Cupidity

After Sable’s last familiar, Bellus, passed on for the ninth time… he hadn’t quite gotten around to acquiring another… Somewhat because he hadn’t needed one. But mostly because he retained a certain greedy tendency to grow attached to all things his. And if he wasn’t the one to get rid of it. If he wasn’t the one to throw it out. If his possession just up and died like that…

Well anyway, cats make the best familiars. Although any animal would do, really. Toads, dogs, owls, squirrels… Even chickens and goats could work in a pinch. And as far as convenience went, there were plenty of rabbits in this part of the world. Too many rabbits. A practical takeover. An invasion of the vegie snatchers. Spilling out of the woodworks like termites from hell, Bugs Bunny minions steadily devouring all worth growing in a steady plague of locusts.

But as much as Sable would enjoy the company of a sweet, squishy, round bundle of fluff with a twitchy little nose and long floppy ears…

Rodents just didn’t last very long. Not nearly as long as cats. Being as cats have nine lives and a certain ‘fuck you’ power about them, they made much better familiars than your run of the mill bottom feeder destined for the hawk’s beak. Felicia had remedied the rabbit lifespan problem by simply acquiring an immortal were-rabbit. Really, the little critter was just a shapeshifter. But who the hell has time to say that-shapeshifter-who-turns-into-a-rabbit?

Nobody.

That’s who.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!” Sable called into the darkened suburban street. A whirlwind of trash was making headway down the pavement. Dust devilling cigarette butts. Tornadoing discarded food casings. Whirl pooling tissues and dizzying candy wrappers. Some caretakers of earth humans made, it was places like these that made Sable question Dad’s Love for them the most…

Sable’s own house had been egged recently. The couple’s old sedan still had peanut butter beneath the handles. Hail Satan… at least Sable hadn’t subjected them to that… disgusting… children these days. Had they not better things to do than waste calories upon the ignition of another’s misery? If you’re going to prank someone like that, at least use something permanent. Paint, sharpies, keys, shit… Maybe he was a jaded old immortal. But Sable couldn’t understand making mischief that would leave no meaningful imprint upon eternity…

Whoever had inked the graffiti had the right idea. A mural of vandalism lined the fence which bordered houses opposite. Weird symbols, exaggerated names, interesting takes on ‘fuck you’ and the like… A 2D clown was laughing hysterically at Sable from behind a heap of trash cans. Trash cans tottering drunkenly in the breeze. Puking their contents for the storm of litter ever tumbling.

But there was a cat. A chubby cat. A mouse-sized tabby cat with splashes of white and forested green eyes. The neighbors were placing bets on who could earn her affection first, and she was reaping the benefits. Playing them all for their milk and their tuna and their leftover chicken scraps. Smart cat. Who needs hunting skills when humans are as gullible as monkeys?

Sable loved her already. Scooping up the little gremlin for appraisal, “I shall call you Saturamini, okay? Seems fitting. Do alright by you?”

Mew.

Alrighty then.

Willow hadn’t moved. And Liber’s pages were still billowing around her in a storm of magical friction. Flipping wildly this way and that. The house was shaking. The floor was seething. The ceiling was crumbling and the precarious staircase had long since toppled into a flaming heap of debris.

Yet Willow lay perfectly still. Patient. Quiet. Unperturbed by the chaos. Her muscles teeming with the power around her and her eyes glowing with a heavenly grace. The tattoos were rioting by now. As though Willow were a castle. The art had readied the canons. Boiled the iron. Antagonized the alligators and slammed the drawbridge shut. Archers lining up a firing squad of prayer…

Her mere presence. Her position. Her breath and her pulse. That power and that lineage… It was all causing pain deep within Sable’s core. Prodding at his soul with a red hot poker. Taunting his essence with a scraping fire of angelics. If he didn’t end this quickly… it was possible that both he and Saturamini would be obliterated in the conflict.

Felicia had warned him.

She’d also advised that he leave the necklace on Willow for the time being. Its removal possibly alerting unwanted eyes to her existence… But the rest of her was up for grabs. The tattoos, the spells, the connection to Heaven and the correlation with her mother. Sable was free to perform a switcheroo of her protections, as long as the necklace itself remained untouched.

