“Well, let’s hope she waits till after tomorrow.”
There is a hint of bitterness in the old man’s voice. I am furious too; the suggestion of my predictability is an insult. I don’t follow the eternal, dreary patterns year after year, season after season like man. I purse my lips indignantly, though in honesty his words sting because they’re true. I have chosen Eli. He has pianist’s fingers and a dreamer’s blue eyes; he should be painting in Italy, not slaving by a cliff side. I notice his gaze flit like a moth to something nearby.
I strain my neck to see what he sees. She’s standing at the edge of the grassland, before the ground turns to sand. She’s kneeling beside a little boy and gesturing to the boat. He’s a toddler and seems confused, but she is satisfied to point out the boy’s father. The girl’s pale skin, blonde hair and lilac dress make her appear faded, like fabric washed too many times. Eli is content with her company only because he knows no better.
The creeping darkness soon makes their work impossible. They scurry down to shore bellowing bawdy songs and laughter, certain they are prepared for the next morning’s trip into the icy ocean. No doubt the same few will retire to pray at the side of the bed while the rest quaff their savings at the inn, traveling as a single entity to shield themselves from the beasties stalking the hillsides.
He catches up with her—the faded fabric, her smile the brightest thing about her—embracing her and the child with simple happiness. The passing men greet her, amused by the unusual display of passion. They stroll home to light a fire in the grate and share a meal caught from the deep. My own stomach rumbles for fish.
I push away from the branch and unfurl my wings, allowing my body to be thrown high over the gray water. I stretch my ebony limbs and feel them bob up and down on the airwaves. My long black hair is pulled in all directions; this is a freedom the villagers would never experience. The wind curls around my exposed nipples and clitoris, stinging them and making them tingle. The water grows darker beneath me, her depths dizzying and home to a thousand mysterious creatures. I need to keep a sharp eye open for all of them.
The water crashes over my body as I dive into a school of mackerel, dragging my net through them and emerging with the squirming bodies. I finally breathe out; I have survived another hunt. I pick up speed until my cliffs are visible through the fog, turning sideways at the entrance and darting between stalactites until I reach a hollow spot in the wall. It looks ready to me; sheepskins line the floor and now there is a pile of flapping fish. I wait, nibbling at one, until each candle in the village would be blown out.
I coast above the rooftops. This hour of starry night is visible only to creatures like me and other beasties. Crawling through the dirt roads and hillocks would be Hobgoblins and Ghouls, their grabbing arms and sharp teeth waiting for any human foolish enough to leave the safety of home. They’re crude and obnoxious creatures, their minds always on low things. The stone parish looks on helplessly from the top of the hill.
I grasp the brick roof with hands and feet and scurry down the wall until I reach the window, silently sliding a dewclaw in my wrist underneath the pane. Locks have never been a match for it; each decade there is a new kind but I dispatch it simply and quickly. The sleeping couple doesn’t stir, their breathing rhythmic as the sea, soft and even. The room is simple, almost bare, and the stump of a candle sits on a holder atop the cabinet. His head is nestled into the crook of her neck and rage bubbles through my blood. I creep on feet and knuckles toward the bed and he stirs, turning over to face me. His lids flutter open. His brow creases. He sees catlike amber eyes so different from his own, likely floating in the dark due to my blackened skin and his poor night vision. The cotton wool of sleep begins to clear and realization trickles into his expression. I place my hand over his mouth before the shouting begins.
His arms almost squeeze the breath from me as we soar over the crashing tide. His body is rigid and shaking violently. I notice his eyes are shut as the cave envelops us, and he opens them only when I deposit him in the freshly decorated hollow. He shivers amongst the fleeces, the musty scent of sheep still clinging to them. I sit at his feet while he stares at me with eyes like a trapped animal. The sea is audible in the distance.
I offer a fish but he doesn’t respond; the whites of his eyes are large circles around the blue. Understanding their feeding habits is tedious; what suits one is never right for another and clearly this bounty will not be acceptable. It’s not a concern to me. I tear off a fish’s head and chew morosely—they’re a fearful species, entirely incapable of grasping new opportunities. After a few moments he finds his voice. “Wh-what are you going to do to me?”
