The Devil appeared as Mrs. Wiesnewski was weeding her dahlias on a delightful August afternoon, the kind that wasn’t too hot nor too cold, with a playful breeze rustling the leaves and whisping the clouds in the clear blue sky.⁣

She knew he was the Devil because of the serpentine tail protruding from the seat of his smartly tailored pants, twitching back and forth like her marmalade cat’s did when he was annoyed. That, and the distinctive smell of brimstone. She’d never smelled it before, but she’d be willing to bet her prize-winning dahlias it could be nothing else. She supposed he could be a lesser demon, but she suspected they wouldn’t go about with the same unaffected air of power as he did.⁣

⁣“Good day,” said Mrs. Wiesnewski, brushing sweaty ringlets, now more silver than brown, from where they’d fallen into her eyes. “May I help you?” It paid to be polite, even—and especially—to the Devil. She doubted he was there for her; overall, she’d led a fairly balanced life, nothing that should tip the scales in his favor, though there had been that time she’d released slugs in a rival’s garden. Not her proudest moment, but the scheming woman deserved it, passing off stolen cultivars as her own.⁣

⁣The Devil crouched across the row, digging his fingers into the damp soil. Piano hands, her Thom would’ve called them, long and slender and graceful. No claws, which she’d half expected.⁣

⁣“The scent is pleasant,” he said, his melodious voice sounding surprised as he crumbled the soil in his fingers, letting it fall back to the garden bed.⁣

⁣“Soil?” said Mrs. Wiesnewski. “I’ve always liked it. Nothing like good clean earth after a spit of rain.”⁣

⁣The Devil nodded, wiping his fingers on his ink-black pants. They left a smudge, which he seemed not to notice. “Clean…” he murmured, almost as an afterthought. “These flowers, they are yours?”⁣

⁣“I grow them, if that’s what you mean.”⁣

⁣He nodded again. “And you grow other things.”⁣

⁣It wasn’t a question. Nevertheless, she braced herself on one hand and pointed. “Vegetables are over there. The tomatoes are in fine form this year.”⁣

⁣“No no.” His mouth, which she might have called sensuous, pulled down in an honest-to-goodness pout. “You grow…” His dark eyes scanned the garden. “Good things. Beauty. Compassion. Kindness. Love.”⁣

⁣She’d never heard it said quite like that, but she supposed such things could be cultivated the same as plants. You had to encourage compassion. Love could grow just like the sweet peas trailing over her white picket fence. “I suppose I do,” she replied, thinking proudly of the people she’d welcomed into the Canterbury Garden Club who’d previously been excluded, of her Thom watching her from Heaven and their three children who sent her texts throughout the week.⁣

⁣The Devil stroked one silky pink petal. “Would you teach me?”⁣

⁣Mrs. Wiesnewski sat back on her heels. “Teach you?”⁣

⁣He kept his gaze on the blooms before him. “About the beautiful things.”⁣

⁣She wiped her hands on her grass-stained overalls. “Why?” The better question was perhaps ‘why now’, but she left it at that.⁣

⁣“Because I’m tired of being blamed for all the evils in the world.” The Devil rocked back, the faint suggestion of flamed wings unfurling over his head. “Humanity does a fine job of that on its own. I don’t have nearly as much power as people think I do.” He glanced skyward, then added, “Neither does She.”⁣

⁣Bending back over the flowerbed, Mrs. Wiesnewski studied him, the weary set of his shoulders, the crow’s feet creasing his eyes. At one time, he must have been devastatingly handsome. Now, he simply looked drained. And sad.⁣

⁣“I want to do something useful,” he said softly, plucking a blade of grass to twirl between his fingers. “Something good.”⁣

⁣She supposed he could be deceiving her, but somehow, despite knowing who he was, she didn’t think so. She’d always had a sense about such things, just as she did with plants. “Why me?” she asked.⁣

⁣The Devil smiled, and Heaven help her, but her heart stuttered. Devastatingly handsome indeed.⁣

⁣“I like dahlias.”⁣

August 11, 2023

They say it was about the shoe. But see, it was never about the shimmering glass left on the stairs when I stumbled, or the shards of my stepmother’s shattered promise to my father. 

I never wanted to go to the ball. But if it’s a choice between being beaten every evening and enduring a turn about the room, I’ll choose the ball. I was hoping some foolish nobleman might find me enigmatic enough to take the chance on a maid from a kingdom the mists supposedly swallowed. I never meant to catch the prince’s attention. 

But catch it I did. And he’s every rumor I’d heard and worse. But one does not refuse royalty. 

