Illusions of Love

The gritty, bellowing voice

I peered over the top of the trench at the sound of two car doors slamming shut. "If you kill them, Fearkah, you will regret it," I whispered to the demon in my head.

     I stood alone in the trench out here, with only the hot sun and the cicadas for company. Gritting my teeth, my muscles itched to crush Fearkah's scrawny neck. It wouldn't take much to snap his spine. I'd dearly like to, but since Fearkah had no physical presence, at least, not outside on Bracken Plain, I'd have to settle for imagining it. Threatening demons rarely worked out anyway, especially when the threat came from the beast's servant.

      Fearkah answered in my head, cackling. With his voice, he sent aches and hunger into my body. It made it difficult to look away from the car. Then, my taste buds swelled. The people that got out—they became luscious, sweet energy waiting.

      Roiled by the ache, the hollow sensation in my stomach drove my fingers to tense at my midriff, as if trying to dig the ache out. If I followed Fearkah's wishes, I'd eat and feel full again; if I denied him, I might hang on to whatever humanity I had left.

      Wrenching my eyes away from the car, turning to the old Queenslander, the only one on the plain, I squinted and pointed at the wraparound veranda, sweltering in the hazy sun. "You're an asshole of a monster, Fearkah. I won't murder them for you!"

     Fearkah's gritty voice bellowed: Stay there and be hungry then David, or come in and eat.

     My intestines contracted, twisting in my stomach, but the bile boiled against his words. With the same effectiveness of paper armor, one hand swooped to shield my belly from Fearkah's curse. My other hand tightened around the handle of the shovel and accepted more slivers of wood, inserted underneath my skin. I swiveled back to the highway, catching the scent of my own sweat in the stillness of the air.

     As soon as my eyes met the four-wheel drive and the girl that had emerged from it, the ache grew stronger. The thudding thing in my chest bashed against the cavity wall. It beat hard enough to shatter its own dark chamber along with the ache.

     "You might be better off dead?" I muttered to myself. Death had its pros and cons. Not that it was an option for me. These travelers were in danger of dying more than I.

     I shaded my eyes, mentally noting how far away the four-wheel drive sat from the house, calculating how long it would take them to reach it. Fixed to the ground, I squinted to get a better look at her.

     The devil stared as well.

     Her pale skin glowed in the sun, and the soft curve of her hips rocked as she walked.

     With the bounce of each curl at her back, little pinpricks tickled my nape, erecting the fine hair at my neck. Like the patter of a rare bee-eater bird, walking down to my hand, the soft tingles crept to my shoulders and down my arms. The sensation rippled, as if she invisibly ran her finger over my skin, innocent to the cannibal waiting for her.

      If she made it to the house, I'd feast, but I'd never know what it might be like for her to actually want to run her finger over my skin. I leaned on the shovel, my body sloping forward. When my tongue leaped out, licking at the droplets of her scent in the air, I caught it between my teeth and caged it inside my mouth. First, save her from Fearkah. Then, save her from myself.

     This morsel is ours, Fearkah snickered. Suck, suck. Drink, drink.

     Out in the open, she pottered away from the highway towards the lone Queenslander, sixty meters from the road.

     A million spells flew into my head. Each one of them failed to smite Fearkah. I scrabbled at one spell, hoping against hope, but that one would never work. Dammit, I refused to be this creature—to suck, suck—as Fearkah put it. She wasn't a morsel.