it. Her power flickered behind eyes that appeared blind, shaded over with an otherness that she hadn’t shown before, nor felt.

“Fine words,” huffed the First, strain showing on her face, though she was trying gamely to recover. The Second and the Third shared her fatigue, glimpses of their true selves, ancient, withered husks of women, shades of power, flickered in and out of existence, their power strained to maintain him. Difficult, but possible made through the Three.

Then, the coup de grâce, the final insult. The collar they placed on him, not enough the it was there. Its true purpose flared in time with his final surge of power. Rather than sipping delicately at the energy he discharged, the collar drank from him with the eagerness of a living thing, a creature bound to do nothing more than slake its thirst on him. The reaction was instantaneous - the Three, collectively, hummed, as his energy flowed into them, bolstering their own magicks, neatly patting their glamour back into place. And rather than Three women of varying ages, they would appear now, Three young women, younger even that Ava, and they would turn and survey each other with eyes brightened by stolen power.

“It is done,” they spoke in unison, to each other, to no one, solidifying the enchantment. Pleased with each other, with their new youth, the Three caressed each other’s cheeks, felt the thick and lustrous hair. And Ava still stood, watching him, chained now, the collar glowing, beautiful against the illusion of his human flesh. She could have said anything, offered any kind of explanation, but it would have been of no use, and she knew it. Though, beneath it all, there was a bitterness - him, angry with her, for breaking their word, word that he had no intention of fulfilling; this sadness - all too human. Sad to be losing someone who had simply become a part of her home, like a house guest finally moving out. The children; the community; they had to be protected from her folly. It would mean little, maybe, little to balance out the scales of her immortal soul. But in the interim, it made her feel better, even with his threat ringing in her ears, promising to repeat for the rest of her life in her nightmares.

“Do not worry, Child,” said the Third, looking up at Ava with bright new eyes.

“Your fear sours the air,” frowned the Second, confused, concerned - thinking past herself, tasting the air with new power.

“He is full of many threats, and will be yet. But we’ll temper that tongue of his.” The First smiled, confident now, her arms folded. This had been a success beyond what she dreamed - and the thread of Ava, oh, how it exceeded what she last recalled! Truly, if she could be brought into the Coven, it would be a new day for them indeed. But patience had brought her this far, and would take her farther yet. “So do not fret, my Dear One.”

Turning her attention back to the chained demon, the First smiled, the expression merely heightening the cold depths of her eyes, eyes that had once been warm, that not even the stolen power of a demon could bring back to their full humanity. “Bid farewell to your ‘love’,” her voice hitched, caught on a laugh, before she finally let it fly, a hoarse, broken thing. “My angry demon - what was it that you called him, my Dear?”

“…Marlow.” Ava’s voice was little more than a whisper, furtive in the harsh quiet of her home, a home that felt too large and too empty already.
“…Marlow,” repeated the Three, the mundane nature of the name suddenly suffused with a thrum of low power, a lock to the collar around his neck.

“That will do nicely,” said the Second, rubbing her hands together.

“You’re lucky, you know,” said the First, looking at Marlow, her smile smug. “She gave you a name. I wouldn’t have been so kind. But we’ve lingered long enough, haven’t we?”

A nod from the other Two, before they moved closer to the First’s side, flanking her left and right.

“We thank you for your hospitality,” they spoke, the air trembling. “And will take our leave. Come now, Marlow.” Their words were a tug on an invisible leash, compelling him to move forward, forbidding him to move his head left or right, keeping him from looking behind. And as they left, and Ava was left alone in her home, she sank to the floor, the adrenaline that was keeping her on her feet leaving, taking with it the flare of power that had enabled her to remain in the same room.

And buried her face in her hands, overwhelmed.








Days, then weeks. She was plagued by nightmares, as she suspected, the cold anger of his voice leeching into her bones. The community moved on, as if nothing happened, even though Ellie and Raven asked about Marlow’s whereabouts, earning the ire of their mother, who chided him that adult things were not for children. There were moonlight ceremonies to help her heart to heal, to call down another love to her, if she so asked, and presents of rose hip oil and rose quartz, and she would smile, accept them for what they were, try to wrap herself in the warmth of the givers. Their hearts were in the right place, and she could feel the positive intent within the charms.

Nothing from the Angelmakers - save a small note brought to her on the breath of a raven. It was placed outside of her window one night, troubling her, waking her from a dream. It was sealed with black wax, a perfect circle of the new moon, a night of perfect darkness. A thank you from them, the spidery letters charged with immense power, making the paper itself throb in her hands as she read. Marlow was serving excellently to their purposes, the letter said, and that the High Dark One would be much obliged if she were to come by and visit the Coven, as it had been too long. The paper was curled round a small vial of dried herbs, held together by a dark, thick fluid - take this for the nightmares, the letter insisted. The echo of that demonic magic was bound to leave its scars. This would heal them - with extra might, it could potentially erase him from her mind all together, should she wish.

But she didn’t.

Turning the bottle over and over in her hand, Ava wondered, legitimately, what was happening to him. If he cared. If it even mattered.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

When it drank of him, of his essence, he felt fear. A demon had no soul, no representation of their deepest self, beyond the magical essence that made up what they were. His power stemmed from it, pulsed with it, formed of the maelstrom of hellish energy that resided within and fueled by the sins of the mortal souls that he fed upon. When the crones regained their youth, using his power as a catalyst, hatred spilled from him. But he was ever patient, one who watched and waited and found that moment for freedom. Even as they enjoyed their reward for subjugating him he planned, scheming, examining the flow of magic that trapped him, the woven threads they grasped his essence. There was not much he could do, not immediately, but that didn't mean he couldn't plan for such things.

"Say goodbye to your 'love'."

The words were a command to him, shackled as he was. Rage granted him some measure of defiance. The Three controlled his actions, but they did not control everything. Nor would they, if he'd anything to say in the matter. Still, words were dragged from his lips at their behest, for they wielded more control over him then he wished they would. If nothing else, the Betrayer had given him some measure of free will. A contractor, rather than a slaver.