My mother—Ilena and Her brethren protect her spirit—made me promise I’d never forget my worth. I can still smell the cedar and incense as she etched a sprig of forget-me-nots into my wrist. ‘Never forget your worth, little flower. And never ignore the call of the mists.’

The prince promised, on our wedding night, he’d never hurt me.

My stepmother broke her promise. The prince broke his. I will not break mine. 

They say it’s about the shoe. And I suppose, in a way, it is. In the shard I left lodged in his chest, working its way to his heart as I work my way to the edge of the unknown. 

February 17, 2023

At first, she doesn’t understand. He’s surly, to be sure, and he looks a sight, and his manners leave much to be desired, but she’s met plenty of men who warrant the title of beast more than this disheveled prince. 

Her attempts at conversation are rebuffed with cool censure, his eyes averted though she catches him staring, and he hides in his books or his garden the rest of the time. 

But on the eve of the full moon, he stalks across the library and all but drags her to her quarters, the lock clicking before the key slides beneath the door. 

“Do not unlock this till dawn.”

Frightened by the depths in his already-deep voice, she obeys. 

When he finally reappears, he’s skittish, nearly jumping from his chair when she speaks. She settles in its opposite, staring at the flames, then looks up—at the same time as he. His eyes are beautiful, a dark bistre bordered by gold. Haunting. Haunted. 

She starts to suspect he waits for her, in his chair by the fire. One evening, she dares to read aloud, stealing glances in between sentences. His eyes are closed, his dark hair casting serpentine shadows over his face. 

On the eve of the next full moon, he locks her in again. This time, she hears suggestions of sounds—screams, then wails, then horrifying howls that send shivers down her spine.

This time, his wrists are raw. He tries to hide it, but she notices when he sets a single rose on her open book as he settles next to her in front of the fire.

“This rose and I,” he says, haltingly, “we understand one another.”

She nods, then swallows a yelp. As blood beads on her finger, he lifts it to his lips, licking gently as his eyes hold hers. 

“Does it hurt?”

She doesn’t feel the pain. Not now.   

The third time, curiosity and compassion have her creeping to follow the howls to the dungeon, where she finds—a creature. Not quite man. Not quite beast. An unholy amalgamation. But his eyes are the same, haunting, haunted, now darkened with fear and fury.

He snarls, straining against his chains. She holds his gaze as long as she can, then flees with a sob. 

He reappears sooner, this time, blood seeping through the bandages on his wrists, bruises beneath his beautiful eyes, his dark hair combed and held back with a silken ribbon. She’s researching curses. He closes the book, gently, then tilts her chin. “Why?”

“Because I wish to help.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing helps.”

But she’s already found her answer. Heart pounding, she places her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat skitter and skip. “I can.” 

When she touches her lips to his, he groans, his hands coming to cup her curves. 

“May I…” He frames her face. “May I show you the pleasure? So you might… bear the rest?”

He lays her before the fire, his head, then his hard length between her legs as she chants his name. 

On the eve of the fourth full moon, he gifts her a single red rose.

“To remember.” 

She nods. 

That evening, he leaves her door unlocked. She dresses carefully, then waits, plucking petals. 

He warned her he would not, could not be gentle. She screams, then sobs as his claws break skin, holding her still as he pierces her, her hands fisting in the sheets to release the faint scent of roses.  

As dawn breaks, he collapses, then crawls over her trembling body, tears staining his cheeks as he caresses, praises, worships her, until his name becomes a prayer. 

***

The curse no longer holds the power it had, the transformation not as pronounced nor obvious. Her prince is charming, polite, and refined, renowned for his extensive library and exquisite roses. 

But she is never more his, nor he hers, than the nights when the full moon slants through the diamond-paned windows, illuminating her slender frame bent before him, her screams smothered in the velvet drapes of their fourposter bed as his fingers dig into her thighs, his teeth sinking into her neck. The nights when her body, her touch, soothe the Beast. 

May 13, 2022

He wasn’t supposed to fall for her. It was, without a doubt, the most dangerous thing he’d ever done, more dangerous than his forty-footer taking on a typhoon, more dangerous than his flight through the Himalayas in a questionable helicopter. 

He hadn’t meant to. At first, he’d only meant to help. He couldn’t stand seeing someone set adrift in a sea of monsters with no manual or map. But that was exactly what they’d done to her, so far as he could tell. And he couldn’t stand by and watch her drown. 

