Eventually, Heinrich, almost without a wisp of hair, becomes thin, shivering when he’s not under a mountain of quilts.

  In the evening, the living room dim, Heinrichs sits on the seafoam-colored sofa with a large bowl of potato soup with celery and carrots on the coffee table. He takes the bowl in his hands and stares out into space with milky cataracts, his hand shaking violently around the spoon. Some of the soup spills on the blanket in his lap.

  Mephisto comes over from the kitchen and sits beside the man, taking the bowl and the spoon. He raises some of the soup to Heinrich’s lips, and Heinrich accepts, indignantly swallowing.

  Heinrich grouses, “I know how to feed myself.”

  The demon only regards him steadily. “I know, Heinrich.”

  Despite his brief arguing, Heinrich lets Mephisto feed him and clean his chin with a gilt handkerchief. And after, when he huffs and fumbles with the brown laudanum bottle, Mephisto reaches for it and says, “Here.” Heinrich lets him have it, but rather than fully taking it, Mephisto wraps his grip around Heinrich’s and helps bring it to his lips.

  Heinrich doesn’t thank him, nor does he complain further, which unsettles Mephisto more than he’ll ever admit. They’ve done this particular routine of medicine-giving for about two-hundred days. Two-hundred and twenty-three.

  The man falls asleep against him. As he snores, Mephisto wraps his tail around him to keep him close.

  Yes, this man is his. God, that jealous, tempestuous God, has no right to him.

  ***

  Sitting on the sofa with a knitted blanket in his lap, Heinrich might not be able to see, but nevertheless, he stares in Mephisto’ direction in abject horror, while the demon stands by the front door.

  “You set them on fire?”

  “Well, yes,” Mephisto replies. “You can tell by the smoke in the distance.”

  Earlier in the day, Heinrich had been rubbing his hands and pacing. When Mephisto asked why, it was because the man had learned there was an elderly couple residing in a shed on his land without his consent because they didn’t anticipate any punishments; Heinrich had always been a lax and forgiving lord.

  Forgiveness doesn’t exist in Hell.

  Heinrich slumps down. “Here I am, cursed with you, unable to make things right. To care for myself without...”

  Mephisto’ hands fly to his chest, caged over his heart. “I take care of you, you ungrateful cretin.”

  “Yes, you’ve taken care of me, in more ways than one. You’ve done me in, like you helped along Gretchen’s demise.”

  The demon prowls closer, crossing the distance to surge forward and trap Heinrich in the center of the sofa, striking out two hands to touch the back of the sofa.

  “Get away from me,” Heinrich hisses.

  “Fool. You can’t take responsibility for your actions, can you?” Moving one hand, Mephisto jabs a finger into his chin in mock contemplation. “I didn’t drive the sword into her brother or offer her the sleeping potion that killed her mother. Unless I’m conveniently forgetting if I’ve ever possessed you, and why would I, when my form is exquisite? Her grief led to her disposition, and you are a walking monument to it.”

  “You’re right. It was all my fault. I never should’ve left her alone with the child while she was grieving. I should’ve freed her from her cell instead of fleeing with you for this farce of a life.”

  “Yes, marvelous. And then she could’ve lived with you in your dingy little home as she squeezed out your pups, and then she could clean your ass. The woman truly died too soon.”

  Much quieter than the crackling hearth, Heinrich tells him, their faces an inch away from each other, “You are my servant, devil. So, I have instructions for you. Tomorrow morning, you will fill the coffee with all the opium in the house. You will serve it to me. And then, you will guide me to the shore.”

  “You don’t need me to guide you.”

  “You will do it.”

  “Is tomorrow when you want to stop living?”

  “I stopped living when Gretchen died.”

  Mephisto releases a rumbling laugh. “Oh, please. Gretchen. She was a silly, overly pious girl who went mad the moment you let her fall pregnant and ‘manage’ the new babe on her own with a pillow. She—”

  Heinrich palms the blanket in agitation. “Don’t.”

