Samael pours a shot of vodka and kicks the scuffed heels of his boots onto the bar. He yawns obscenely loud, curtain of dark hair fringing his face in shadow. I tense, drawing away from him on my barstool as he leans back, grinning like a feral hound
“What’s a doll to do on a cold wretched night like this, love?” he wonders, his dark chocolate voice like silk. With a lazy flick of the wrist, he passes the bottle to me. It slides wildly down, tipping precariously over the edge.
I do nothing. Instead, I glare, my eyes scorpion pincers. The vodka falls, splattering across the cigarette butted-floor.
“You were supposed to catch it, worm.”
“I don’t drink, Samael,” I reply, meeting his smug gaze. The smell of alcohol, repugnant, fills the air.
“Oh, look at you: the virginal embodiment of virtue.” He crooks his eyebrow, chuckling darkly. “Oh, wait. Scratch the virginial part. You seem to have lost that as of late-“
“I am going to shove that bottle so far up your demonic!-“
“Now, now, angel: don’t let foul words sully your golden tongue.” He closes the space between us, his vice-like arms wrapping like a clamp around my waist. The demon of my worst nature smirks, his spicy breath hot in my ear: “There’s enough acid on those sweet lips, after all.”
I wrench his hands away. Fire flashes in his eyes. “You’re disgusting,” I say, my voice Arctic cold, at odds with his burning lips.
Samael’s smile becomes mocking. “But you like it, little lamb. Admit it. In that beautiful heart of yours lays a mangled, blackened sheep. Jesus is the Mystical Lamb, but the Whore of Babalon? Why, she is my flock-“
“Shut up!” I snap, blushing furiously. “I’ve never regretted anything in my life as much as you.” My words, venomous, ring through the bar, drawing perplexed looks from my patrons. A pool ball clangs on a table in the silence of the room.
He looks at me witheringly. “You refuse my drink and hand. You can refuse me all you want. But mark my words, dark angel,” he hisses. “I will have your soul. Even if there is Hell to pay.”
“Hell’s not worth what your love would cost me!” I stand up, torn between his burning stare and the cold winter wind beyond the door. Dogs bale in the distance as Longfellow’s Great Sammael rides the ghost train of cold, mountain air.
My tempter glowers, taking a shot and pouring himself another- absinthe, by the looks of it. His fingers curl like claws around the glass. “Why…” he muses softly, shattering the glass in his iron grip. He licks the blood from his fingers contemplatively, grinning as I recoil. “…do you put a price on love?”
“Because only a fool follows her heart blindly.” I back away slowly, my wiry limbs trembling. Samael rises, his lean hips aligned with my chest, the weight of his presence crushing me. I find myself dazed, somehow beyond the bar, back against the merciless alley wall. Memories of Azazel’s touch slice across my mind. I panic, breaths growing ragged, my heart a merciless drum. A flash of concern mars my guardian demon’s razor face. He reaches out a hand, brushing my cheek.
His touch is fire.
“You can run from love, but you cannot escape,” he whispers, voice like the abyss. “It will hunt you down, half-mad, across the world.” He examines my wrist, the tilt of my lips, smiling softly. “Fragile thing. My beautiful, delicate thing…” And then, ever so slow as if savoring my breakability, he takes my hand in his.
I tremble. “Will you break me, Samael?”
He hushes me, murmuring. “All dolls are broken angels. No…”
Silence.
Silence in his heart.
A pause- a breath.
“I’m only here to fix you.”
Dances with Tricksters 