In Victorian London, a young woman and a mysterious man fall in love. But soon Emma’s visions turn her life into chaos, in this spicy, demon story.

CW: Sex and Violence

“If you see angels, Euronymus, do not speak of it. Not to a single soul. For they’ll send you to the asylum.”

     Emma Caster once told me this fervently one night. We lay side by side in a churchyard, allowing the day to melt into the dark, basking in the grandeur of the church. This was the first time she ever spoke about this topic, but it did not take me by surprise. From an early age, Emma’s mother denied angels. No matter how much Emma claimed that these invisible beings were real, her mother would bark that they were merely fantasies, dismissing her daughter with the brutal back of the hand.
    Finally, upon turning ten, Emma decided to lock away her images, berating herself for wantonly believing in her vivid imagination. 
     At twenty-one, Emma changed her mind and must’ve decided that, indeed, angels were as real as we were. In the same manner, in which I felt compelled to tell her everything, in the twilight of a summer’s night, Emma confessed. I remained unfazed.
     “I shall tell only you,” I replied to her, taking her hand for the first time in our two-month courtship. She did not tense against my cold skin, or recoil when I entwined my spindly fingers with her refined, albeit grubby, ones. If anything, she held on tighter and sighed with a heavy contented nature.  
      After a brief pause, she said; “And then I shall tell no one.”
     “Good, for I have met many an angel in my time, my love.” I dare not tell her a lie. “Do you see angels?   
     Emma looks at me as a wave of curiosity lands upon her face. She clutches my hand tighter, with a taut hesitation, before finally saying; “Yes. I see them all the time.” 
     “Then, my love, I too shall tell no one.”
     This was not the last time we spoke on the matter, but we let it go that night to enjoy the stars above. The sky blossomed in shades of grey, blue, and black, Emma let me cradle her in my arms until dawn. Oh, how I wished we had consummated our love then. How powerless we had become to this society and its silly laws. How I longed for more of her warm flesh against me. I often wondered how it felt inside of her.
     At Emma’s wishes, I kept my feverish fantasies to myself, no matter how much they stiffened me. I knew that one day we will be one. That desperate day could not come soon enough. So, I resolved myself to holding her in my arms, obliged to the clothes that kept us apart. 
     We lay side by side in the crowning morning until a bloated preacher ushered us away like alley-cats.
     As we stumbled into the bright sunlight, unsure and unaware of our surroundings, I hazily made Emma a promise. I assured her that I would never leave her side.
   

 It was a pledge that I failed to keep.

Now, at twenty-two, Emma Caster lies alone. When she was wheeled into the operating theatre, a rage turned tides in me. Her beautiful blonde hair had all but gone from her scalp, save for some small tufts here and there. They had left her in a piss-soaked gown that was more rags than garments. Dirt and muck marked her pale skin as it usually did. However, there were new bruises and blemishes. Red sores wrapped around her wrists and ankles from where she was being bound.     
    I watch her from the shadows. A series of sharp spikes sting my stomach. I must not come undone. Not now. Not until I know that she is ready for escape. It feels as though I have been planning this for centuries.
     I am surrounded by a sea of doctors, scribbling their foul little notes about my dear Emma. They do not see a stranger in their midst. They are too busy congratulating themselves on this progress. Innovation and invention had propelled the stuffy Victorians into fast, unyielding times. They had even cleaned up the slums. Though forcing poor families into social housing was far from perfect, it at least meant that the filth was no longer on the streets. By their standards, anyway.
    Through these changing times, powerful men still kept their stranglehold on the city, squeezing tight with their brutal hands. I can smell their putrid ways. That middle-class stench is unbearable. They puff out platitudes of purity but their cocks itch for virginal, unfortunate, young girls. They buzz around them with bloated, red faces. I half suspect that they, at times, have taken advantage of the poor and weak-willed women in their care.
     In a furious thought, I wonder if any had touched my love. The very thought curdled in my gut. My love was not made for such cruelty. My fists curl into a ball. Oh, how I long to break from my hiding place and destroy them all. I crave bloody murder.
    I stay secret for Emma’s sake. After all, I was used to being hidden. 