  “She did nothing for you but offer a distraction until you gained some sense and fled your dull little village. Done you in? I made you. No one else was strong enough. Patient enough.” Mephisto gives him a rueful smile. “I’ve done everything else. I bathe you. I dress you. I put you to bed. I help you to the commode. Who made this blanket for you, again? You stupid, idiot, mortal man. I’ve done everything you asked of me and more.”

  “I didn’t ask you to kill two helpless elderly people.”

  “What are those two near-dead, decrepit fools compared to what I’ve given you? I spared you from worrying about punishing them. If I hadn’t done that, your land would be overrun with those eager to pick away and pick away until you have nothing.”

  Heinrich’s jaw hardens. “I’m not arguing with you anymore.”

  Oh, please, it had to be a lie. All they’ve done for the past thirty years is argue.

  Mephisto shifts away from Heinrich and straightens to his full height. “Suicide. All this wind, and you still want to ensure you go to Hell.”

  Chin lowered, Heinrich murmurs, “No. It won’t be suicide. Merely an overdue consequence, the second half of a tragic love story.”

  The demon scoffs. “Oh, how beautiful. You too were truly starcrossed.”

  He can’t logically reason why it bothers him that Heinrich still hasn’t let go of that woman. After all this time. After all they’ve done. This is a human thing, surely, ruminating incessantly on the past.

  And yet, what do fallen angels do but sigh and ruminate on old wrongs?

  Tears spring to the old man’s eyes. The demon hopes he doesn’t start crying; he’s always found crying to be tedious, so he hasn’t done it himself since the Fall. “Stop. You’ve done a great evil, and in doing so in my name, I’m tarnished.”

  “Yet, my tarnishing of your oh-so-chaste soul—and your tarnishing of quite a few places of mine—hasn’t bothered you until now. Everything I did to you, all those who died along the way so that you may retire by the sea and dine on lobster, hot soup, and chocolate cake, only now do you spurn me.”

  “Either way, I know I won’t be alone,” Heinrich says. It isn’t self-reassurance; it’s resignation. He whispers the final words: “No matter how much I hate you.”

  In the end, the man shuts his eyes. Glowering, Mephisto storms out, the air smelling faintly of curling smoke as one end of the blanket smolders.

  ***

  After Heinrich takes all the opium, he stands by the ocean, and so does Mephisto, watching that cool resolve on a man so often moved into emotional overtures and worries about the state of the universe and the purpose of life.

  Despite himself, despite his rage at Heinrich’s defiance or the fact that they both know he’ll be with the mortal, his mortal, until the end, despite his desire to let the idiot collapse alone with the weight of his own guilt and self-righteousness—

  When Heinrich collapses, Mephisto is there to catch him, wrapping his arms around the man’s shuddering body, feeling the hard surface of his head knock against the demon’s collarbone, Heinrich’s heartbeat sluggish.

  He’s there. When Heinrich falls, and when his heart stops. When the sky opens, and just as he’s about to summon other demons to assist him with the transportation of Heinrich’s soul, he’s struck by visions of rose petals raining on the water and sand and a league of beautiful men with deeply golden skin and flowing tresses. All he wants is to kiss them, to be with them.

  A lightning strike of pain seizes him, and when he comes to his senses, open flowers of blood spiral on his skin, and Heinrich, both his body and soul, is gone.

  He was saved, and the only proof of the aftermath is Mephisto, alone.

  Heinrich hadn’t spoken a word to his demon that morning. His last words needed no elaboration.

  I hate you.

  The demon curls into himself on the sand, skin stippled from face to toe in bleeding sores. The saltwater crashing into his body only stings, his wounds sizzling as he cradles his face in both hands. How long will it take for anyone to find him? Eventually, he’ll need to go to Hell and admit...

  “Who do I have to complain to?” he asks no one.

  He has nothing. He is nothing.

  Rain trickles down his face.

  This is who he always knew he was.

  In turn, nothing has changed, as the devil never changes. His purpose remains the same. He’ll go on as before and try to find another soul to trick.