I smile gently but he balks at my pointed teeth. Their dislike of difference can always be relied upon, but I know he will grow used to me. “Surely you’ve heard the stories.” I speak gently, hypnotically.
“You’re going to kill me.” He speaks with the flatness of certainty. I don’t reply; I have learned it is best not to make promises. “Then please, get it done. I don’t wish to be your mouse to play with.” Elsewhere his sensitive appearance might denote a life of the softest silk against his skin and the sweetest wine on his tongue, but existence in the remote town has toughened him.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but that isn’t why I’ve brought you here.” He looks almost hopeful. I crawl toward him, slow as a snake, over his legs and torso until my face is a tongue’s length from his. His skin smells of the salt air but also of herbs, sweet rosemary and spicy cinnamon. His breath is on my face. “Some of the weaker ones perish it’s true, but you seem somewhat sturdier.”
He flinches and gathers his strength, pushing me hard away from him. I flutter, strewing feathers over the ground. I abandon him for the coolness of the air outside, leaving him to fume in isolation. I can hear him calling out but he needs time to think, time to let the situation settle. The droplets in the wind sting my face, refreshing me, and I am surprised to feel anger receding. Where had the anger come from? Surely I didn’t feel rejected?
The tip of the sun nudges the horizon, sending weak white ripples over the tide. I glide back into the darkness. His jaw is set. “Please,” he says calmly. “I have a family, children, a wife. I could be back before anyone knows.”
“You could,” I reply, and stretch my body full length next to his, ensuring my nipple strokes his arm. His eyes dart away; in his society only women who roam city streets at night behave this way. He can’t resist turning back to my breasts though, taking in the sight of them, the closeness, the warmth he can feel from them. “My nipples are hard,” I say, a fact he seems to have noticed already. The pulsing at his crotch is unmistakable and his breathing deepens. I can hear the heartbeat at his throat—my lips are almost touching it. He backs away, curling into the fetal position in the corner.
The hollow grows bright with the sun and dark once again with shadows. A rustling stirs me from the corner I have coiled into. I catch him sniffing at one of the fish before throwing it down again. I watch him a moment longer, his pale face screwing up in disgust, but his hands are unable to stop searching. He’s hungry and, while I have sympathy, I know it will make things easier for me. His eyes catch mine and his body stiffens. His expression no longer registers fear, merely quiet caution.
“You want to rejoin the others, don’t you?” I say.
“Yes.” He speaks with firmness but his eyes lower.
I grunt with frustration. Why am I frustrated? I have only to wait but somehow I feel time is running away. I need to taste him, to bury my face in his hair. “Why is it so important to live your little lives, seeing nothing but the world you were born into?”
He looks back up at me, his delicate features hard. “What’s the alternative? Wander, alone and freezing, into the abyss? Let one of the creatures of the night drag me away?”
“Not everywhere is the same as here. There are vast cities where exotic rugs and spices are sold, every color you can think of; and at night the doo
rs to opium dens are opened, where women writhe to music and snakes coil around their bellies.”
“Well,” he says, keeping his voice even, but he’s afraid of pushing me too far, “if these wonderful places exist, why are you here?”
“I have something I need to do.” I wave my hand vaguely, annoyed that I’m offering an explanation. “But I have the choice, you see, which makes me less trapped.” I realize that while I’m compelled to return to my hatch place for the spawning, I’m drawn here anyway. I ruffle my feathers in irritation. He’s spotted a weakness.
“You understand, don’t you, how it feels to have a home?” He crawls nearer to me. Now it’s my eyes that lower. “Where are the others like you? Do you ever see them?”
I’m disinclined to answer, but I humor him. The words struggle to leave my mouth. “There aren’t many. We’ve devised other means of survival.” I see him inflate with satisfaction, and I’m suddenly angry. “What about you? Did you marry the first girl to cross your path, or just someone your parents decided for you?” He looks stung, eyes wide with shock and offense.