"Farewell, Betrayer. May your dreams be haunted by the nightmare of your own dishonesty."

Then they were done, gone from this place, their compelling forcing him forward. Draining him as they were, he still managed to reform the veil about himself, demonic features receding from sight once more, to be replaced by the grim expression of a defiance human. There was no looking back, no desire to see the human who'd sold him as if he were cattle to be traded. All for some desire to be free of him, to not take responsibility for her own choices. How very... human...

-------------

He did not know where they were. At some point, the Three had used his power to transport them all to whatever hole they claimed as their own. Their disciples were little better than them, eager to poke and prod at the demon that had been captured and bound. Indeed, within the weeks he found himself here, many had come to experiment upon him, enacting magical rituals to peer into him, trying to see past that which what he was. He took a grim satisfaction in their frustration and failure. Even bound, they could not see past the veil he wrapped around himself. Even drained, he still had the strength to deny their Sight.

But he was growing weaker. He could feel it, every time one of the Three drew upon his power to fuel their own rituals and practices. Every time they suckled at the fountain that was his essence, he could feel the fire within grow dimmer. They came in person, every now and again, to speak to him, to mock him, to tease him with their plans. His rage at the revaluation, that he was to be used as a mere battery for their own rituals, gave him purpose. With purpose came planning, and the slow weaving of his own schemes.

They stored him in a dark room, somewhere quiet and uninteresting, if only to keep unwanted attention away from him. He was guarded of course, the Three were not foolish enough to trust entirely in the collar that even now sat upon his neck. They had sealed him within a ritualistic circle, a cage for a demon like himself, a barrier he could not cross. They had surrounded that with mystical constructs, spirits bound to objects, to watch him endlessly for any sign of struggle. He took some grim amusement that even in this they had to work together. Ava, the Betrayer, had managed to restrain him by herself, though it had drained her greatly. It would be amusing how much effort his jailers were going through to ensure he stayed in place if not for how much he wanted to tear them limb from limb and feast upon their souls.

But such considerations were mere fantasy. Even as he watched and waited, his power was slipping from his grasp. Drained for the idle amusements of this coven for whatever endless toils they sought to achieve. As days passed into weeks, time measured only by the coming and going of whoever decided to prod at the caged demon, he grasped at the edges of his power and wove his webs, hiding away some small measure of his essence. It would not serve much purpose, and if he were drained entirely then it would serve none at all, but even this small bit of power could prove useful if the smallest chance was provided. As ever, he would watch and wait, even as he grew weaker.

But all the while he remained as he was, burning with rage, silently waiting for his chance. Weaker and weaker, the fire of his essence growing dimmer each day, but still he waited, motionless within his cage of rune and sigil. Each day they drained him further, and each day he hid away within the depths of his being just a trickle more of his own power. His human veil suffered for the effort, seemingly growing starved and broken. He afforded a small sense of pride that his human appearance could reflect his steadily starving state.

But still he waited.

Somewhere, he missed the idle days of the past, the few months that he simply existed alongside Ava. So much potential, so many wasted plans, discarded for the simple fear of someone who'd lost her nerve. A low growl emerged into the empty room at the thought of her, the Betrayer. Fantasies of her endless pain were the only passing amusement, alongside the eternal suffering of the Three. He knew he would not have their souls easily, but in time he would. He'd trade much of his own power, and many favors, but they'd all be within his grasp.

A grim smile spread across the demon's face as he felt another tug upon his essence.

He would have his vengeance soon enough, for what was the passage of time to an eternal being?

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The bottle was a medication of sorts. Spiritually, it sucked out the guilt, blew away the wisps of Marlow’s curse. But it did nothing to alleviate the actual cause of the nightmares, the guilt that was rooted deeper than a temporary lack of faith, the guilt that no amount of practical thinking could erase.

It had started small enough; born out of the initial fear under his burning threat. It didn’t make sense to her; why should she feel guilty? She’d summoned a demon who was up to demonic things - of course he would go after children. Or anyone else who tickled his magical fancy. If there was any blame, it would be laid squarely at her feet and there would be no arguing that. It was all her fault; the whole mess of it. Of course he would be angry; he was being put into play by players that he had no idea existed, or were part of the game. There was no reason for him to be upset otherwise; he had shown no interest in their original contract, and, to her, they were just wasting time. There had been no other move, no other interest, since her initial confrontation of him on the couch. Her pride had been wounded enough, but time supplied enough of a suggestion for her to leave it be.

If he has no interest, nowhere to start, then this will be over.

Surely the contract would have been null and void in its own time, due to his inability to hold up his end of the bargain. The tomes, her teachings, showed her nothing one way or the other. How to summon demons, what to ask for - that, of course, was well documented. She supposed the underlying idea was that if one was going to summon a demon, one knew full well what the price would be. There was simply no information on the trickery of such creatures, and Ava had to wonder if it actually existed before her own experiments.

More time passed, and the guilt didn’t ease. Her nightmares were rarely of her own torment, though Marlow’s voice and eyes had threatened such horrors that she couldn’t imagine. No, they were of him, of his suffering.

His suffering.

Throwing back sweaty blankets after being awoken from one such a dream, she sat in bed, pulled her knees up to her chest, and rested her forehead on them. Took in deep breaths, smelling, tasting the air of her apartment, stale with the lingering smell of burned rosemary and salt.

A quick, open-mouthed prayer.

Then she was out of the bed, moving with purpose.







The word “Coven” brought to mind darkened places in the woods, the air thick with smoke and blood and feminine laughter. Such things were, as always, crafted by the minds of jealous men, who, when confronted with the innate knowledge of women of the world around them, felt more at ease by creating horrific lore. Perhaps there may have been covens like that, eons past, but the coven of the Angelmakers was anything but.

