Cupidity

There was a termite. And it was gnawing through Willow’s brain like a cancer.

Tunneling regret. Burrowing sorrow. Niggling guilt and excreting depression.

Because… her mother wasn’t crazy after all… Jezebellia McKenzie wasn’t a schizophrenic with delusions of grandeur. She wasn’t a paranoid psycho suffering from hallucinations about the devil. She wasn’t wrong about demons freely roaming the earth to do as they pleased.

And she wasn’t lying when she said that Willow was something of impossible value. Someone that needed to be protected. Preserved. Hidden away from the prying eyes of hell for fear of what might happen if she was found. To think that for twenty-one years, Willow had perceived herself as a freak. A miscreant. The child of a lunatic on her way to the asylum. To think that she had regarded her own mother as someone worth institutionalizing.

Hating her mother. For being cruel enough to have littered her daughter with tattoos before she’d ever reached the age of legality. Hating her mother. For placing upon her a necklace that could neither be removed nor broken, no matter how horrifically that necklace was used against her… Hating her mother. Always. For being fearful. Cautious. Skeptical of every alley and suspicious of every person. Hating her mother.

For protecting her from something like Sable.

“Please don’t cry… Had she wanted you to believe, she could have proved to you such lineage as she possessed.” Sable glanced at her over those big stupid glasses. Scrolling through his cell phone. Nibbling his lip. Curling a lock of short dark hair around his finger, “She could have proved her power to you as I did, but opted out in favor of you leading a somewhat normal life.”

Are you trying to comfort me?

“Tears would be a detriment to that pretty face of yours.”

Great… Thanks… I guess… Willow brushed a tear impatiently from her eye. If she was going to cry, it wasn’t going to be around Sable. And if she was going to be upset, it definitely was not going to be around Sable. Not around a demon. He might get off on it… so is there an American Hogwarts in Portland?

“No. Just the Robins. Some wiccan held in high regard.”

Are you going to call them?

“Just one.”

Why?

“She lacks a moral compass.”

You’re calling a psychopath?!

“No. I mean she literally lacks a moral compass. She was born without one. Kind of like you were born without vocal chords?” Sable chuckled to himself and put the device on speaker. Waggling his eyebrows excitedly. Brr… brr… brr… “She’s a witch specializing in ingenuity. Invention, if you will. Demons and angels use her. Monsters and monster hunters. Anyone with an issue can count on Felicia, and she revels in the chaos thus created.”

Well then why are you using a phone? Can’t you just… I don’t know. Telepath her or something? Doesn’t she have a magic mirror or an owl to fly her letters?

Sable just stared at her. For a moment. Black eyes gleaming amusement as they flared and oscillated in that otherworldly fire. Finding her cute. Finding her adorable, even. The way his lips curved and his eyes glowed warmly… Like she was a little kid asking why the sky was blue. Or a new employee asking how the coffee maker worked. Or that person in the movie theater hiding beneath your sleeve but still begging to know what was happening…

Grinning, really, as though she had just inquired if the world was truly round or if you should go to the ER for a runny nose.

Lighting up a cigarette. Somehow. Willow wasn’t quite sure where he’d extracted the cancer from. Or how he’d set it afire. Or in what way he’d managed to do so whilst balancing beneath a book twice the size of the desk he had leaned the chair against.

Twiddling his hair. Then twiddling a cigarette. No break. No pause. No fidgeting or squirming. Just snapping his fingers before his face and igniting sparks blue and purple, red and orange. A rainbow of faintly sulfurous intoxication leaping and dancing. Before vanishing. And leaving them with a pleasant aroma of mint and tobacco drifting lazily about the house on a current of nonchalance.

But finally he just said, “If I wanted her brain scrambled, sure I could telepathically contact Felicia. And hope she did not retaliate… But magic mirrors went out of style in the sixteenth century. Nobody has them anymore. Not after Reuben Shadowalker allowed his aura to spread. And thus caused witch hunting to become popular amongst humans… You are familiar with the art of witch hunting, correct? You went to school? I’m not going to read blank pages in your education banks?”

