Devil Box

His lips were soft, surprising her. And she had never realized he had such strong hands; hands like that could do anything they wanted. She pushed herself against him and moaned. She hadn't been sure what it would be like, imagining maybe that it would be strange or hurt, but everything about him felt good.

She reached between Weyer's legs and he grunted in surprise. Next she tugged his shirt off and ran her fingers down his naked chest, finding the flesh smooth but the muscles coiled and waiting. Then, slowly, almost reverently, he loosened the buttons on her blouse, unwrapping her like a present. She stretched out on the sheets again, the bedding cool against her hot skin.

His lips tickled her neck, and she combed her fingers through his hair. His mouth moved down her and her body molded against his. The flickering tip of his tongue sent thrills up and down her. She guided him with her words: "There...there...ohhh, there..."

The headboard was old and wearing out—an antique, like so much else in her life—so it creaked and strained as Weyer took hold of it. She tried to grab onto it too, but it was too wide, and her palms were slippery from sweat. Her hair had grown damp and hung in her eyes, so she rolled her head back and saw the web of light splaying across the ceiling through the window, black lace on yellow. She felt him press against the close, tight confines of her body, and her mind swam in a warm sense of relief.

Finally, she thought.

She twisted underneath him, turning her hips to one side and exposing the smooth curve of her behind, so that he was almost entering her sideways. A throbbing feeling stimulated everything below her waist. She ran her nails up his back and gripped his forearms, pulling on him. She wanted to touch him as much as possible, as if the greatest amount of contact would help bind them closer together. "Do it," she whispered in the dark, over and over again: "Do it, do it, do it..."

Of course, he hesitated, as she'd expected him too. Once upon a time, such unions between his kind and women had happened before—but that was a long time ago, and the price, as he'd warned her, could be steep for both. She knew the old stories as well as anybody. But she didn't care. Those stories were written by old men, long dead—that's all that life was at some point, a series of men telling her what not to do and expecting, inexplicably, that she would obey.

Now here was this man (or close enough to a man...) who had to do what she said. so the told him, again, "Do it," and as he pushed the rest of the way inside of her she squeezed down hard on him and, seizing his hand, brought it to her throat and forced his fingers to squeeze, feeling the rest of his body tighten as she thrust in and out. Taph's eyes rolled back, and she writhed her hips around and around on the bed. Oh, she thought, oh god...

Sometime in the night, as her head swam in strange places and even more strange sights appeared dancing in front of her eyes, she imagined that again Weyer no longer looked like Weyer, although he didn't resemble any of the ways that he'd appeared to hear earlier either. In the dark, his shape became something else entirely, something ancient that nobody had laid eyes on in centuries of centuries, something so old that it was never really meant for human eyes.

But his touch, and the feel of his body on, against, and inside of hers, never changed, and that was all that she needed.

***

When morning came, Taph was alone. She hadn't slept, and neither as far as she could tell had Weyer, though they'd talked little throughout the night. Finally, when the sun peeked over the horizon and the first rays touched the shutters over the windows, Weyer was gone—vanished, it seemed, and even the spot on the bed where he had lain a moment ago felt cold.

Taph spent another hour in bed, napping lightly, and when she awoke again she put on her robe and went downstairs to make tea. She never ate much in the mornings but decided that this would be a good time to start, so she made eggs—pausing for a moment over the golden yellow yokes—and when they were ready she sat down to eat, drink, and think.

She'd brought the box with her, and it sat on the other side of the table like a mute dining partner. It looked again like it usually did, battered and tarnished. She wondered what Dad must have thought of it when he bought it; did he know what he had?

Taph had to admit, if not for Weyer she never would have suspected. Dad had always been afraid of "black" magic, and lectured her endlessly about what powers she should and shouldn't compact with. A pompous, patronizing prick, that's what he'd been.

But he knew his stuff, that much she'd always said.

Everything for the undoing ritual—the process that would destroy the box and its magic once and for all—was ready, just as it had been the night before. Taph could get to work right after breakfast, if she wanted to. By tomorrow, it could all be over with...

But that wasn't her intention. After all, she'd agreed to do what Weyer wanted, but they'd never specified when. And it would take a little time, yet, to see if he was really living up to his end of the bargain.

She wondered if it would be an ordinary pregnancy—40 weeks and morning sickness, the whole routine? Or would there be something different about it, special perhaps, given its nature? There wasn't anything to do except wait and see.

After breakfast she put the box away on a shelf in the storeroom, careful not to get it anywhere close to any other relics—hers or her father's—that seemed particularly potent. There was nothing to worry about really, but better safe than sorry.

Once the baby came, if all went well, it would still be there. After thousands of years of waiting, she couldn't help but feel that perhaps now the box was growing impatient too...

Or maybe, like her, it was just expecting.