At first glance, it was like any other small craft store in town: skeins of yarn dyed in all imaginable colors, trays of seas of beads, jewelry making wire, small trinkets, mannequins clothed in hand-sewn clothing. “Diamonds and Purls” was, in its own way, the premier shop for any novice crafter, with the reasonably priced (and occasionally free) crafting lessons, and all sorts of group activities for those to join in. To those magically inclined, the store hummed with the undercurrent of raw power - to those more skilled, they would think that it was on a leyline, to the novice witch, it was protection.

Ava knew it was none of those; just careful twists of the fabric of the world as a disguise. To her, the small shop was a pulsing core of darkness, a living, sensuous thing that recognized power, that called to it, lured it in with the promise of more. A direct contrast to the warm and sunny innards, the women of all ages that puttered around in its innards, a testament to the unspoken rules that this was a women’s only space: men would feel themselves gently turned away, their interest immediately dulling as they scanned over the balls of yarn, the beaded necklaces. Yet it happened in such a fashion that no one ever thought to question it - after all, who couldn’t relate to the beleaguered husband turning down a visit into the yarn shop?

The bells chimed above the door as Ava entered, steeling herself against the rush of cool, then, the feeling of absolute nothing, an utter absence of anything resembling life - though the shop was full, as usual. The older woman at the front counter, looking up at Ava through time-wizened gray eyes, simply nodded at her, and pointed to a closed door to her left. Entering it, carefully, Ava was greeted by the sight of the Three, amid three others, all talking, laughing, and knitting. Their projects were innocent enough - socks, scarves - and the conversation was the same as any other - gossip, laughter. Only Ava could feel the whisper of power woven into each garment, line by line, enchantments for one such thing or the other. Youthful and unearthly beautiful, the Three looked up in unison at Ava, and smiled.

The Third was the first to speak, setting her needles on her denim clad lap. “And here is our benefactor!”

“It’s been years since she’s come to us so directly,” muttered the Second, as she dampened a length of yarn between her thin lips.

“Is he giving you nightmares?” The First didn’t stop from her knitting, her hands looping round long coils of deep violet yarn. “I thought we’d put something in place for that.”

“Maybe you’re slipping,” snorted the Fourth, a slip of a woman, girl, really, with scads of pale cornsilk blonde hair and eyes the color of the ocean at storm. “You never would have caught him without her to begin with.”

The Fifth clicked her tongue, hiding a laugh. “Entirely possible. I can do something about him, if you’d like.” The Fifth had skin the color of caramel, her head shaved clean, the curve and mold of her skull disturbingly perfect.

“You and who else?” cackled the Sixth. She leaned back, setting down her unfinished sock. Her skin was so dark that it nearly could be called black, with hair of jet that was slicked back in such a polished fashion that it appeared painted on. The First Three seemed chastened; held their tongues.

“I…I wanted to make sure that the transfer was complete. I thought that…” Ava touched her tongue to the roof of her mouth. It was would make no sense to be shy now. “I couldn’t find anything about magical transfers or contracts moving in the books, nor in my memory…And without anything to back it up, I wanted to make sure that it was complete.”

“A rational train of thought,” said the Fourth. “This is why you’re held in such high regards. A shame that you won’t consider joining us, my dear.”

“The Old One was pleased with your gift, and all the more pleased with the Three that brought her,” added the Fifth, looking up with a smile that illuminated her face.

“It is so nice to be this youthful again,” all Six said in unison. “And beautiful. And powerful. We grow stronger with each passing day.”

Ava merely nodded.

“Would you like to see him?” asked the Third, who had resumed her knitting.

“He’s here, you know,” added the Second.

“Here and not here,” said the First.

“And all around us,” said the Six, the walls rippling as if they were breathing, flexing. Shifting from tangible to translucent, alight with sigils, signs, seals, the floor flexed, and in the center of the circle of women, Marlow was born, still chained, emaciated, pale.

Ava could barely hide her gasp of horror.

“No need to be such afeared, Child,” giggled the Third. “He’s well within our bounds - more now that we have the Old Three to maintain our numbers.”

Ava’s sense of magic could complete the story. The knit shop was both a simple shop and a bastion of power - not created over a leyline, like Ava’s neighborhood, but simply a crater carved out of the earth from sheer power, from centuries of practicing witches, determined to have a spot that was all their own. Here, their magic was doubled, tripled - even the most benign of charms could take on a life of its own here. This part of the shop, so heavily spelled and guarded, was an illusion built on the real: the physical space in which she stood was an added magical dimension of sorts, a pocket of space outside of the rules of reality - and it was in this bubble, twisted, merged, built up, that Marlow was kept. No small surprise that it would take all Six doing something like unlocking the door to show him in the plane of reality, allowing him some light from the darkness of his space.

He was so thin, so beaten - what was left of her guilt stabbed fresh within her.

I’ve made things so much worse than how they were before. This is all on me. And I have to finish it, just me…take him, go somewhere completely new, different. Leave my home behind. Find us something….somewhere..I..

“I don’t know what to do,” Ava managed, plaintively, self-pitying. “I never should have summoned him.”

“Oh, Dear - you and that heart,” laughed the First. “He’s here now, and ours. Are you that worried about your soul?”

“I…no.” Ava clenched her fists. “It was forfeit when I summoned him; through the contract.”

“Oh, yes, that,” chuckled the Sixth. “A stroke of genius. Demons cannot love, you know.”

“But..”

“You’re worried about the Contract; we know,” sighed the First. “You can ask him for yourself. And he will be compelled to tell the truth, now, won’t you, Marlow?” The words hummed, twisted round his throat. No lies would be capable of passing from his mouth - not now, not so long as the command held firm.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

He was waiting in silence and darkness when the world shifted itself. One moment he was in pitch black, the next in brilliant light. He blinked at the sudden shift, eyes narrowing at the blinding light. His other senses, on the other hand, gathered more pertinent information in exchange, such as the presence of seven individuals. Six felt familiar enough, suckling on his power like a babe on its mothers tit as they were. The seventh... it took a moment for the memory to come, the familiar taste of her magic, overridden as it was by the power that hummed in the air of this place. But soon enough he had it again, the Betrayer's scent, like sweet wine to the senses. As his eyes adjusted his fixed his gaze upon Her, silent hate and judgement flowing from him, enough to taint the air with it's sheer weight even as they talked around him as if hardly existed.