“I love Milly,” he says quietly. I can see it’s true, which infuriates me further.
“And haven’t you ever been tempted?” I ask. I unfold my body and lie straight on my side. He tries not to look but his eyes glance all over me. “Haven’t you ever looked at another woman and wondered what it might be like?”
This time he’s flustered. He trips on his words. “Well, of course but, I mean, I never…” He takes a breath. “Everyone… at times…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He places a hand to his brow and caresses his forehead. “I do wonder. I think about it late at night, when I’m certain my wife is sleeping. I…” He’s unwilling to speak, “use my hand sometimes, even after we’ve already lain together. It’s different”—he gazes out at the entrance of the hollow, lost in the scent of strange women and their unknown crevices—“than it is with Milly.” The mention of her name brings him back. He looks broken, like a discarded marionette. His admission has left my nipples standing again and my vagina lips feel hot. I want to reassure him, to embrace him. “I’m hungry and tired,” he says. “You have to help me. Don’t you know how to make fire? How to cook?”
I know of such things but they hold no interest for me. My own stomach rumbles but I don’t reach for a fish. Instead I gesture to him. “I will,” I say quietly, soothingly, “as soon as we wake.” His head falls to his chest, defeated, and he shuffles toward me. His body is slender but strong, with small muscles on his thin arms. I wrap my own arm over him as his back nestles into my stomach. He’s weakened, and he falls quickly into a feverish sleep. At first I struggle to remain alert but I, too, join him in obliviousness.
The scrabbling at first invades my dreams—it seems a mouse is struggling to descend the cave wall. Slowly sleep leaves me and I realize what’s happening. I throw myself into the dark and hover above Eli as he holds desperately onto the rocks. He is miles above ground, climbing down an endless chasm. His hands shake and his breathing is harsh. I scoop him up and deposit him back to safety, where it takes several minutes for his pulse to slow. I study him. All traces of fear drain away and he lies limply against the wool, eyes half closed. His fight is gone and he knows now he is here for the duration. He is mine.
He doesn’t protest this time as I wind my body around his, mixing our warmth. My wings wrap around him, enclosing him and pulling him tighter. His body is soft and very hot. I flick my tongue over his neck and he moans softly, his erection pressing against my thigh. The scent of rosemary hasn’t faded. He opens his eyes, his pupils dark holes, and looks directly into mine. A flush has spread to his cheeks and lips; part hunger, part fever, part need. The pride I feel at inducing such pleasure, at witnessing him in such a private state, sends a fizz of gratification through me. I’ve forgotten the confusion and sadness of the past—right now I have what I want. “I still love my wife,” he murmurs as he reaches for my breasts, stroking them and tugging with gentle fingertips at my nipples.
“I know,” I whisper, breathing deeply as the hot waves travel from his touch to my groin. I feel the wetness flow from me and my hands shake with excitement as I untie the string around his trousers, releasing his erection. I grip it eagerly and rotate it slowly back and forth, wetting my fingers with the tip. It grows harder, insistent. I’ve brought him to this, this moment of absolute need, and I feel the power course through me.
“Mmm,” he moans, leaning forward to take my nipple into his mouth. A shot of pain and pleasure darts through me as his teeth pull firmly and I yelp, smiling. Something like lightning shoots through me when he flicks his tongue. I lift myself onto my knees and straddle him, the tip of his erection prodding against the lips of my vagina. I tease him a moment, almost letting him in before rising again. I love to watch his face, his excitement, and my skin prickles as I finally sink him into myself. We sigh together as though we could stay like this for an eternity.
He holds my hips as I buck against him. I feel exposed up here, like he can see all my bad habits, so I grab his left hand and trace his finger upward along my thigh to my clitoris. Just the hot touch of him there elicits a deep moan of desire and relief from me. He seems pleased but frowns for a moment; the village folk are frustratingly ignorant of such things. I guide him, and when he sees how much I respond he understands. Now I feel his touch from inside too, stroking my deepest point. I grow dizzy and shut my eyes; a wave of pleasure is trickling slowly down my body and into my fingers and toes. The sensation grows and intensifies like a storm building and I know it’s coming.
