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Kindle Notes & Highlights
by
Sarah Hawley
Read between
October 24 - October 28, 2024
On werewolf Ben Rosewood’s list of Things To Avoid If At All Possible, weddings were near the top.
The postceremony dinner was wrapping up and it was speech-making time. Another mortifying activity best practiced by drunk people or those who didn’t have an anxiety disorder. In vino confidence, he thought.
“So, I know you’re busy, but have you given any thought to dating?” Yes, Mom. Arguably too much thought. And the moment “anxious, workaholic werewolf” appeared on someone’s vision board, she’d be first to know.
The nonbinary centaur was a member of an Irish step dance troupe as well as a popular ClipClop influencer (as Gigi had informed him, being far more social media savvy than he was).
That was Astaroth, Oz’s former mentor, who had been kind of evil before a bout of amnesia had improved him immensely. The improvement was also due to his partner, Calladia Cunnington, who had reformed the demon during a road trip nearly two years ago. Astaroth’s memories had returned, including the knowledge that he was half human, but he’d remained on Team Good and now lived with Calladia on Earth, visiting the demon plane on occasion to help implement progressive societal reforms.
Thankfully, being surrounded by good dancers and internet-famous pixies meant fewer people were looking at Ben. Thus, he was free to flail.
“Neither of us particularly believe in the institution of human marriage, and we don’t need a ceremony to be bound together forever.” “Aww,” Themmie said. “But what about the tax benefits?” Astaroth grimaced. “Right. Sometimes I forget humans are determined to suck the money and joy out of everything.” He shrugged. “Maybe someday, then, but I’ll let her lead the way. I’m just fortunate to be able to love her for as long as I can.”
“Normal is overrated,” she said. “But want to talk about it?” Ben didn’t. He really, really didn’t, especially not to an internet-cool pixie some fifteen years younger than him who generally had at least two or three significant others. That was why he opened his mouth and spilled the entire story to her.
He even kept handwritten ledgers at the office, preferring to practice his calligraphy rather than attempt Excel. Spreadsheets were undoubtedly helpful but lacked a certain artistry, and whenever he heard the words pivot table or conditional formatting he wanted to flee.
He’d had some luck finding bulk quantities of unusual stones on eBay, so he switched to the site, squinting through the alcohol haze. Blue sexy rock he typed in, having briefly forgotten the word crystal.
This is a dark Vampire Succbus named Eleonore. She is 5’8” tall with flaming red hair and emerald eyes. Very sexy, comes with her own Knives. Hisses. French. “…Knives?” Ben muttered, eyeing the photo of the tacky blue “crystal.” “Hissing?” She is very Angry in nature but at least some threats are Jokes! Good friend, maybe good girlfriend I do not know, will do Anything for you—bite vengeance murder Jenga etc, Eleonore does All “Murder?” Dark Vampire Succbus Eleonore angry sexy French BUY NOW but BEWARE you must be firm, she has Attitude but very worth it if you want Assassin, TV watcher, best
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He was too cowardly to set up a dating profile, but by Lycaon, he was just drunk and easily amused enough to buy a vampire succubus—or succbus—assassin girlfriend in the shape of a plastic rock for the low, low price of $0.99.
The sender was listed as THE WITCH IN THE WOODS, with no return address, and the signature line on the receipt sat beneath text that read, I assume full responsibility for the hellion, no take backs, which struck him as nonstandard language.
Eleonore Bettencourt-Devereux was a rare creature in many ways. The first: She had been born to an immortal vampire sire and a mortal succubus mother and was thus a hybrid with unique traits from both species. The second: She’d seen many centuries pass, despite inheriting her mother’s mortality. The third: She’d been chained to a crystal, magically compelled to obey a witch’s every command. Those commands had largely involved murder.
The man was gaping at her. Somewhat like a fish, or perhaps a Star Trek redshirt about to meet his demise.
Attire chosen to make a person underestimate him…if it weren’t for the silver weapons gleaming from the couch beside him. The spikes were long and sharp, and though they were currently tangled in thick, colorful thread, she had no doubt they would be effective when jabbed into an enemy’s neck.
She licked one throbbing fang. Perhaps it had been hasty to threaten his liver. It was her vampire father’s legacy—during times of stress, it was fangs first, critical thinking later.
Internal screaming was preferable to out-loud screaming, which was about all the silver lining Ben could find in this situation.
Still, the shift from hostility to seduction on her part was both abrupt and suspicious. People rarely tried to seduce Ben—that he was aware of, anyway—and when they did, they certainly didn’t open with threatening to eat his organs.
What was the etiquette for this? When he was a child, his mother had given him lessons about how to set a table or hypothetically introduce himself to the Queen, but she hadn’t covered the situation of accidentally purchasing a vampire succubus online. Was he supposed to offer his neck?
At the end of her rambling speech, the witch had turned her hooded face toward Eleonore, a lock of long black hair slinking out from the shadows. “I’m so glad we’re friends,” the witch had said solemnly. Friends. Putain de bordel de merde.
She muttered to herself—something involving Jesus Christ, Thor, and an expletive. Despite their mother’s civilizing attempts, Gigi was an equal-opportunity curser, name-dropping whatever deity, historical figure, or swear word felt natural at the time.