The command came soon enough, the willing him to speak of the contract, to speak truthfully. Defiance ran through him for a moment, held his tongue for a few precious seconds. They hadn't actually said he must speak immediately, he could technically just stay silent on the matter. But then his essence, bound by contract, gave him the information they sought, informed him of the contracts details. Shock ran through him, then amusement that slowly built within him. They had ask he speak truthfully, and to some extent he wondered if they truly understood the contract, or if they'd just neglected to inform the Betrayer of what exactly it was they'd accomplished. Or rather, what they'd left in the contract. There was always a price to pay, of course, and though they'd changed the service he was required to provide, bound him tighter and tighter within their grasp, shifted to whom he was beholden...

"These Six bind me now, hold the threads to my being within their grasp. But..." A grin of grim amusement, the truth he'd been commanded to speak rising within. Even as the words left his lips, he felt the jolt of alarm, the command to hold his tongue. But too late, for the words already came, informing Ava of the truth behind this new 'contract'. "The price remains the same. What was offered cannot be undone by any hand, mortal or not. Your soul for my service, no matter the master."

A burst of pain, incandescent fury from the most vengeful of his new masters. Weakened as he was he could do little but writhe in agony, but it amused him all the same, and even with that pain shooting through him he began to laugh mirthlessly. A truth even he hadn't known, hadn't realized, until they'd commanded him to speak it. His voice filled the room, his all too human voice, until the agony finally abated and he simply lay hunched upon the floor, chains and collar rattling as his laughter died an ugly death. How utterly like the humans, so eager to take such easy methods to power, when it was not their own price to pay. He wondered now if the Six had even intended to tell the Betrayer of the contract, or if they'd even realized they had not shifted the contract as much as they might have liked.

He sat up then, but spoke no words, still bound by the silent command to still his tongue. But his eyes burned with what little hellfire remained, some small bit of his strength returned by the sin committed by the mere acts of these Six. Sloth, for they had simply taken the easiest route to their desires. Sloth and Envy and Greed. It did little to repair the damage they had done, but even that small burst of strength was enough. The demon's gaze remained fixed on Ava, for now he knew with certainty that her soul was his, and he'd not even had to fulfill his end of the bargain. The ancient magic bound them all now, the Crones had their prize, he would have his, and She... She would be left with nothing for her fear. The Six must have planned this, must have known the limits of their own power...

And with that observation, the threads came into view once more. They wanted Her. The power she wielded, even as self taught as it was. He was a prize, surely, but not THE prize. He was a gift in more ways then one, a source of power for them, but more importantly to their plans a guillotine above Ava's head. They feigned pity, maybe even some of them did feel concern for her, but to bring her into the fold was a temptation far more valuable than any demon. Because if she could pull through one, she could pull through more, or even greater demons. Access to more demonic "batteries" was a prize worth weaving their endless threads, access to knowledge long kept from mortal hands, service from ever greater demons.

What then, the demon questioned, would the Betrayer do about it? Succumb to their silent plans, allow the web to finish being woven? Or would she struggle and break free, seek escape from the slowly closing trap? He could see the threads even now, the routes to freedom, to safety. It was his way, after all, to patiently watch, to weave his own threads, to offer that which other people sought. Even now, threads formed before him, for Ava still held power over the contract. She was the price, after all, the original bargainer, and even if she'd surrendered the contract, it was still her presence that kept him in this world. That fact alone gave her power, over him and the contract that bound him, and even if they shifted the contract itself, they could not erase the original request entirely. The ancient magic remembered, and if she demanded its return...

 

[Apollo Wilde]

His hatred was bile on her tongue, burning her senses, threatening to blunt them all. It was only through that extraordinary will of hers that she kept conscious; her focus locked on him. It was bolstered by the hot flare of annoyance. She was there because of her own guilt, because she had felt bad, wanted to take responsibility. And now here he was, glaring at her, like he had any right to be angry. His anger at her was enough to fuel her fire, to keep her strong, no matter how weakened he looked. How was she to know that it wasn’t some sort of facade, meant to pull on that last bit of compassion that she may have had?

“A service,” she said, feeling the same bile that rose in her stomach give her tongue strength, “That you’ve yet to render. And I doubt you’re in any position to do so now.”

That was the simple fact of the matter, the loophole that had been woven into the nature of the contract.

“What happens if you drain him dry?” her attention was back to the Six, who watched with no small amount of amusement. They, too, had their secrets that they sat on: Ava was certain of that. But to what end, it didn’t matter now. They’d grown fat off of him, that was obvious. The old magics reinforced, strengthened with stolen youth and power. In the weeks that had passed, they’d feasted on him without a hint of remorse, fed from him eagerly, even as the very power they stole was looped back round into keeping him, holding him there. She had to wonder - what would happen if she snapped that connection - would they instantly be drained, and what of him? The magic that kept him there was beyond her abilities - not without a boost. And that boost - she wasn’t sure where it would come from, or if it was even within her abilities.

Had she wanted it.

And now she was unsure.

This is my responsibility.

“Answer me, Marlow - what would happen to you if you are completely drained? And if you are unable to hold up your end of the contract?”

She spoke, without the power of the Six, but what she lacked in their command, their reinforced raw strength, she made up now in anger, the room trembling at its roots. The Six would turn to look at her, only the First and the Sixth showing signs of concern, the others, different versions of incredulity.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

"My service into to you any more. It's to them. Your simply the one left to pay the price for it."

Still, her other question burned as it touched the air. Fear, true and genuine, shot through him at the conclusion she asked after. To be drained completely, to have the deepest well of his being run dry of the magic it needed. Though her question demanded the truth, the command of his new masters forced it from his throat, in truth he didn't require anything for the words to spill from his mouth, and he could do little in his weakened state to keep the terror from leaking through in his tone. To be drained dry of all that he was held only one result for a demon.