Of course I went to school! People accused of witchcraft were… burned at the stake… or crushed with stones… and stuff… we never learned about some knockoff version of Luke Skywalker though. Just that… well that it sucked to be a person back then because you could be accused for anything. That was all. Why are you shuddering?

“I’m not shuddering.”

I’m pretty sure you just shuddered. I’m absolutely certain. One-hundred-percent positive. Who’s Reuben Shadowalker? He must be one bad mamma-jamma, to make a demon shudder like that.

“He is no one you need to be concerned with.” Sable rolled his eyes and turned slightly away, “He’s dead now anyway.”

“Felicia, speaking.”

Sable startled bolt upright in his chair. Like someone had rammed a broomstick up his ass. Posture posh. Chest puffing happily. A sly grin illuminating his face mischief. Glee faintly glowing a candle’s flicker in those eyes, “Felicia! My darling Witch of the West! How is it in the rainy lands?” a puddle of ash growing steadily upon the desktop like a miniature mountain of contemplation.

“Sable.” the feminine reply peeved. In the sexiest voice Willow had ever heard. Low. Sultry. Slightly graveled by a hint of smoke and melodious with a musical twang, “You are aware that I do not hold with such cult like behavior.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But you are a witch. And you live in the West. Does that not make you a witch of the West?”

“What’s your point, demon?”

Sable beamed and twisted happily in his chair. Like a schoolboy excited to speak with his first crush on the phone. Eyes disappearing in the expanse of his smile. His lashes were really quite long. Very long. He could be a mascara model. With those eyes. Those lashes. Maybelline would pick him up in a flash, “I have acquired a creature whose body art is most unsavory.”

“What is it?”

“Uh…” Sable raked his gaze over Willow. Sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce like a kinder gardener before him. Hands clasped patiently in her lap. Waiting on story time. Excitedly, she had to admit. Despite the guilt termite. After all, it’s not every day you step into one of those clichés where the main character is informed that they are special and the world is not actually what it seems.

She had a lot more questions. In fact, she was generating a new question with each passing second like an incessant game of Trivia. First and foremost: what the hell is the difference between a fallen angel and a demon? The answer to that seemed pretty important… also, and probably most importantly, what kind of demon was Sable? Was he really as innocent and childish as he seemed, or was he going to cut her open and devour her soul?

Head cocked to the side in a morbid curiosity. Listening intently. Soaking up the knowledge spilling before her and memorizing each nuance of its obviously deeper correlation to Willow and her current situation. A witch without a moral compass. A Shadowalker. Witch-hunting. Magic mirrors and demons with cellular devices. Demons with cellular devices who shuddered.

Finally Sable just shrugged over a sigh, “She’s humanoid. That much is certain. Sturdy, can take a good demon beating. Doesn’t think twice about shooting people apparently, so maybe she’s just psychotic…”

“So what, like you can’t get in her pants or…?”

“No, Fe-Fe, I can’t get in her pants. She’s covered from head to toe in holy symbols like some kind of totem to the gods. Her pants are the last thing on my mind. Also, her necklace is of Angelite.”

“Lots of necklaces are made of Angelite.”

“Not the stone! The holy metal.”

“Really? She must be pretty powerful then. To have earned such protection.”

“Yeah but if she were only that, her mommy wouldn’t give a shit about the way she smelled. Halflings are born all the time, these days. Wednesday I passed one of Cassielus’s, you’d think that guy would learn how to keep it in his pants.”

“We could always use more goodie-two-shoes in this world.”

“I cannot wait until he falls to Lust.”

“Doubtful. He always goes home.”

“And how would you know that?”

“He leaves a note in the morning.”

“You fucked an Angel of Principality?!”

“We exchange knowledge of impossible procreation.”

“You’ll put succubi out of a job.”

“Succubi are so fourteenth century.”

“You weren’t even born yet, lovely.”

“No, but it’s amazing what you can find on google these days.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you have a familiar?”

“I can acquire one.”

“And you won’t call Sydney?”

“No. I refuse to share.”

“Fine. So this is what you should probably do…”