     Emma Caster caught my eyes when there was blood upon a full moon. Standing in the same stillness on Westminster Bridge, we both stared up at the celestial sky in the same stupor. People rushed and hurried by, not caring for the beauty that shone upon the darkness. This was the winter’s last goodbye before we welcomed in a spring that was full of life and promise.
     Caught by the odd orange lunar light, Emma stepped forward. Gripping the bridge railings, she gasped loudly, in awe of the magnificent night.
     As her hand tightened around the metal, Emma was too wrapped up in wonder to notice me beside her. She leaned forward, trying to get as close to the moon as possible. In this moment, her fingers slipped and brushed against mine. That was my reawakening.
     I had stood at the bridge, for some time. I had lost count of the number of chimes I had heard from Big Ben beside me. Before the moon waned in her crimson robe, I had spent the day staring at the murkiness below me. For years, I was without a home after being exiled by my family. I wandered the streets in search of substance and found them empty. As no one dared take me in, I had grown weary and learned to accept that my existence was a hollow one. I had not known tenderness and affection well enough to even wish for it.
     In that thankful night, a petite, pale, woman wrapped me in a sudden warmth without realising she was doing so.
     As her fingers grazed mine, I turned to see another vision of majesty right at my fingertips. Emma was, too, clad in orange. Though time had worn out the hem, and the city had left its marks on the fabric, Emma looked no less elegant. Grime and dust clung to her fingernails and porcelain skin, but the marks did not dull her illuminating glow. Her golden hair, messy and sweaty from work, was kept inside an old bonnet and yet she still shone like a thousand diamonds. Even the cuts and scars that had no right being upon her body, seemed not to dampen her spirit.
     My soul, if I believed I had one, was as black and unforgiving as the Thames that swelled beneath us. Seeing her turned the tide.  Emma was a silver droplet of light that rippled through the surface and reached into my depths. In my watery tomb, Emma had found me and brought me back from the brink of despair. 
     Realising that her simple touch had moved me back to life, Emma Caster smiled, “Oh sir, please forgive me.”
      This brisk apology shocked me. The touch was enough to move me but this dainty, delicate woman could see me. With beaming blue eyes, she looked up at my gangly, grim frame and smiled. Instead of the pitiful creature, I felt I was, this ever-loving angel saw my spirit. Without questioning the thing who stood beside her, she laughed and said, “I’m Emma Caster.” 
     The weight of not speaking for days was upon me. In a husky-manner, I said; “Euronymus.” As her face probed the name, I quickly added, “It is Greek.”
     Instead of hurrying away, Emma stayed. She repeated my name as though it were a fine wine; it slipped gloriously over her tongue and sank down into her stomach with ease. Her white hand, knuckles reddened by the night’s chill, reached out to me. As I took it, she shook vigorously, and with meaning. “Euronymus. What a fine name. I like it. I like it a lot.”
     From that moment on, I was hers. I vowed myself to Emma and I had to protect her.

     “Emma Caster…” says a thin, tall doctor with white, thinning hair. Snapping out of my memories, I stare at him. He stood with two steel tools in either hand, brandishing them with a glowing glee that comes with great intellect.   “…is a troubled child.”  
     There is a murmur from the men around them. They consult their books and make their comments. They all judge Emma as her eyes widen like a frightened animal. Ice-cold stares surround her.
     The doctor stood like a circus master. He held the audience with long pauses. For his next trick, a treatment of the mind, was sure to amaze and astound them. Bellowing, the thin man said; “Miss Caster at just twenty-two, murdered her own mother in a vicious manner. Why? Because her kind mother was concerned. See, Emma here sees angels. And now, thanks to the miracles of modern science, we can cure her of these visions.
     As he spoke, the words send shockwaves through his patient. My once peaceful Emma, writhes under the restraints. She looks around the operating theatre desperately. In a faint whimper, she says, “Euronymus?”
     I watch, helpless in my secrecy, waiting for the moment to save her.
     It was my own cowardice that had sent her to this asylum. My own loss of control. I knew Emma’s mother beat her. Each time, Emma told me that intervening would do no good. That it was fine because Emma was foolish; she was a nasty child who made her mother’s life even worst by merely existing. No matter how much I tried to convince Emma that her mother spoke nothing more than slander, Emma saw herself as a demon. I knew demons. Emma, with her pure heart and pale innocence, was not one. 
    One fateful night, tired from work and the verbal abuse, Emma confessed her secret to her mother. She spoke of me and our private meetings at night. The revelation enraged that diabolic woman who did not hit Emma with her hand. Instead, she struck Emma across the cheek with the hot, steel poker from the fireplace.
    I could not contain myself.
    I burst out of hiding with a burning wrath. 
    A swift moment later, and the hot, steel poker was protruding from the old hag’s stomach. The wound it had created was scarlet; steam billowed out from a now cooling weapon. I towered over her as the wretched mother’s life left her eyes. It was barely a moment, and yet the deed was done.
    I allowed Emma to push me away. I flew into the night with this dark, mark pooling inside me. I let my love convince me to run. In doing so, I left Emma with blood on her hands.
    I had not regretted what I had done; malicious men and wicked women deserved to be snuffed from this Earth. As I fled, however, I had allowed the authorities to take Emma. In her arrest, my love was as gentle as she was strong; she had not admitted about seeing angels nor did she give them my name. Then they produced papers that her mother had signed days before I murdered her. It told the officers and the doctors all they needed to know about Emma’s supposed state of mind. They were commitment papers. Harmless Emma’s chains were already forged. She was forced into this asylum.
     