"I will cease to be. There will be no death for me, no afterlife, no final destination. Demons have no souls. We are eternal only so long as the fire burns. Quench the flames, and all that remains is ash." The demon curled in on himself as the torture of his master's subsided. Humans, even in death, could look forward to their immortal soul continuing on. It was the gift of mortal life. Demons and Angels received no such end, death led only to absolute destruction, a final end that gave no solace of an afterlife. He would simply cease to be. "A contract unfulfilled is simply a bargain that need not be paid. Should I fail to deliver upon a request, then the deal is void, your soul returned to you without consequence. But you have bargained that contract away to them, so it is there requests I must fulfill."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She listened, with the impassiveness of a queen listening to the pleas of a guilty man. Then, with some remnant of ancient imperiousness, she kept her eyes on him.

“Though, in theory, they could drain you, and kill you, and what then, of the price that you would have demanded of me?”

Power rippled the room, tugged at the seams of the magic holding it together. And then, he would feel it - an additional drain, the delicate lips of Ava pressed to his neck, his shoulders, his upper back, sipping tentatively from him. Enough to know that though her body, her powers, would have begged, would have loved for her to devour him. It was the fierceness of her will that wrenched those ghostly lips from him, allowed her to take a step back.

Running a finger across her lower lip, she looked down at him. She knew, had to have known, that he could feel her drink from him. "And what requests, then, Marlow, have you to fulfill?" Though her question was directed to him, a sharp eye was cast towards the Six. Could it be possible that they were requesting more, making their own contracts, adding to her 'tab', knowing that they wouldn't have to pay? Or, perhaps, it would have been easier to ask for things from a demon that they would drink dry.

Trapped on both sides, and by my own hand, Ava thought, with the slightest bit of bitterness.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

"The price must be paid. Always. No one said that price must be collected."

Her soul would be torn from her body and cast into the endless yawning voids of the Abyss, only to have no one on the other side to collect. She would drift, without rest or peace, for the price must be paid. It was little comfort to him, he would not exist to even relish in her misery, but that was of no consequence to her, was it?

"You will exist in limbo, a tortured lonely existence without meaning or purpose. Your soul will be devoid of any place, or the only one who could lay claim to your being would no longer be."

He felt the additional drain then, the sudden, subtle slipping of more of his already weakened essence being pulled from him. It was like the fluttering kiss of a lover against his skin, and all the more horrid for the sensation. Even with the little she drank of him, his skin seemed to sink even further into his being, muscle seeming to weaken further, a long sigh as his breath was nearly stolen from his lungs. Weariness infected his being, the want to simply sleep, such a foreign thing to a demon who had no cause for such things. Hatred kept him awake, alert, waiting for the moment he could find his freedom. The moment he could release what power he had hidden, kill at least one of the wretches that shackled him.

Her question forced compliance from him, their command ensuring it so. Requests had been made of him, visits in the passing months from each that he was certain the others did not know of. Alarm rang in his sense, some of the coven suddenly realizing what had been asked, realized the sudden dangers of her questions. Silent commands came for him to keep his mouth shut, but they came too late to stop him entirely.

"Power." The word spilled forth with a hiss of contempt. "They all seek power. They wish for the death of foes, of each other, of rivals. They wish for your loyalty, your souls, to be bound. They want YOU more than anything else-"

Pain snaps through his body again, the vengeful one commanding his silence with her will. He writhes once more upon the floor, biting back a scream of agony as the witch's wrath burns white hot within his essence. Hate lanced through him once again as he grasped which was forcing such agony upon him, the fifth a mere petty child. She would be the first to die, her throat torn apart, limbs ripped from her body.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Then, the strangest thing:

Ava laughed.

“So, truly no different from how it is now.” The levity of her response did little to mask the deepness of her sorrow, of the pain of her existence. The last hope in that futile wish she’d made, when she’d willingly given herself up to the depths of her despair, to have someone, anyone, truly care for her. Need her, not to cast her away until her flesh no longer enticed with its secrets and wants. It would be hardly that, she knew in her bones, but what was one loneliness for another, one doomed existence for another?

His response, short, cut off: almost as if she could feel his weakening, his pain, as the Six collectively moved at once to silence him. There was silence then, a heavy, leaden thing that sat over the seven women in the room. Ava was not a fool; she knew that they wanted her, and that her “gift” of Marlow had only increased that desire, and that, in this coven, there were no friends, only civil enemies. But their backbiting among each other had always kept them from working towards the ultimate goal of her, and it appeared that her luck there would hold. With the near limitless power of Marlow at their hands, it would be too tempting for them to keep drawing on him to advance their own ends, to get where they wanted before they came after her.

Of course, unless they used him up too rapidly and then came after her, eager for her to rouse another demon. But, perhaps they couldn’t go that far. Not with her soul still tethered to one bargain.

The First would be the first to break the silence, her voice tentative, carefully slipping from her mouth, a weak plea to the others to hold the peace, for now.

“Well, my dear, you know how matters are in the Coven-”

“One does not reach the power that we have by sitting by and being pretty,” cut in the Third, tired of this conversation, tired of the friction within the group, tired of this demon’s insufferable mouth and impotent rage. “And you knew that from the moment that you summoned us. Do not be so bold, so fool-hardy, to plead innocence now.”

“You wanted to save your own soul,” sighed the Sixth, joining in with the exasperation of the Third. “And you have your answer. Your gift,” spat with some dim contempt, the word nearly a physical boot in Marlow’s face, “Has been accepted, even if it was given without aplomb.”

Ava was quiet; the Angelmakers each made a valid point, and she could not deny that. But, as she looked down at the pitiful thing that was once Marlow, she felt the twist of her stomach, the damnably human trait of guilt, of not wanting to leave the weak. It sweetened the air around them, slipping from her like perfume from a flower. The very sweetness that made the Six grimace, eyeball each other in disgust. It was the milk of human kindness, a smell of trouble.

“…And now that you’ve seen him, you will be departing now, yes?” It was a question that wasn’t one, a command that it was time for her to leave. And that Ava did, with one last glance back at Marlow.