At first, she’d been wary, but he’d persisted—it had been a blow to his pride, much as he didn’t want to admit it, and then, the thrill of the challenge. But the joke was on him… the harder he’d tried, the harder it got to stay away. 

And as he studied her in the sunrise streaming through the slatted blinds, tracked the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath the sheets, watched the iridescent flicker of flame over her skin in the wake of his fingertips, he knew. 

He was already in too deep. 

April 1, 2022

She hadn’t seen him in two centuries—and now this? Removing her hair clip, she shook the dark waves to hide her face. Surely someone in the crowd would see the resemblance. 

There’d been plenty of buzz over the new exhibit, but she hadn’t paid it much attention. She had too much work. And the name hadn’t rung any bells; she’d known him as Lucien. 

But now, there was no mistaking the sensuous brush strokes, the golden glow he favored. Portrait after portrait of the same model.

Oh Luc. 

Did he still live in the cottage outside Chenonceau? Did he regret her leaving?

–

Ten hours later, she stood at the wooden door she still saw in her dreams. She lifted her hand. Hesitated. 

The door swung open. 

“Claire.” He smiled, and had she a working heart, it would have stopped. He was as beautiful as she remembered, the sleek black hair, the strong features, the slender, supple hands. 

She shivered, remembering those hands on her skin.

“I hoped you’d come.”

She simply stared. To see him again, after all this time…

“I thought you’d still be in art. I knew the exhibit just had to find you.”

He’d planned it? For her?

“Claire.” He lifted his hand. Hesitated. “Claire. Mon coeur. Say something.”

My heart. “You don’t have a heart, Luc.”

“But if I did…” He stepped forward, his eyes searching hers, then slid his hand into her hair, hers coming to clutch his shirt. “If I did,” he murmured, his teeth grazing her neck as she sighed, “it would belong to you.”

February 18, 2022

On days when the fog crept along the coast on cat’s paws, soft and silent, Alden left the farthest traps and made his way to the rocks. It was one such day when he found her. 

He’d almost thought the the seagull’s prize a creature, mottled gray fur shimmering as the bird shook it. Alden scrambled over the rocks with a shout. 

It wasn’t a creature. It was a shawl, the material and weave unlike anything he’d seen. Then he spotted her, silhouetted against the fog, strands of dark hair swept across her face by the salt-scented breeze. Her eyes darted to the shawl in his hands.

He stammered an apology and held out the shawl as she approached with tentative steps. 

“I-it belongs to you now,” she said. “As do I.” But her eyes, the blue depths of the sea, drowned in sorrow. 

Alden tried to dissuade her, to no avail. So he swore, in his heart, he’d do his best to bring joy to his new wife’s eyes. Every day, he showed her treasures from his world. Wildflowers, mushrooms, a mouse with velvet fur, lacy ferns, robin’s eggs, stories in the clouds, fiery sunsets… and one clear night, beneath the stars, she framed his face in her cold hands and kissed him. 

He built her a cottage just off the rocks, so she was never far from her sea. They wanted for nothing, but the village wives whispered behind their bonnets and scowled at their husbands’ wandering eyes. 

One evening, Alden returned to silence, his wife’s still body gutted like a fish. He screamed until his voice left him, then cradled her to his chest, wrapping them both in her shawl as he stumbled to the rocks. 

“Please,” he whispered. “Please.” And he leapt.

They say on days when the fog creeps along the coast, you might glimpse a seal with bleached bones ringing his neck, the last remains of the love he’d laid to rest in her sea. 

August 13, 2021

“Run, little rabbit.” A hand claps over her mouth, though she knows better now than to scream.

“Run,” he snarls. 

She bolts into the night. She’s never feared darkness, not with her Sight, but she fears their grasping hands. 

She runs past the cold cottages, through the barren fields where the frozen, splintered stalks slice her calloused soles. She runs into the forest, where branches and brambles snatch at her nightshirt, tear open her scars—scars from them. Their drunken jeers in the distance freeze her tears. 

She runs. Past the tree where they tied her, their arrows whistling along with birdsong as they egged each other on. 

She runs. It’s only a matter of time until they catch her. They’re bigger. Faster. She’s endured their torment for over half of her seventeen years, terrified into silence, but tonight will be different. She’s made sure of it. 

She runs. They curse and hurl insults and stones. A point for a hit. Two if it’s her head. 

An anguished scream shatters the frozen silence. One down. 

She runs, splashing through the frigid stream where she washes away the filth of their touch. 

A shriek. Two down. Still she runs, her lungs burning with each icy inhalation. 