Now my love is helplessly bound to a wooden table, chained to whatever experiment they were about to do. I have never been a praying soul, but I turn upwards. Through to the glass skylight above the operating theatre, I see an old friend that gives me hope. The moon glares in anger through a clear, night’s sky. I wish to these heavens and hope that angels descend to save my love.
    Please, God, send your cherubim.
    Suddenly, there is a knocking. For a hopeful moment, I wonder if my prayers had come true. That a charge of vengeful angels was to come bursting through the doors. I feel the air change, but it is not due to impending salvation. The men around me crane for a better look.
     As I follow their gaze, the sight cuts through me with an unrelenting iciness. In the name of progress, a man has a chisel at Emma’s temple. With a slight hammer, the doctor began thudding the instrument into her skull. He knock, knock, knocks, without a care in the world. Blood begins to flow on her pale skin. Emma stops flinching, and closes her eyes, resigning herself to her fate.
     My beloved moon in crimson torment. My innocent angel in gory torture. My love breaking beneath the hand of an iron will. A few more knock, knock, knocks, and her mind will be forever altered. How dare they?
    “Stop.” I whisper. They do not. They cannot hear me. I try again. Emma looks drained of life. “Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.”     The doctors prep for another hammering, and I cannot contain myself any longer.

    “STOP!”