It would take time for her to do what she did -

And that was why, a week later, Marlow would suddenly find the prison that he was locked in shattered, pried open, with none other than a sweat-covered and bloodied Ava, in the loose robes that spoke of ancient, old magics and forgotten rituals.

“Come on.” It was a command, a demand for him to take her outstretched hand. Deep cuts rent the pale flesh of it, blood dripping down her hands, her wrists, her arms. Her feet were bare, but the soles were cut, as if she had been walking over broken glass. The world outside of his prison bubble was unearthly still, pitch black, as if they had been locked into a crypt far beyond the reaches of the waking world. He’d have enough senses about him to know that this too, was Ava’s doing, an unnaturally strong amount of magic that was slowly, but surely, ripping her apart with the delicacy of a million razors, invisible to the eye, and no less deadly.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

So she left, guilt spilling from her like sweet water, and just as unhelpful. She fled at the command of the Six, fled with her tail tucked between her legs. Yet to the demon's eyes, to his senses, he could feel something else beneath the guilt and sorrow and resignation. The steel of her will, hardening as it had the very first night when she'd called him forth. Her soul did not sing its defiance, how could it, but although she obeyed the Six, departed from this place without a word, the threads he saw forming around her promised... something else.




They came many times in the week, the First most of all, as if she knew what was coming. She drank deeply of the well that was his essence, pulled power from as much as she could. But there was only so much that could be drained away in the span of a week. The demon would admit that the passage of time had been lost to him anyway, hidden away with that dark room. It meant little to mark the passage of anything except for the comings and goings of the Six who imprisoned him here. As he grew weaker, he could almost convince himself that the steel he seen within the Betrayer was just wishful thinking, an opportunity he'd imagined, or perhaps the Six had already moved against her.

His silent fears proved unfounded.

His prison was ripped open by mortal hands wielding power that washed over the room like a warm breeze. It did little to feed his flickering essence, but the feel alone was invigorating. His eyes, temporarily blind, adjusted swiftly, taking in the battered and bloodied form of the Betrayer in all her mortal glory. There was a moment, a single moment, where he considered rebuking her, denying her offered aid for the simple pleasure of spiting her efforts. But cold logic won out, freedom more important than wounded pride, at least for now. There would be plenty of time to visit retribution upon the woman later.

He took her hand, felt the surging power that tore at her frail human frame, and frowned despite himself. The concept confused him, the use of power ill advised. His grip, weakened as it was, remained strong enough that his grasp was rough, even as he glared into Ava's eyes.

"Why?"

The question was simple spoken, complicated beneath. Why would she endanger herself so thoroughly to retrieve him? Why was she channeling enough magic through her body that she was threatening to rend her existence into tattered scraps? Why was she defying the Six so blatantly, when more subtle methods surely would have provided much better results?

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Because you are my burden,” she spat. It wasn’t out of venom, but out of the immense strain it put on her body to hold back the wards of the Six, to keep them locked in a dreamless sleep, frozen in the pocket of time her magic had created. The cost would not be her life, nor her soul (had she still had one to barter with), but it would neatly sip years off of her life, taxing organs, mental facilities - aging them with every second. The force of her will, the desire to do the right thing, to try and set all of this straight, yet again, was what kept the magic from eating away at her right then and there, reducing her to bone, no, past that, to little more than charred dust in an outline that was once human.

There would be no need to tell him that she did not have long - and so she did not speak, but bundled him up beneath her arm, holding him up, if not dragging him along, further and further now, so they could get out of this shop, out of the mire that was the skill of the Coven. The world around him shifted, rainbows on soap bubbles, shifted constantly and tirelessly - they walked out into the main room of the store, past customers who were none the wiser, past the glazed eyes of the witches among them, who seemed to be looking straight through them; the most powerful of them on the floor could feel the shifting of power in her back molars, but it was written off as no more than a minor tooth ache. Still the world shifted; the prison, the back room, the labyrinth of comings and goings that the shop concealed. And yet Ava pressed forward, blood now leaking from the corners of her mouth, her eyes -

Outside.

Blessedly, outside.

He was bundled into her car, carelessly, nearly thrown into the front seat as she got in.

It was a quiet ride back to her home.






Every step she took was agony. But she took them all the same, refusing to fall in front of him. What she’d done, what she’d given, was sheer folly. What else, though, was there for her to lose? Only her power kept the Six, no, the entire Coven, from crashing down the doors, from razing the neighborhood that now dozed under the cover of deep night. Something about using such powerful magics had skewed her sense of time - no, greater than that, the world’s sense of time, with night falling so quickly that it seemed little more than a dream, some mass illusion.

The Coven, yes, save for the highest of them all, who she could imagine was laughing now, content to let Ava cast herself deeper into folly, and for what? That stupid, stupid misplaced sense of guilt. Had she truly laid her burdens to the High Dark One, it would have been nothing, with their head combined, to have found a way to bring her soul back.

Or was that more delusion?

Perhaps.

“You’re safe, for the moment,” she rasped at him, her voice burned almost entirely away due to the magics that had flowed through her. Every word, every breath, was tinted with the burnt metal of her own blood. Had he wanted to finish her off, there would not be much of a fight left in her, the energy to keep standing rapidly fleeing her as she fully indulged in the safety of her own home. They had no pursuers; would not have them for some time yet. That much, she was sure of.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

He resisted none at all as she moved him. His physical and magical strength he reserved, held in paranoid preparation for... something. An attack, another betrayal, anything that he might have to fight through, futile though it might be. But nothing came. Ava walked them out, the witches of this place seemingly ignoring them entirely, even as the Betrayer quite literally spent her life for the power needed to accomplish the feat. Soon, they were in a car, driving through the streets, though he remained alert, paranoia having him tense at every possibility of a threat.

Sooner still they were once again in her home, wards and ownership strong against any possible intrusion. Even now, months passed, he could feel the remnants of his own work within the house, see wards he'd placed clumsily incorporated into new wards that hummed with power. Magically, the house had been fortified to the point of being near impregnable without an invitation within. It would not surprise him to learn that the neighbors considered this new form of security to be a tad overkill. To him, it was a safe haven to lick his wounds, even if it was the Betrayer who still held the cards.

