His

CW: Mild sexual content

Knowing the final cost of my endeavor would not have stopped me from following the enigma of her across the world. Elizabeth Barnes, with her sharp humor and sharper mind, was irreplaceable. Having missed her dearly and desperate for tales of her travels, I met her in Turkey for a few sun-kissed days together. Ducking into a bar to cool off one night, I was struck by her ethereal reflection. Chestnut waves fell over tanned shoulders as she studied the menu, catching her bottom lip with her teeth. Sixty-four and still breathtakingly beautiful.

“What’s your secret, you ageless wonder?” I asked, inclining my head towards the mirror opposite us.

Aunt Betty’s spruce green eyes were brimming with adoration. “What’s it to you? You’re perfect.”

Her latest suitor, a middle-aged local named Cenk, scoffed beside her. His audacity wasn’t shocking—he’d been a hulking, judgmental presence since my arrival—but I was annoyed he’d come out. Betty ignored him, so I tried to do the same and planned to ask later why she was bothering with the oaf. I hoped whiskey’s bite might dull the irritation, but unfortunately my buzz was provocative in nature. When he next looked my way, I displayed my right middle finger as I celebrated his rudeness and wandering eyes with an irreverent toast.

In a shocking turn of events, an aggressive cancer was found lurking in Aunt Betty’s lungs mere months after our trip. When her oncologist indicated assisted-living would soon be necessary, I begged her to come live with me in Manhattan. As a single physician, it made too much sense for her to refuse me. Remembering the odious Cenk as we organized the scant belongings in her Connecticut apartment ahead of the movers, I felt another wave of relief to be the one caring for her.

“Were you truly considering allowing that dull behemoth to care for you? I have sneakers more interesting. What did you see in him anyhow?”

“Oh, Charlie. It was a long trip and the options were scant. You know how I crave companionship.” After a brief pause she asked, “Hey, do you think they have dating apps for hospice patients?” Her devilish wink filled my heart, but the reminder of her spunk’s time limit unceremoniously catapulted me into the future. I pictured my vivacious aunt, frail and failing, in a hospital bed in the guest room.

My mind was still grasping for positive purchase when Betty sensed the tenor of my thoughts. “Darling, we’ll have so much time together, you’ll start fantasizing about my demise.”

Glancing at her through moist lashes, I noticed her breathing was becoming more labored. “Hey, are you okay?” I asked, gently guiding her toward a nearby loveseat.

“Truly, I’ll be fine.” We let the well-intentioned lie linger between us as her respirations settled.

Aunt Betty’s arrival in New York brought a wave of exhaustion that rivaled those I experienced in medical school. Unfortunately, my desperate need for sleep didn’t make rest any easier to find. Anesthetizing sick patients was a complicated endeavor, and I tended to throw all of my energy into providing excellent care. This was why, at thirty-five, I had yet to entertain settling down. I shouldn’t have been surprised when frantically rebalancing my work schedule while navigating life alongside another adult in my objectively tiny Midtown apartment proved a hefty added weight.

When I finally found sleep, I endured a nightmare so terrible it erased all other stressors from my mind. Heading to the kitchen, thoughts looping around the dream’s vivid imagery, I walked swiftly past my aunt. Perched gracefully upon the sofa in silvery silk pajamas, she somehow transformed my lackluster living room into a Hollywood set. I was grateful for the sea of jazz in which she seemed to be lost.

“Everything okay, kid?” Betty called after me. She always noticed more than I imagined possible.

I let my shoulders drop, exhaling audibly, as my therapist advised. “Yep, all good!”

“Maybe you can try that again?” She asked, padding into the kitchen. Those knowing words paused the flow of bitter coffee into my cup.

I sighed, conceding. “It was just a dream.”

Betty covered my chipped nails with her perfect manicure. “Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t realize you still had nightmares. Tell me about it?” When I remained silent, she prompted, “I imagine it’s preferable to break room gossip—no offense—and forecasting my pitiful decline.”

“What the Hell,” my rolling eyes found hers. “Literally. A demon came here,” I gestured broadly, incredulous. “Red-skinned and horned, he demanded you ‘tell the truth,’ at which point…,”

“At which point…what?”

The words themselves felt hesitant, but the small circles she was rubbing into the back of my hand spurred me on. “Well, you told me he’d been ‘gifted’ to you when you were young, meaning your entire life was one of suffering at the hands of a demonic parasite. Though it all happened in plain sight, no one knew.” Cocking my head, I raised both eyebrows and flattened my lips, confirming recognition of my mind’s fucked up nature.

Aunt Betty brushed a stray curl behind my ear and moved into the hall, silently motioning for me to follow.

At the door to her room, an unexpected, concrete awareness that we would live together until she was taken from me in death nearly toppled me. I grounded myself in the feel of her hand, internally replaying her specialist’s words to feed hope that “she could have several months.” When Betty gestured toward her burgundy wingback chair, I allowed myself to be eleven years old again, far from this reality. I recalled sitting there as my loving aunt, aware no one else would bother with the conversation, taught me about puberty. Here she was, still caring for me, despite our anticipated role-reversal.

