With a Vengeance

by Freydís Moon

“Like a bitch in heat,” he cooed, reverently. An insult dressed as praise. “Not an ounce of shame.”

Kye swallowed. “And you are?” “Not God.” “Explain.” But they didn’t need an explanation. They knew exactly what he meant. The answer was tar in their veins. “What are you?” He finished wrapping their arm and brought their hand to his mouth, skimming his lips across their knuckles. “Something worse.”

He clucked his tongue. “How long do you plan on keepin’ this up, huh? Because we talked about it already. If I remember correctly—and I do—you tried to off yourself, I bit you, you cried, it was sexy—” “You’re disgusting.” Kye rolled their eyes. He was right, though. He was right and they hated it.

“Open your mouth,” he growled. “Fuck you.” Kye’s entire body burned. “You’re obviously trying to.” He purred like a fire pyre, burning and snapping. “Now open your fucking mouth.”

A part of them still didn’t believe he was real. Still didn’t understand the actuality of him. But the rest of them—the desperate, petty, greedy bits—calcified behind their ribs, metastasizing to their vital organs. They pretended not to know the answer. Steeled themself against the inevitable. But they knew what demons made deals for. Everyone did. Eligos traced their jaw with his thumb. “You,” he said. Fire snapped and sizzled in that single, heavy word. “Give me all the faith God ignored and I’ll give you everything.”

“Great duke,” they said, annunciating defiantly, “and find me wanting.” Heat climbed into their face, but they didn’t flinch at the intrusion of his thumb, sliding slowly over their bottom lip. “Find me worthy.” Eli leaned closer, grinning wickedly. “Worthy of what, sweetheart?” They couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the curiosity and desire pushing against the underside of their skin. They’d gone this far, hadn’t they? There was no going back. Kye touched their tongue to his claw. “You,” they said, and let their lips close around his thumb.

Eli almost choked. He straightened and jabbed his chopsticks at them. “Imagine grabbing a possum. Like, it’s fuckin’ vicious, snarling, foaming at the mouth, whole nine yards, and you throw it in a metal trashcan, shake the trashcan, and then lock the pissed possum inside a house.” Kye narrowed their eyes and chewed with their mouth open, smacking their lips rudely. “That’s what it’s like living with you.” He prodded the air with his chopsticks again.

Kye sank to their knees. Power swarmed inside them. This extraordinary being, this unfathomable man, standing before them waiting to be worshipped. They had never been devout, but when Eli took their chin between his fingers and forced their gaze, they knew religion. “Look at me,” he said.

“That bastard screamed,” he whispered, sliding his hands along their thighs. He hooked his thumbs around their underwear and pulled the tiny garment down. “Begged for mercy. Called me the devil.” Fingers traced their pussy. Sank inside them, stretching and scissoring. “Does that get you off? Knowing what I’m capable of?”

“You want me dripping down your legs?” he asked, snapping the words an inch from their lips. “Walkin’ around like a ruined bride, fucked stupid and full of me?” He stole a kiss. “Want me to desecrate you? Want me to fuckin’ breed you, Kye?”

Rosa Lovato would’ve wanted more flowers. Live music. A choir belting out worship songs. Her ghost would’ve reveled in loud, unashamed grief—weeping and sniffling and howling—and she would’ve demanded that Kye keep their composure, cry in that pretty way most girls were taught how to cry. Eat nothing but the Body of Christ, mija. Keep your stomach empty and wanting. That’s what a good daughter would’ve done. Cried gently, ate little, stayed quiet and generous. But Kye Lovato wasn’t made for gentleness. They weren’t designed to be small, or meek, or humble. They wanted to take. They craved violence, and vengeance, and pain.

They’d lived out their own premonition—invited death to their doorstep and defied it. Found themself unmade and made again, clutching vengeance, and hope, and a demon.

Kye Lovato was hungrier and deadlier. They wanted feverishly—success, power, sex, time—and found comfort in their reinvention. The version of Kye who’d been determined to die had become a phoenix, burning relentlessly. For the first time in weeks, months, years, they intended to live.

Sometimes he dreamed about their heart—the connective tissue shredding under the weight of his incisors—and wished he could go back and experience their remaking all over again.