Her will kept her standing, kept her moving, kept her from showing the weakness and fragility she no doubt felt. His own will, broken and weakened as it was, offered no such luxury. Her words, that he safe, was met with a dismissive grunt of disbelief, but try as he might the relief that flood his limbs stole what strength he had, he'd barely made it to the sparse living room before he collapsed, his weakened essence flickering as the magic he'd squirreled away in secret finally fled his form. The veil he'd stubbornly kept his place frayed once more, fingers becoming claws and teeth sharpening. But where once his eyes would have blazed with hellfire, they were smoking embers, no sign of the heat that represented his essence. A jolt of fear shoved its way to the forefront of his thoughts. The embers were weakened, sputtering, barely alive.

He was so tired. So very tired.

"You sacrificed much." A tired laugh then, echoing in the room inhumanly, some small measure of his strength returning in his grim mirth. "So much lost, all to retrieve a dying demon. How... pointless."

His great regret that he would not be able to spite her after all. He perish long before she would, fade away into nothing while she watched. Perhaps she'd find some use for the last scraps of his essence before that too scattered into nothing.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Dying, but not quite dead.” It was her meager attempt at humor, batted back to him with all of the energy of a boxer on his last round, stumbling against the hard fists of his opponent. She managed a few steps past him, before she collapsed as well, with enough presence of mind to reach out and grab his leg. If she was surprised by the distinctly non-human form that graced her touch, she was too far gone to express it.

“How do I bring you back?” It was a simple enough question, though one that could have easily been mocked. How could she, with her own life energy flickering dully, manage to bring him back from the brink? How easy would it have been for her to use that very same touch to drink what was left of him to bolster her own health?

Still, as her body weakened, folded in on itself, that spark of will burned strong, kept her going. She could rest after she’d seen to him; that much she was sure of. The more existential questions about whys, hows - those weren’t to be answered now, if ever.

If I get out of this, she thought, I’m going to have to re-define our contract.

But for now, his form, far from human, was still close to warm, and, if she closed her eyes for a moment, she could believe he was human, that she was not truly alone.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

"Sin." Even speaking of it felt pointless, but it was just as pointless to leave her question unanswered and perhaps Ava would find an answer after all. She'd proven, if nothing else, to be incredibly resourceful when she chose to be. "Debauchery. Hedonism. Indulge in vice, in desires, in spite. Anything to fan the flames of my essence. If there is anything that can be considered a demon's food, it is this, for it is the fuel for our very being."

It did little good in his eyes. She was in no condition to be indulging in whatever base hungers lurked within her soul. She could hardly move herself anymore than he could himself. If he were home, in hell, he'd be able to feed upon the souls consigned to eternal suffering, feasting upon their sins even as they suffered for them. Here it did him little good. He was supplied the energy he needed through her, and the contract forged, but he was so weakened he could not pull that sustaining energy through. It was impossible to sustain himself on the embers that remained, he was too strong for such a weak source to provide what he needed.

He imagined he could feed easily upon someone else, the envious woman perhaps, or even someone else who just happened to have the necessary taint of sin. Still, Ava seemed remarkably stubborn at bearing the burden of his presence alone, he doubted she'd be at all pleased with the idea of having him feast upon the sins of another.

His eyes closed tiredly, resigning himself to slowly wasting away. Another ember of his essence quietly died out, the warmth he normally exuded growing colder every moment. He wondered if this is was mortals felt, slipping into their own deaths. Just... resignation.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Sin.

Well, that was simple enough - in theory. In practice, not at all. It was past the time of being “neighborly”, of walking from door to door hoping to find some spark of something, anything, that might keep him with her. Was her own hubris not enough to keep him going - the hubris that had, in part called him here. Wasn’t the house steeped in sin? The pride he’d wounded over and over, when he’d denied her, the lust she’d wielded sloppily, under the premise of care, when she mounted him on that very same couch that they were near to?

Memories, locked, baked into the depth of the house, were apparently not enough. But there was enough in her, enough pride, enough self-righteousness, stubbornness, that called to her, that caused her to press her palms hard to the floor. She was no green witch; could not rely on the soothing bounty of the earth, scarred by man as she was. She was no weaver of the magnetic fields that men called chi or prana, the energy that flowed through each living body. Her magic had no name; drew from dark corners of half-remembered dreams, languages long since dead that had been baked into her skin, woven into her bones, before she even left her mother’s womb.

And now, she would draw on those same unnamed things, out of hubris, out of guilt, out of sorrow, out of desperation, of wanting to make things right, yes, maybe, but perhaps not so much with him, by him, as with something higher. The thought that, yes, if she was to die, sooner than she had thought, then she would go feeling at least something, tethered to the same creature who had taught her body songs she never thought it would know. He could feel it, perhaps, the building inside of her, as she managed to get to her hands and knees, crawling over to him, blood drying on the soles of her feet.

The robe would come free as she moved, its deep black velvet giving birth to her nude form, the roll of her stomach, the weighed sway of her breasts, topped with dark nipples that were erect, both from cold and from strange arousal. He was vaguely human, now, those eyes nothing like what he’d shown her before, even in the depths of his own lust, but they were his nonetheless, and familiar as any passing memory. Her hand pressed against his chest, ran down the length of it, past where there would have been a navel, towards the juncture of his legs. Further, now, her hand slipped between his legs, stroking the inside of his thighs.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

With his eyes closed he did not notice the shift in her weight as she propped herself up. With his senses fading, he did not taste the sudden steel that hardened her will and drove her back to movement and action. Her stubborn refusal to let go of life without feeling something was similarly missed as he began to drift farther into the endless sleep.