“Demons have always rattled you, dear. Why don’t you say it all as fast as you can, like when you were little?” She was perched on the chair’s arm, following the line of my dark hair with her thumb.

“But I’m a grown woman! This is pathetic!” What I didn’t say was that my fear had grown into a morbid fascination, manifesting in the fantastic books and shows I devoured. Frustratingly, my proclivity for handsome, powerful demonic protagonists was in no way helping in my attempts to curb my anxiety. The dream demon made no effort to cloak himself in sex, instead presenting as more horrifying than anything I should have been able to conjure.

“Being frightened is nothing to be ashamed of. Fear is protective.” Aunt Betty’s words were gentle, encouraging.

“Okay, fine, but I can’t keep saying ‘demon.’ Let’s call him Bill. Bill told me he’d wanted me since I was young, which was beyond creepy. He kept referencing the ‘truth’ I would soon learn. I fought to wake, but when I fell asleep again, Bill was waiting.”

Time stilled as Aunt Betty assessed me. Her eyes, impossibly green and alight with resolve, confusingly rekindled the clutch of the dream’s terror. “Charlotte, I won’t regret dying, but I do regret the burden you’ll carry. This is all my fault.”

The sentiment immediately invited shame’s bite. “Aunt Betty, you are not a burden!” I exclaimed, a touch too loud. Did she not know how honored I felt to care for her? Had she interpreted this dream as a metaphor for her presence?

When her deep inhale coalesced into a coughing fit, I rushed to the kitchen to refill her water. In my hurry, I responded to an unexpected knock at the door with, “be right there,” instead of finding concern in the way the offending hand managed to bypass my disciplined doorman.

The first words out of Aunt Betty’s mouth once she could manage speech were, “do not let him in—not yet.”

Through a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions, I started dumbly with, “how do you know it’s a man?”

“It’s not a man, it’s Bill.” Her expression begged for rapid understanding as the knocking grew louder.

My mind initially resisted her words. When understanding dawned, the storm devolved into chaos. “It’s BILL?” I shouted.

With practiced ease, my aunt took control. “Charlotte, listen carefully. Ours is a plagued family. At all times, a female member of your mother’s maternal line must live in service to a lesser demon. We know little about him, only that he is subservient to Astaroth, the Great Duke.”

“The Great Duke…of Hell,” I interrupted, more numb than dumb. “This isn’t funny, Aunt B.”

She continued fluidly. “This isn’t a joke. A crossroads deal was struck centuries ago, the details of which are shaky, but which I will share later. Regardless, if he is refused or an appropriate female replacement is not made available—”

“Elizabeth, dear?” Saccharine words drifted from the hallway and crept slowly to the base of my spine.

Aunt Betty swallowed, “—the consequences would be unfathomable. When your great grandma died in that accident, Bill fiendishly chose a seventeen-year-old replacement instead of her mother. Without warning, the bond transferred to me. I’ve endured nearly half a century in this manner. I’ve done all I can to keep him satisfied, to give whoever he chose next precious time. Cruelly, the youthful appearance this curse ensures as part of the original deal is always repaid with an early demise. I’m so sorry, but he wants you.” Her regret tasted acidic on my tongue.

“Charlotte, I’ve missed your fiery spirit since Istanbul.” The voice again, singsongy and full of malice. A remote part of my brain registered the allusion to preternatural hearing, but it wasn’t the most unsettling aspect of his confession.

My eyes were saucers, mouth arid, as I looked to my wincing aunt. “Turkey?”

“I couldn’t tell you, but his presence now means he’s interested in an official introduction before…well, you know.” Her sentiment threatened to break us both, so she quickly continued. “He enjoys taking new forms, but any partner you’ve met has been him. I promise to tell you everything in time. For now, let him in. Trust me, you don’t want to find out what he’ll do if you refuse.” Her finger pointed firmly in the direction of the door, towards the demon outside.

Imagining a hallway dripping with eviscerated neighbors, I managed the task despite the resistance of every motor nerve in my body. The man in the doorframe appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was classically handsome, dressed in charcoal slacks and a white Oxford shirt, which contrasted quite well with his dark complexion. Casually holding the collar of the suit coat draped over his left shoulder, he openly assessed my body. When his eyes met mine, the enormous centers were entirely black.

“Hello, beautiful. May I?” He gestured inside. No amount of flattery would distract me from his need for permission. I wondered idly at the British accent, whether it was something he’d affected or if the body in front of me had a previous owner who hailed from overseas.

Gathering myself, I managed to speak, though the sound was choked. “Come in.”

Once he crossed the threshold, the air was pulled from my lungs as though I’d entered the incompatible atmosphere of a foreign planet. My brain conjured an image of a rescue flare painting the sky scarlet above a sinking ship as my oxygen levels plummeted.

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’m Freddy. Well, in this body I am. I couldn’t help but notice you seemed to dislike Cenk. I haven’t been Bill for over a hundred years.” Easy, sarcastic, conversational.

My sense of gravity shifted.

