Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

“Then it’s enough.” Chiara moved her head, eyes fixed on his, knowing she was all too ready now. Waiting any longer was totally out of the question. “Come here,” she said.

He didn’t have to part her legs now. She did that well and smoothly on her own, feeling the air on moist flesh as knees, thighs, vaginal lips divided at her own urging.

The man descended into her as she arched to meet him.

He moaned. “Oh, Christ, so goddamned deep…”

“You can go deeper,” she said. “I want that. I can take you deeper.” Fingers digging hard into the corded muscles in his rear, she pulled him into her.

“That powder,” he said. “It’s like goddamned Spanish fly. It’s not helping my self control.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” she said. “It doesn’t have to. I came as soon as you entered me. You’ll make me come again before we’re done.”

He said nothing, just uttered eloquent, inarticulate sounds as he slammed into her again and again.

“That’s it,” she said, “harder, baby.”

“Now!” he said. “Now, now, now, now!” Heat shot into her, sleeted through her. She thought she felt sexual exit wounds glowing with radiation like a nuclear test site.

After a while, she turned back into the shelter of his arms and said, “That was wonderful. I loved it.”

“Me too.” The man seemed to hesitate before speaking again. He toyed with her breasts, bringing the nipples erect as small stones. “Chiara, you think maybe we’ll ever get, well, really serious?”

“You want to?” she said.

He slowly nodded. “I gotta admit, I’ve never been with a woman like you.

“You’re very sweet.” In the half-light, she thought she could see him blush.

“I mean it,” he said.

She nodded sleepily and kissed him on the lips.

Really serious? she thought.

Chiara knew she would leave him in the morning, or the morning after. She would never see him again.

Night followed night, month after month, man after man, the Rickies, the Robbies, the Randies. The gargoyle box made them all momentary possibilities.

But the store of powdered desire was depleted. The night Chiara had dreaded eventually arrived.

She sat crosslegged on the bed in the room that had given her so much solace, the implements of that comfort spread out around her. Chiara gazed down into the emptiness that now mostly filled the open box.

She rested her palm lightly on the cool, sharp-veined stone wings of the creature on the lid.

The voice whose source she could never quite see whispered close to her ear: Love, I think it’s finally time.

She slowly nodded. “I was never unfaithful,” she said fiercely. “I’ve loved only you.”

I know. But we’re both on courses that no longer cross.

She wet her finger with her tongue and lowered it into the box, picking up the final vestige of powder.

I’ll miss you very much, he said.

She tried to smile. “I’ll miss you too.”

Silence stretched, bent, flexed in its supple way.

What will you do? he said.

Chiara dipped the tip of her tongue, caught the last bit of ash. “Have you no faith in me?”

I have every faith, he finally answered. But I’m still a little jealous.

I am too. She didn’t say that aloud.

What will you do?

When she spoke, her eyes were as wet as the rest of her had become. What will I do? she thought.

The taste was bitter and salt, sour and sweet on her tongue. It brought back everything. She had to swallow before she could speak.

“Well, darlin’,” she said. “I guess I’ll just have to fall in love again.”

The pain stung there, sharp and sudden as a blade; then it was gone.

And so was he.

Mirrors Garry Kilworth

HE FOUND HIMSELF IN an exotic city, in an oriental country, but was not quite sure which city or which country. Having taken the sleeping pill, he had been bemused when awakened from a deep pool of sleep to be told the plane had developed engine trouble and they had to make an emergency landing. The airline had driven the passengers from the airport to a hotel, where a room had been provided. It was the Hilton. One might be in a Hilton in Bangkok, New York, or Amsterdam: They all had similar interior plans, similar decor. The hotel was no indication of where he was. Nor were the staff, who simply looked oriental. They might have been Korean, or Thai, or Vietnamese: Walt was no great traveler and could not separate these nationalities from one another. In an American city he had once mistaken a Filipino maid for Chinese.