Then her hand pressed against his chest, and with that physical contact his demonic hunger tasted the first flickers of her lust. The dark magic that helped to ignite it, that lent itself to her at her merest whim, if only to do something as simple as grant her some temporary strength, it called to him, fed his malnourished essence with its presence, open the gates that her desire would reignite the embers. Her hand trailed down his almost human frame, conjuring forth a shudder, though from arousal or hunger was unclear even to him. He drank of the lust that trickled from her soul, drank what she gave, but forced himself to leave the lust within her be, so that it might grow and provide more.

Her hand, stroking the inside of his thighs, brought forth a more physical reaction, his body beginning to respond. Still he was almost lethargic in his responses, a low hum the extent of his vocalizations, a deep rumble that somehow conveyed his desire for her to continue. The embers within had ceased dying, holding steady in their weakened state, and his eyes opened to gaze at the woman who held herself above him, watching her, taking in the nakedness of her form. She was battered, broken, hurting.

To his demonic eyes, she shone like a star, the dark promise she held a thing unrivaled in its beauty.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Some sound, any sound, from him, in this wizened state, was promising. Her own desire was sputtering, a flame fighting against the high wind. There was much for it to fight against; the overwhelming fatigue of her body, the fatigue of her mind. Her will was a hand held in front of the candle, keeping it going. The contact between her body and his was warming to her; her hands continued to rub the inside of his thighs, moving to his knees, his calves, her hands stroking, kneading.

At one point in her caressing, did she realize that this was the most she’d ever touched him. Even in their mad tryst on the couch, she hadn’t touched him more than she needed to, save the stroking of his face - that had felt natural. And so she worked her way back up his body, lingering on the corded muscle of his thighs again, before her hands slipped over his chest, rubbing, as if molding him from clay. A tender work of art, her body moving back and forth in languid motions, stroking in broad swipes of her hands. The lust was there, yes, but something else; the sadness, yes, sadness, at his broken state, a bit of guilt, though it was being buffeted down, and then, there - something sweeter, yes, dark magics that slipped from her body into his, a low murmuring from her lips, the old memory of how to heal.

His throat - the ridge of cartilage that made his Adam’s apple. It fell under her hand, and in his state, her hand felt impossibly large, bringing with it the threat that with a bit of extra force, she would have him in a chokehold, or that she could crush it. A shift, and her touch grew lighter, feathers against him, stroking, caressing - then, to the side of his face, and she was over him, her eyes locked onto his, looking into them, looking for a sign of life, for a desire to keep going, for permission for her to move further. A shift, and she looked down at his mouth - a temporary glance, so quick as to be a mistake; the room was far too dark to see entirely clearly. But she was illuminated by the darkness that bolstered her.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

As he breathed in, slow and steady, he felt rather than heard the whispers of dark, ancient magics pulled from her lips, her tongue, her soul. It poured into him, a salve for his hellish essence, coaxing life back into his tired frame, healing damage left untended from the tortures he'd endured. Even as it did so, her touch glided over him, the physical connection leaving tingling trails as if that too were touched by the power that spilled from her. Wherever her fingers found purchase, the veil he wore split, partially revealing the demon beneath. Pale, soft skin was replaced with ash white bone, hard to the touch, rough against Ava's touch.

Then her hand was upon his throat, a threat to his demonic mind. For a moment, paranoia and betrayal shot through the demon, eyes flaring briefly with wrath. Before any reaction, however, her touch lightened, ghosting fingertips across the flesh of his neck, caressing his face. Paranoia vanished, replaced with... something. The demon could not place the feelings, only that it was not similar to a threat, that he felt no warning bell of danger. Instead, another rumble of approval, stronger now, and an almost imperceptible lean against Ava's hand, or was that merely a ghost sensation against her palm?

As he breathed out his magic, trickling back into existence with the slight restoration of body and essence, pooled at his command. Days later he would consider the use of it, convince himself it was only logical to restore the Betrayer as much as she was restoring him, for if she were healed than she could more easily indulge her lusts and feed his essence. In the moment, however, there was not deeper thought. A clawed hand rose from his side and pressed to the warm flesh of Ava's stomach, demonic power slipping like threads through his fingertips into her frame. His power bolstered her frame, even as his dark power, called forth by her ancient magic, whispered to her lust, stoked it higher, sang to her soul of dark pleasures.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

A small start as his hand pressed firmly into her stomach. She was vulnerable, doubly so, naked above him like this. With his human guise slipping every moment, she became all too aware of how frail her flesh was in comparison to him.

But yet…

He was still hers. Still bound to her by the contract, the unwritten rules that she was beginning to realize that she knew so little, little of. She shifted now. From leaning over him, she moved to straddle him, before laying her body entirely over his, head to head, stomach to stomach. Atop him, her body, normally so solid to her, seemed little more than a sheet draped over his body. But this way, she could feel so much more of him, the power, yes, that raw power, his strange form, somehow, more arousing than the guise of humanity that was slipping from him. He was hers; how had she thought that sending him to the Angelmakers would absolve her from that?

Slipping up his body now, she was face to face with him, peering into those dark burning eyes, those distinctly other eyes. Her lips met his, desperate, wholly inappropriate to their current situation, her still broken, her body leaking its life, though not as swiftly at it had before. She was in no danger of dropping dead above him, no, but the wounds of her soul manifested on her physical flesh, begging for rest, for stillness. She wouldn’t give into that, not yet - pulling her lips from his, gasping for air, she spoke, her voice little more than a harsh whisper -

“Show me.”

The magics that flowed through her, into him, from him into her, carried the rest of her request, unspoken, unable to be voiced. She wanted him to drop all of his human facade, to show her his true form, to see what it was that she had captured, had lost, and had wrangled back to her, and yes, that power, yes…that power that stoked a desire that burned deeper and more primal than she had ever felt before. It was intoxicating, enough for her to get drunk on - a desire that could have been similar to the Angelmakers, but different. They had wanted his power to bolster their own, to suck from him. She wanted his power to thrust into her, for his fierceness to wipe away all memories of that past lover, to cradle her as she tried to cradle him now, lust and something else, that longing, that tinge of sorrow, still there, still longing to connect, to need, to want to be needed.