“No more toasts to my good health?” It sounded as though he was speaking through water. Horrifyingly, as all my senses slowly returned, I realized two truths simultaneously: I had lost consciousness, and my limp body was being supported by the well-hewn arms of a centuries-old demon. He gingerly touched the tip of my nose as I remained paralyzed. “Sorry, dear. That often happens the first few times–it’s to do with our chemistry. Speaking of science, I must say, I adore your biology.” One of his thick brows rose as he cupped my generous backside.

The touch electrified me into motion. Shooting out of his arms, I scrambled to the sofa. His throaty laugh starkly contrasted the words being raked from my own voicebox. “This can’t be happening.”

“I have to admit, I’ve always kept an eye on you, but when you openly mocked me? So feisty. I was smitten.” He winked and rage heated my blood—though a despicable lust, too, undeniably fueled the fire. “I always prefer my wards young, single, childless, entertaining, etcetera. You know.” A wave of his hand reinforced the obviousness of his absurd statement. “Devastatingly, your sister’s daughters won’t be of age when this one sheds her corporeal form. I always thought I’d force the bond on their mom, but disposing of a partner is rather tedious. Besides, I recently recognized that, compared to you, Bethany is nowhere near as…,” he paused to slowly peruse my figure, “endearing.”

For the first time since Freddy’s arrival, I paused to assess myself. I chuckled at the “I am a delicate fucking flower” slippers a friend had gifted me. Suntanned legs, similar in color to my aunt’s, were covered to mid-thigh, where my biker shorts landed. The spandex disappeared under an oversized t-shirt bearing the Harvard emblem, which was the only item of clothing I ever slept in prior to my aunt’s arrival. I thanked Satan for small miracles. The purple tint I added to the underside of my hair was also quite noticeable with the sun now pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I was certainly nothing like Bethany.

“I do apologize about the dream. These things happen when the bond is preparing to shift.” I stared at him dully as he spoke, once again mentally struggling against this reality.

Aunt Betty came to me on the sofa and squeezed my knee three times—our long-time sign for “I love you.” When I met her stare, it was solid, assured. “Know that he will not force himself on you,” her eyes snapped to him, “nor will he allow anyone else to have you. He will find you wherever you go, likely surprising you in a new body. Simply, tragically, you will be his.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, I will miss you.” Apparently content to let my aunt explain the arrangement’s terms, Freddy began perusing my record collection. My mind was working on overdrive, insanely prioritizing curiosity around what our sexual dynamic might be like. I was also morbidly interested in the relationships between this demon and the women in my family. Finally, I felt rage towards the audacious way he was helping himself to a tour of my home. As I readied myself to voice my anger, Freddy flipped past The Band, sparking a memory.

Betty taught me how to harmonize to “The Weight” when I was little. Looking from our visitor to my aunt, I thought back on the song’s lyrics—Carmen walking beside the Devil, the crossroads deals. My mind stretched further, to distant memories and charged discussions. I’d been taken with demons, but Aunt Betty sparked the fascination. Her varied interests and remote travel destinations, through this new lens, sent my mind racing as I attempted to keep my features in check. Turkey, formerly Mesopotamia, a land rich in demonic knowledge. Mississippi and its infamous intersections. Burdened and isolated, she’d been trying to figure out ways to warn, shield, and prepare me, while also working to break this curse.

She sensed the shift in my energy and turned to face me. All that was left unsaid weighed heavy in the pleading pinch of her face. She met my questioning glance with three soft, desperate squeezes.

Unable to help myself, I addressed her despite the warning. “Aunt B–”

“Later, dear,” Betty cut me off, her own words thick with meaning. She gripped my skin as tightly as she could without alerting the abomination now indulging himself in a peek at my bedroom. “I think it’s best we discuss this all later,” she said sweetly. “I can see you’re overwhelmed.”

I would wait to hear what cards hid up my fiendish aunt’s sleeve, but even her gift of hope could only tame my volatile emotions to a point. Whether or not I had a unique interest in screwing a legendary bad-boy, I wasn’t some confused teen or the dainty woman my great grandmother surely was when this happened to her. I was fiercely independent, unwilling to yield to anyone—at least not on my own terms. Betting shock could be blamed for an initial outburst but future misdeeds would lead to punishment, I took a risk. Confronting Freddy and staring into the onyx pools of his eyes, I pointedly asked, “Can this bond be broken?”

He was invading my space, his hand on the small of my back, inhaling deeply at my clavicle before my lips closed around the question. “Exquisite.” I was frozen as he smirked, tapping the center of my forehead with his long index finger. “Exquisite and wicked. Careful, Charlotte, and we’ll get along deliciously.” With the last word, he vanished.

Slightly flustered, I smirked, too. Success in anesthesia relied upon excellent assessment skills. Residency training in inner-city Detroit greatly bolstered my ability to spot a tell. After a few minutes spent interviewing patients, I knew whether or not they took the necessary medications or failed to abstain from recreational drugs. Freddy was right, I was clever. I recognized his words for what they were: armor masking the small crack I’d seen in response to my question.

Aunt Betty was going to die, I was going to be a demon’s bride, but our bloodline was finally prepared for battle. The only thing I was unsure of as I helped my aunt back to her room was whether I wanted to fight or flirt with this disaster—fetish be damned or be damned by my fetish.