A scream, abruptly silenced. Three. Still she runs, toward the rocks where they shattered her wrist and her innocence. She leaps, nimbly navigating the boulders by moonlight, then darts past her trap and waits. 

The last scream ricochets off the rocks. Her brother rages, then pleads. 

“Never again,” she spits. 

And she runs, leaving her monsters to die. 

February 12, 2021

Every evening, he waits, pacing the length of the plush rug, his body taut. Every evening, she arrives after the lanterns are dimmed, cheeks flushed, yearning for what she cannot request—it goes against her nature to ask. But with him, there’s no need to ask.

Every evening, he soothes her.

The stern portraits over the mantel would blush crimson at her cries. The paned windows fog, moisture condensing and trickling over the bubbled glass like the sweat that beads on her languid body. She presses soft kisses to his shoulder, then curls herself into the curve of his embrace, content.

He suppresses a shiver as he twines his legs with hers, for there is no warmth in affection performed under pain of death.

November 13, 2020

Never let it be said whispers can’t cut. They cut through silence like claws through flesh. When I was younger, I smeared my skin with mud. They jeered and pushed me into the waterfall. I can’t be one of them—can’t imitate the scars earned in combat or in the heat of passion. No one will dare fight me, never mind mate with me. I’m a beast.

There’s a new group when the packs arrive for the full moon. One man follows me with his dark eyes. I ignore him. He’ll soon tire of the novelty. Anxious to be away from their whispers, I dive into the waterfall.

When I surface, he’s there, crosslegged on the moss, his beautiful face unreadable—my heart pounds—what can he want?

He appears the next night, and the night after. On the night of the full moon, he dives in after me. It takes me a moment to register when he speaks.

“What’s your name?” he repeats.

“I’m the beast.”

He frowns and offers his hand. “I’m Lucian.”

I stare; he’s not repulsed? I reach out… and stumble from the shock of his touch. Lucian catches me, his grip strong around my waist, and I’m captivated by those dark eyes, glimmering like the depths of the pool. He lowers his head, and I cling to him as his mouth reduces me to tears. When he lays me on the moss, I turn away, ashamed. I don’t have claws; I can’t give him what he needs.

He tilts my chin. “What is it?”

“I’m not like you.”

“What do you mean?”

I trace my fingers over his scars. “All I’ve ever wanted—” I hesitate. “Will you…?”

His eyes widen. “It will hurt,” he warns. I nod.

He’s gentle, reverent, and I’m lost in the sensation of his body straining against mine, in the mounting heat where our bodies join. He rakes his claws over my chest, and I scream in ecstasy and agony. Lucian cradles me and stumbles to the waterfall, and the pool runs red as he kisses my tears.

I touch the torn flesh gingerly. “Now I’m beautiful.”

“You were beautiful before.”

“To whom?”

“To me.”

August 21, 2020

The swirling gusts carry the reassuring scents of pine and freshly-tilled fields… and the heady perfume of bluebells. “Stay away from the bluebells.” Mother’s firm warning echoes in my mind as I stoop to pluck a blushing anemone from amongst the white. Only pink today; Mother was very clear. Her furrowed brow and pursed lips spoke of a brewing mood, so I’d eagerly accepted the task of gathering flowers for tonight’s bouquets.⁣

The wind tugs at my muslin layers, hobbling me and threatening to whisk away the anemones I’ve so carefully collected in my skirt. Bluebells again, beckoning me. ⁣

“Stay away from the bluebells.”⁣

A gust shivers the pines guarding the edge of the clearing. Beyond their boughs, I glimpse a carpet of blue. Blue like I’ve never seen. Bluer than the deepest corner of the sky on a clear day, or the Queen’s sapphire ring. ⁣

The wind shoves me forward, and I stumble toward the pines, clutching my skirt and struggling to sweep my hair from my face. Dark strands escape my fingers, and I think of Mother’s buttercup gold ringlets and wonder, as I do most days. ⁣

With a whoosh, the wind sweeps me into the pines and falls silent as the intoxicating scent overcomes Mother’s warning. Bluebells. Delicate stalks nod over the path before me, and I inhale their fragrance and step. ⁣

A gentle breeze sets the bluebells to swaying. The sweetest chiming rings in my ears, and I stare at the forbidden flowers as the forgotten anemones spill onto the pine needles. ⁣

Bare feet as pale as mine appear in my field of vision. I raise my head and meet eyes the luminous gray of a threatening thunderstorm. Like mine. ⁣

He smiles. “Welcome home, child.”⁣

March 2, 2020