And protection of some kind remained in place…

Sable tossed Saturamini onto Willow’s stomach. Who laid still. Completely still. No thoughts. No squirms. No thrashing or crashing. Just patiently awaiting whatever fate Sable had decided for her. Faithful. Apparently trusting in the spell Jezebellia had placed upon her. Which wasn’t a bad choice really, Sable trusted it too. He trusted it to be a pain in his ass.

That’s why Willow was in fact, lying in an energy circle. A gleaming electrical blue pentagram. Inverted for Sable’s convenience. Her head at the peak and each limb stretching for the outer points. No one, really, would find the difference between Willow having just fallen out of the Heavens or Willow having just laid down to become a satanic sacrifice.

Not that it mattered because no one was looking.

Using Saturamini as a funnel for Satan’s energy, rather than his own ruler’s, Sable took a deep breath. Steadied himself. Winked to the kitten and began…

“Ego nigrantem, Demonem Tenebrarum Chaos, praecipio tibi relinquere tu vincula Angelo Jezebellia.” Hands poised delicately round the circle. Enclosing. Focusing. Enveloping Willow in his power. His prestige. His fall and his motives. Imprisoning her wicked and relishing the way she finally began to squirm. In pain. Discomfort marring her pretty face morbid. Spiritual attack alighting her tattoos livid. The necklace was arching. Yearning. Spiraling a helicopter blade of agony.

Sable bit his lip. Gnawing it ragged. Crunching his own teeth into splinters of bone. Hands beginning to burn. To simmer and to boil. His flesh peeling away molecule by molecule. Exposing its fatty insulation. Its muscular workings and its skeletal architecture, “Non magis illam in tabulis cordis tui scuta tenentes palum deligatur. Pendebat praepedire ultra ad iustitiae opera traduceret. Nec ultra vocabitur praesens tangunt me custodit.”

And ceasing to breathe. His ribcage contracting painfully. Sternum curling unnaturally for his heart. Penetrating it. Staking him through. Deeper and deeper. Blood bursting forth. A gushing waterfall of essence. Drowning. Throttling in the gore. Saturamini mewled a warning. As he swayed. Began to crumble. Hitting his knees and staring not at Willow, but at the way his hands had turned to charcoal. Coiling viscous black disintegration. Particles. Ash. Nothing more than dust.

Power rolling the dice of their fates.

The fates he was intertwining. Melding. Combining. Sacrificing yet upholding, defragmenting yet protecting. Destruction a bonfire of evil in their wake. The very fibers of their surroundings were beginning to scream, “Ego chaos. Ego sum Cupiditas. Sed perdito Angelo sum Tutatus. Multo magis melius apta tibi tutorem quam Calamitas possunt sperare beatitudinis esse. Ego ero Protector tuus. Arma. Your eques atque ferro vastatum.”

Seeing red.

Hellfire leaping forth with a- bang!

The ground was splitting apart at the seams. Grinning at them maliciously. Baring teeth of foundation and coiling a tongue of desert slicked earth. The neighboring houses. They were drooping. Seeping. Melting like candle wax. Crumbling like soap sculptures and splintering like ice. Voices were chanting in Sable’s head by now.

Painful voices.

Toxic voices of the righteous. Screeching. As though someone were raking their nails over the chalkboard of his psyche. Sopranos. Holy claws scratching and biting through his neurons in agonizing prayers. Exorcisms imploding his skull and hymns gnarling his corpse carnage. Confusion muddling him disoriented. Choking his language. Strangling his tongue.

Satan help me, please. Have to finish… have to… stop now… we’re all fucked… the words… the pages… can’t see… Latin… ugh… Oh fuck it, “I, not Jezebellia, assume the helm of Willow McKenzie’s protection. And should I fail, such duties thus fall upon Saturamini the Cat. Amen.”

The pain outright exploded.

Excruciating. So much so that Sable didn’t notice he was screaming until columns of smoke made themselves visible across the haze of his crimson gaze. He was burning from the inside out. His blood was literally boiling. His esophagus rupturing in the power of his scream as it escalated unholy and careened throughout the town. Demonic. Gravelly. Then high pitched and wheezing like dragging knives across ceramic.

Willow was screaming too. The cat was yowling and sirens could be heard wailing in the distance.

Then everything went black.