“Oh!” It crashes wildly through me. I grab his shoulder as my body stiffens and shakes, and it bursts through my arms and fingertips and floods my brain. I fall against him, my mouth buried in his neck.
He kisses my shoulder and my heart flutters. I wish I could keep him here with me, but that’s just not how it’s done. I grip his arms, my face still buried in his neck. The ends of his hair flick against my nostrils when I breathe in, his herbal scent sedating me. I roll against him until his breaths become sighs and his sighs become moans. He grows harder inside me, reaching up farther. With a gasp it’s over and, as he spurts into my farthest recesses, I bite down on the pulse of his neck. His wail is high, pure pleasure and pure pain. His expression is both shock and bliss. His semen and his blood gush into me, metallic stickiness coating my tongue and gums, his body both fertilizing the egg I will lay and providing its nutrition.
His heartbeat slows and so do I. I can never bring myself to suck their last breath, feel their body go limp and cold. Instead I pull my lips away and watch the wound congeal, holding him. It’s over now, and I feel as alone as the first time. He’ll be like Sam now, if he survives, always watching the skies and waiting for my return, for even a glimpse of my black shadow streaking through the clouds. In turn I will continue as before, knowing that a heart waits for me nearby. When the bleeding stops I gather him in my arms, smell his flowery rosemary scent and fly back to the brick houses.
DEVOURED BY ENVY
Jo Wu
Men have always told me that I was too pure. I incited in them a fear that they would despoil something much too innocent.
“You’re like a doll,” my latest suitor told me one evening. His wide eyes, like those of a frightened fawn, surveyed me from head to toe, drinking in the sight of my waist-length flaxen ringlets, my flushed porcelain cheeks and the frothy white lace gown that cinched my waist. He was not the first one to pay me this compliment, but the flattery did nothing to hide my glassy blue eyes as I willed myself not to blink, lest tears should escape the confines of my lashes.
“Giselle, I adore you, but I can’t bring myself to love you the way a man should.”
“Why?” I spat, though I already knew the answer. At least five other men shared his sentiment.
“Y-you’re too much of an angel,” he stammered. “When I see you dance, I…I can’t help but to think that…to love you would mean to r
uin you, to-to-to…”
I glared at him, daring him to make a final statement.
“To love you would mean the death of you!”
He scampered off into the congested dim streets, abandoning me in the midst of black horse carriages and lovers in their dark evening finery, hustling along for a dance or a drink. I sighed. With my fair dress, skin, and hair, I was like a star traversing through an overcast sky as I made my way home.
My abode is known as Château Angélique de Verre—Angelic Castle of Glass, as everyone in the city calls it. They are right to deem it as such. It is a castle built of rose-colored glass, surrounded by crimson and pink roses that blossom throughout the year. Within the glass walls are vast libraries that smell of tangy ink upon warmly pressed pages that almost feel like the smooth skin of a child, faintly scented with cinnamon. Gardens flourish through numerous halls, green and fragrant with magnolias and lilies. There are even bedrooms fit for queens, complete with canopied beds with satin and silk covers in the richest reds or deepest violets.
I lie alone at night, relishing the slick sensation of silk against my bare legs. A hard, thick book always lies with me, lulling me to dream worlds with the seductive curls of their printed letters. Yet, even with the wide cast of valiant men who lie by my side in their entrapments of fiction, my bed is still cold. I have no real man of bone and blood, skin and hair, by my side. No reassurance of solid muscles to encase me with affections as I lie beneath a sea of silk.
In spite of my loneliness, every evening at precisely seven o’clock, I am the city’s primary source of entertainment. I have been deemed the brightest star of the city’s nightlife, a snow-white rose that blooms in the evening. When I pirouette upon my steel toes, and the spotlight plays with the scintillating diamonds upon my bodice, the entire audience gawks at me as a little girl would upon a ballerina figurine that twirls in her music box. I perform with nothing but the energy that surges in my costumed body and the painted backdrops to fool the audience into believing that a fairy tale lives before their eyes, if only for a few hours every evening.
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