  Enfleshed

  Cas Trudeau

  Content Warnings: internalized gender dysphoria, discussions of gender self-actualization

  “He lights, and to his proper shape returns

  A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade

  His lineaments Divine”

  - Milton’s Paradise Lost, Book 5 lines 276-278

  You tower, crown’d in meridian sun,

  in that pasture before your bower;

  sky sweet exhalations – that fragrant ambrosia

  sipp’d upon by the fatherly orb –

  coaxing thistle and weed into dance.

  Amongst those yellow pillowed-petals

  and violet bristle stalks, you search

  for your own shadow. Quiet disciple,

  he follow’d prostrate throughout the morn.

  His coole touch clung as you tender

  hand life from loam, midwife earthe into bloom.

  Upon your shoulders, noon’s heat mantles –

  and shadow shivers. You wound

  way to rib and rest, gulled within

  your firm form. You retire alone,

  caught cold atop mossy

  maiden-bed. Eve awaits,

  repose within nuptial narthex.

  Her fingers curl, knuckles knead’d earthe;

  her nails flutter as monarchs do, moon faces

  perfect pink in their beds. Her honeysuckle hair

  curls and clings to chest, sweat damp tresses

  tinseled with twigs and leaves. When you gulf

  upon this gifted shore, her guise shifts. Quiet

  melody thrums though her teeth as she smiles,

  eyes chariot along the horizon of your face.

  She counts your eyelashes, your freckles,

  those very particles of star and dust

  bodies are built of. She shall know

  you as your shadow does – for she

  is of your clay. Yet, she drifts,

  sole satellite in your orbit; a phantom

  ache in your caged chest; longing throes

  as you wonder – what we would be

  should she be of me and never leave.

  You lay in gift’d hatch, trek

  canyons carv’d within your palms.

  Hymn hums in your atrium chest,

  sinew strung tight as fates’ golden thread;

  silence springs saliva in your mouth,

  sour taste pooling upon your tongue.

  Your hyacinth curls wilt

  upon scorched cheeks, bones buzz

  with cicada song. Tree limbs lumber

  in the wind, tear satin sky

  with needl’d hands. You wait on the eve,

  with bat’d breath and prickl’d skin.

  Light lingers behind mirage curtains –

  a veil’d apparition beckoning you

  from coole cradle. Shade weighs waxy

  upon your spine, buried in

  borrow’d cerement. You crawl

  from this embosom, body plow’d

  by root and stone. You kneel,

  wrung with sweat in mire,

  tarnished and blistered and human

  when radiance strikes –

  severs sky and sphere;

  and divinity arrives.

  You, Author of All, gift’d a name

  for heav’nly stranger: Raphael.

  You think to bowe, supplication

  ceas’d by effulgent palms

  upon your trembling shoulders.

  You heard cherubic choirs at birth,

  tast’d prayer’s potent nectar. You danc’d

  under newborn nebulas as celestial

  bodies waltz’d across a galaxy’s palm –

  Yet, your heart has not once sung.

  To look upon sun’s façade

  is to expunge all darkness

  from one’s earthly sight –

  New dawn smiles upon you;

  Raphael eclipses your jaw,

  graces you with a greeting

  of their lips. Eden envelop’d

  in their world-wide wings,

  golden swathes of down darn’d

  with constellations unnam’d.

  Raphael rests upon the threshold

  of you, quenches your lungs’ roots

  with brisk ozone, sweet sharp

  along tongues. Their teeth

  scythes your lip, split harvest

  from this pit of a mouth –

  Summer shine ruptures, all swallow’d

  you raptur’d in their embrace,

  divinely devour’d, body burst,

  bloomed, built beyond HIS

  image. Adorned flesh sculpted

  into Spirit –

  you, bitten and bruis’d fruit, holy.

  Swarm Behavior

  Aurélio Loren

  Content Warnings: sex, body horror, vague mentions of sexual assault, gore

  Seeing people he knew at the strip club was one of his worst fears. At the sight of a recognizable curved nose and deep laugh, Jesse ducked into the back rooms, where some of his coworkers were adjusting their makeup. His heartbeat was heavy in his chest, thudding through his mind as he tried to collect himself. The back room had a cloud of perfume around it, masking the locker room reality.

  “What do you do when you see someone you know?” Jesse prompted his coworkers, sitting down for a reprieve of his heels.