     The blinding rage releases me from my plane. I rise up. My vulture-like metallic wings roar as I fly above the now-damned men. Altogether, the spectators turn to witness me. Their many frightened eyes stare into my many punishing ones. Now I can see each face of the tormentors. I can see each pitiful life. I know each rotten step they have taken. I can hear their pleas within me. I laugh like a clap of thunder. I am their reckoning.
      And I waste no time. I tear through their bodies in my gruesome glory. My talon-shaped feet grab at scattering men. I squeeze their bodies in my grasp until their eyes burst and their flesh breaks. My wings are weapons. As I fly around, the blades slice through their flesh easily. They fall into pieces on the floor.
     As the breath of life escapes them, they hopelessly repent. I laugh in pity. I was born in Hell. I will make sure their souls will burn in torment forever. Through the sprays of red gore, I soar until only one fiendish man is left alive.
      In the glistening twilight shimmers like silver on my blue-black hide, now dripping with the blood of many. Now, the rest of humanity can see me, in all my purpose and glory. This is how Emma has always seen me.
    Emma! 
     I fly down to the operating table. The thin doctor throws his hands up in fear, dropping the tools to the floor. As they clank and clang, I snap the doctors wrists. The bones pierce the skin. I leave him whimpering in agony on the floor. I will save him for later.     Turning to see her, I can finally set her free. The sharp feathers of my wings cut through her bondage. She lies limp against the wooden table. I scoop her frail body in my arms and cradle her against me as I hover. Bloodied and bruised again, my gentle love seems to be clinging to life. I mourn. “No no no no no.”
     “Euronymus?” I hear Emma sigh, opening her eyes at the sound of my voice.
     “I am here, my love.” I stroke the tears away from her face, gently touching her with my hand. In this silent moment, I ask for forgiveness and promise never to abandon her again.
     “I thought you were an angel,” Emma says in a soft sigh. There is no sense of dread in her tone. I can feel the ripples of her anguish, but I know they are not for my revelation. I kiss her on the cheek, wishing to grant her peace from this pain.  
A peace that comes with an unbridled unison. A peace that comes with retribution.
    “I am no angel,” I say. My many eyes are black but not uncaring. Her blue eyes are kind but are not without fury. In her gaze, I see the fires I was forged but they are not a reflection. They are now burning deep inside of her. The infernal flames glow between us. I know now that Emma has been calling me for years. And I will do her bidding gladly.
     A resolve hardens within her. I can feel her will stiffen. I can sense her spirit changing. I know that she is opening up to me. She blazes stronger than ever, and I must have her.
    “What are you?” She says, as I push the full weight of my yearning and devotion against her.
    “I am yours, Emma Caster.” 
    Lightning crashes within her eyes with a flash of knowing. They widen with the same worship that I have given her all these years. In this moment, I wordlessly ask permission, which she grants with a purposeful nod. “Then take me now, Euronymus. Make me yours too. I implore you.” 
     I take my time. I lie her back on the table carefully, as I use my talons to rip through the rags. As I discard them, I hover over Emma. Finally, I can see her free of her bonds. Such pretty but marred skin. Such bountiful breasts. Such heated, hot sex. Emma relishes this new freedom, letting her fingers fumble and feel first before calling out to me.
    I kneel between her legs. I worry that my full form would hurt her. So, I take it slow, gliding my blue-black spindly hands across her, causing her to shiver in delight. As I caress her breasts,  I kiss the bare flash that society had once denied me. I take a nipple into my sharp mouth and delicately bite, causing a light whimper to escape her lips. I follow the path her fingers made, gliding across the wetness of her sex.
     Her hands begin to explore me. Her touch is not afraid of the strange skin and her sight is not scared of the features before her. The countless eyes or the bladed feathers of my wings do not frighten her. 
     I feel her hesitate. For the first and only time, she tenses in my grip. I kiss her with a devotion as I thrust into her. Against my lips, she whines. I feel her shake as I drive myself into her, hoping the pain will soon fade. I feel her relax against me. So, I quicken the pace, plunging deeper and faster, as she begins to sigh in joy and delight.
     Then, together, we give in to rampant carnality. 
      In a wanton cry, Emma wraps her legs around my waist, below my wings, and pushes my hips furiously into her. My tongue plunges deep inside her mouth, wriggling down her throat in the urgency I have been repressing for decades.  As I slither into her gullet, my beastly member splits into her innocence with a wanting, desperate need. I hear her cry out inside me. The gasps and groans echo within like a sweet choral sound. She is wet from blood and a white-hot desire that soaks her privates. I thrust with the might of an utmost craving. Centuries of my starvation have left me gagging for this pure flesh. I must have my pound of it. Years of neglect have left Emma begging for completion. She must be made whole.
     I thrust myself into her again and again until her pain becomes her pleasure.
     Emma pulls me further into her, arching her back to press her full body into me. Her hands find mine. They entwine. There is now no inch of her that is not connected to me and there is no cell of hers that does not lay beside mine.
    In the moment, the entire world melts away.          
    We are becoming…becoming…becoming…
     In unison, we come undone, spilling our love into this hellish night. Our cries bellow together; a roar of passionate devotion as we bend and blend into each other’s arms.
     A hush silence follows.
     Then we disappear together and sink into one another. The blue and black of my shell mixes with her fragile, white skin. Her sweet soul synthesis my salacious spirit. The shadow of my mind amalgamates with the shine of her thoughts. Our bones and our bodies become one.
     We are one.
     Finally, deep inside our love, we say to ourselves:
     No, we are no angel.
     We are so much more.

                                                                                    ***

Oh, how we had forgotten the divine, deliciousness of desperation? Have we forgotten? Or is this taste new to us? Either way, there is nothing more delectable than fresh meat murdered in fear.
     We relish this new and familiar sensation.
      We sate our hunger with a glorious feast, enjoying the sound their remains make as they clatter to the floor. Those doctors with all their tools and intellect, destroy the helpless in the name of science. As their frail bones fly into piles of the floor, they now seem so pointless.
    However, were we so afraid of them?
     We laugh solemnly as the last carcass drops from our claws; the flesh of the fiends marring are pale blue skin with scarlet marks.
     The doors are open. When we dragged back a weeping, escaping doctor, it left a pathway. His trail of blood marks an exit. But doors seem trivial now.
      We look up at the skylight and head upwards, smashing through the glass as though we were eager to catch the moon. 
      What now? We ask ourselves, perched upon the hospital’s roof.
      Cloaked in the silver of the night, we stare out into the unknown. There’s a promise of carnage tinging the air. If we listen closely, the sounds of London echo across the river and through the filthy streets to tantalise us. We shall feed upon this earth as an unstoppable vulture, an eternity of consumption in the name of vengeance and love. After all who are we to deny ourselves any longer?
     Now that we have united, we are infinite and inevitable.
     The woman has taken in the darkness. The demon has been enveloped by the light. The moon is perpetually shrouded in the sun. Together, we became so much stronger.
     Our blood-soaked footsteps trail across the roof of the asylum as our wings spread greater than ever before. A ghoulish sight for anyone who dares look up to witness us. The nightmare and the dream wrapped up in a hybrid that will stalk these many lands forevermore.
     

We leave behind a path that angels dare not tread.