“Sorry,” he said. She cocked her head, and a lock of red hair slid over her shoulder. “Why?” “I—” What was he supposed to say? Sorry for being aroused and scared? Sorry you could taste it? “I’m just generally sorry, all right?”
The vampire succubus could be aggressive and frightening and had no compunctions about delivering threats, which was so far removed from Ben’s temperament that he hadn’t truly questioned the reason for the behavior. Some people were tougher and more assertive than others, right? Maybe it wasn’t that simple, though.
She’d learned about a lot of things that day. Accessing the internet was rather like opening her mouth beneath a waterfall and attempting to sip. She was addicted.
When the phone made it to him, Ben squinted at the pink image. It looked like a circle with some random jagged lines. “What is it?” Themmie rolled her eyes. “Obviously a moon, since she’s a werewolf, and the mountains represent our city’s connection to the natural world.” Below the mocked-up logo was a tagline: Gigi Rosewood: Howling for Change. Ben guffawed.
“I still like Gigi Rosewood: Taking a Bite Out of Government Corruption,”
“I hear she’s very avant-garde,” Astaroth drawled. “It’s going to be a bloody good time.” The damn demon. Astaroth had been delighted by this development, which appealed to his chaotic nature.
His phone chimed after he hung up—a notification from MoonCycle, a versatile period/moonshift-tracking app used by both werewolves and menstruating people. Tomorrow night would be the full moon.
He recognized the program as that trendy show with dragons he could never remember the name of. He’d tried to get interested in the previous dragon series, but there were a few too many beheadings for his taste.
Lycaon, he wanted Eleonore. But Ben wanted all sorts of things he couldn’t have: a calm mind, a billion dollars, an extra five or six hours in each day. A future that involved no more public urination or dismembered rabbits.
“It’s more that…Most people end up in the ground anyway. Pretending otherwise doesn’t change that, and there’s freedom in knowing that and fighting anyway. Choosing to face the truth beneath life, no matter how bloody or strange, is always better than fooling yourself into thinking the sparkles on the surface are what’s real.”
Eleonore did not like this woman. “You are unpleasant,” she said. A tiny line formed between Cynthia’s brows as she looked at Eleonore. “Is this another relative?” she asked. “Hecate knows werewolves breed like it’s going out of style.” “I revise my statement,” Eleonore said. “Vous êtes une connasse.”
“Did you tell Eleonore she has an open invite to come play rugby?” “I did. She wanted to know if knives are involved.” “Alas, no.” Avram winked. “Not while the ref is looking, anyway.”
He might never be her partner, but if she felt like manhandling him, he felt like letting her.
It struck Eleonore that if she actually broke the curse, she might end up staying in one place long enough to begin to predict its unpredictability.
Taking the hint, Ben extricated his arms from the blanket and grabbed the mug. There were five tea bags in it. Maybe Eleonore thought the bigger the distress, the bigger the ammunition needed to combat it.
“Lycaon, Hecate, Jesus, fuck—” Ben didn’t believe in any particular deity, but their names spilled from his tongue regardless.
It felt like he’d taken an axe to the trajectory of his life, splitting time into a before and an after. Before her mouth had been on him. After he’d known the mind-spinning, impossible pleasure of her bite.
“Here’s a question: Why ‘Barbie Girl’ by Aqua?” Ah, the song choice. She’d thought it a perfect metaphor. “Dolls have no free will—they are mere objects to be played with,” she explained. “ ‘I’m a Barbie girl in a Barbie world’ sounds fun and upbeat, but there’s a dark truth beneath the synthesizers. A Barbie girl has no say in her fate. In fact, the singer addresses her unknown master directly in the lyrics: ‘life is your creation.’ ” She paused to let that sink in. “Your creation, she says, not my creation.”
She nodded. “ ‘Make me walk, make me talk, do whatever you please.’ Isn’t that a sinister lyric?”
The internet had informed her that Americans shared a countrywide hobby of “suing” people. Maybe she could sue the Witch in the Woods for back wages. Then she’d disembowel her.
Should he find her violence that arousing? Did it say something about him that Freud would have written a paper on? Ben didn’t care.
He learned she liked rough touches in expected places and soft touches in unexpected ones.
“Oui,” she breathed. Thankfully, if there was one word Ben knew in French, it was that one.
“Woman,” he said in a ragged voice, “you might kill me.” “I would never wish to kill my wolf,” she said solemnly. Then her naughty smile peeped out. “Unless it is la petite mort.” He chuckled. He knew that phrase, too: the little death. Thankfully, that was the sort of death that allowed for resurrection, even if his refractory period wasn’t what it had been in college.
“I have no criticisms whatsoever. But it’s just like sword fighting. We should both make sure to practice frequently to keep our skills sharp, don’t you think?” He grinned. “Eleonore Bettencourt-Devereux, are you propositioning me?” “Yes.” He laughed at her bluntness. “Then I accept. We can practice whenever you want.”
Every time she tried to think about it, her head hurt and she felt sick to her stomach. How was she supposed to feel about a person who hurt her with one hand and offered gifts with the other?
He was looking at her with such obvious pride that Eleonore cackled. Ben raised his brows in silent inquiry. “You look so smug,” she said, mirroring his words from earlier. He gently tapped her nose. “If you could see your face right now, you’d feel smug, too.”
