This last tape is singed, speckled with shinysmooth patches where its plastic has begun to melt. There’s no label, just a few scraps of lingering paper, disconnected letters stripped of all context.
“What is a moth?” a witchling asks; an innocent question, just a glimmer of the voracious hunger that set her along her path.
She does not understand the look on her teacher’s mask, the strange reflection in its mother-of-pearl eyes.
“Find out for yourself,” it finally answers.
She is not yet wise enough to understand what it really means; young and hungry enough to believe in her own immortality with a strength that almost makes it real. And so she does not take her time to prepare: she slips away as soon as she can find a chance to.
“Here, my dear. Take it.”
The glass is heavy in your hand, solid crystal and the flickering liquid within. You’re not shaking, not yet, but it moves as if you are, shuddering against your skin just like you shuddered under her as she prepared you for this.
It takes so long to wring the sin out of someone, especially someone like you; you can’t help but blush as you think about it, eyes downcast and thighs pressed together, but that’s okay. Shame and desire aren’t sins—she wouldn’t lie to you about that.
The video starts immediately, with no explanation, its only context a steadily increasing timestamp blinking in a corner.
The tape is shit quality, footage full of splotches and distortions; whatever closed circuit system it was recorded on was obviously too close to the manifestation. There’s no sound.
(This story is also featured in my collection Joyous/Decay .)
“Oh, little angel … this is such a place to find you in, here down among the world’s roots. Why would you let yourself fall so far, my dear? There is nothing here for one like you.”
She whirls, looking for the voice’s source—but her halo is so dim. She can’t see a thing.
“I’m not your dear!” she yells, glaring at where she thinks the voice came from—a matted tangle of roots and thorns and filthy wood. “And I’m not fallen. I’m on a mission.”
Her hand on your cheek as she guides you down, careful to keep her claws just away from your skin. You’re so close to her, lost in the heat of her body and the smell of her delicious spicy musk.
It’s almost too much as you settle onto your knees and look up at her, at the marbled purple and red of her body and the ample fullness of her breasts and the horns curling from her head far above; she’s so large, so strong. She could break you without even trying, and the thought of that always makes your heart quiver and your cheeks burn.