  “Mm, an ex? That’s the worst,” Honey, who had hair to match, responded. She laughed seeing Jesse’s frown at being read so easily. “Usually I flirt with another guy, show 'em I’m at work, they can’t just bother me.”

  “Yeah,” another girl started between swipes of lip gloss, “and always charge him extra,” she paused to smack her lips together, “'specially if he asks for a dance.”

  He couldn’t have told you how he got there. The forest was unfamiliar, he was sure of nothing but the unfamiliarity of it. Leaves hung off the branches and leaned in close, poison on their tongues and dreams in their whispers. The plants he could recognize seemed different, there was something off about them. Mugwort, the source of the reverie, leaning in close he was greeted with the small budding of flowers. The silver on the underside of the mugwort leaf was tinted a strange baby blue. Jesse attempted to rub it between his fingers, to reveal the trick. When he was unsuccessful, he continued quickly, ducking to the side and coming upon a grove of trees.

  Fig trees, their palmate leaves reaching out to him, an unnervingly bright green. Fruiting, it could not have been the season, he plucked one from the branch. The thin skin of the fruit was tender between the pads of his fingers, overripe and shifting in his palm.

  A wasp snapped its way through the flesh of the fruit, vibrating under the bruise colored skin, struggling with its newborn body. Fresh pinchers shredded pieces around the wriggling body. Dropping the fruit in horror, Jesse watched the wasp continue its birth of consumption. The sweet scent of rot followed him.

  “Jade is a pretty name, think of it yourself?” His mouth turned up at his joke, his legs spread as wide as they could.

  Jesse leaned forward, each of his hands grabbing the side of his chair, and he let the strange man stare at his chest as he whispered, “You sure you can keep up?”

  The stranger grinned at this and Jesse could feel the man he knew stare at his back. The stranger in front of him reeked of broke but Jesse pulled a drink out of him. Sitting up straighter with a giggle and twirling the straw between the ice in his drink, Jesse felt himself transform.

  The joints of his shoulders moved under his skin, they rolled and coiled, as if they were practicing. The sensation of his bones moving freely of his mind only had a moment to give him pause. The tearing sensation came back with a vengeance, he fell forward, his back hunched over, screaming into the soft ground. The dewy grass swallowed his screams and dirt packed itself underneath his nails as he scraped the ground in pain. A phantom pain, the blood rushing directly under his skin, eager to be freed.

  Jesse’s body moved to his choreography automatically, a familiar dance he had practiced so many times. A fan kick, his core tightened and his legs, his long muscular legs straddled out for the audience to watch, before Jesse climbed to the top. The bruise was already beginning to form against his thighs as they held him up against the cool metal pole. He spun and spun, his arms free to move outstretched as he floated above the ground. Fingertips spread out, in the flurry of movement, he could mistake them for wings. With one fluid move, he lifted himself up and, arms wrapped around the pole, he leaned back, able to hold his leg, contorting his body into a grotesquely beautiful shape. He spun and spun, eyes focused on the neon sign above the bar, in bright green, each turn his head caught the sign, held onto it for a moment, and spun once more. Jesse made his descent to the ground, falling, falling, falling like an angel from grace. Allowing the pole to split him in half, he grasped the cool metal with both hands and picked up his legs in a straddle, hitting his heels against each other with a smack. Twist. The pole was cold against his back as he slowly slid down, one leg stretching in front of him as he made his way to the floor. Back arched with a deep breath, his eyes focused to see the distorted faces, he could feel his body move with ease and flow. Almost without a thought, he rolled slowly to his stomach and lifted his hips in time with the beat, his ass moving and his hips circling, he could feel a few fleeting bills against him. Hungry eyes ate at him, consuming each piece of muscle and meat he had on display. They paid for the ability to sink their teeth into his smooth skin, ripping a chunk out to chew on. They left him dead and bloodied every evening on the stage, covered in his own sweat and the lingering smell of rubbing alcohol. As the song faded into silence, the eyes grew bored and he scrambled to pick up the bills that covered the stage, his fingers suddenly clumsy and awkward.