Samael is the void birthing horrors, tall as half a tree, red crystal eyes, dressed in abyssal Lovecraftian garb and pale as my doom. I take my scythe and meet his in a clang of metal and steel.
“I do not belong to you! This heart is mine,” I rumble, parrying a blow, then twirling around the scythe by its fulcrum to cut back his darkness like reaping weeds.
He laughs in the vein of a wolf. “Resist me all you want darling, but we are lovers, and lovers share hearts. You are all mine, and I am your end.” Suddenly, he brings his blade to my staff, then uses his scythe to rid me of my own weapon by hooking the scythe staff I am holding out of my grip. It clatters to the springy, dark pine needle floor in this forest of blue firs.
Hunger, in his eye, the kind that could devour the universe. I rage, tearing at his cloak, undressing him until he is but roiling blackness, serpent, taloned with darkness and yet also deathly pale man. His hair curls out like an elegy, spilling into my hands like ebon sand.
“I will devour you,” I say. “Then, there will not be a bit of darkness I do not know.”
“All I want is to immolate myself on your flame, Magdalene,” he growls, biting down on my neck with his fangs, enough of a puncture that blood spurts out as he is thirsting at my breast, filling my empty places with tail and talon and throngs of dark matter. I give into the lull of death, inward plunging, outward picking flowers, in again then thrust deep to spill seed. He drinks my blood and I drink his, and our juices and roses mingle in the most unholy of ways.
I am the sorrows of Satan. I cling to him and kiss him and revere him, hands roving, stroking, pulsating like a nebula. “Why is all I want you? I would die for you, just to tear this accursed heart from my chest. You have killed me and made me undead, so now, what am I?”
It is true. His kiss of death has turned my hair blonde gray and my skin pallid and there is a green tinge under my eyes. I am gaunt and beautiful, like a graveyard prom queen. My heart does not beat.
“You are my Queen.”
“Then I have no need of this,” I sigh, spent in his arms, then quickly pick up his scythe and carve my golden heart out of my chest. The rot on it, that zuhama stain, the black yetzer ha tov filth, is somehow gone, and his heart – Lucifer’s heart – that I am MacGuffin Girl for is full of bleeding sunlight and softer platinums. I hold it, he kisses it, and begins to pulse again.
“What happened to our heart? It’s healed?” I ask, incredulous, as Samael rocks me in his wounded Vantablack arms.
“You grew,” he says simply, then kisses a seal of a psalm to my cheek. “Please keep it, my idol. My love. It is simply yours now.”
So I place it back in my hollow chest, and he sews it back up with darkness, and we walk off into the night, Frankenstein’s monster with her golden heart, and Frankenstein Lord of Darkness carrying his creation into the hollow hills.
Dances with Tricksters 