The Devil Who Loves Me: A Grendel Press Anthology

The Devil Who Loves Me A Grendel Press Anthology Edited by Susan Russell Grendel Press Copyright © 2023 by Grendel Press LLC All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law and author-publisher agreements. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ISBN: 978-1-960534-01-9 (Paperback)Cover art by Susan RussellStory art by Dany Rivera Edited and typeset by Susan RussellProofread by Rachael Swanson & Kasey KubicaContributors:“Long Black Veil” by January Bain“Dorian” by Johnathon Heart“Soul of My Soul” by Antony Paschos“First I Was Afraid, I Was Petrified” by Rajiv Moté“Move Fast and Break Things” by Kit Walker“Old Awakenings” by Alex Fox“Weight” by Brett Venter“Just Desserts” by Charlotte H. Lee“What Lies Under the Candlelight” by Mia Ram“Changing of the Guard” by Liam Hogan“The Golden Locket” by Roger Landes“Shades of Dorian” by Kevin Folliard“The Promise” by E.J Dawson“Death in the Highlands” by Melrose Dowdy Contents About This Anthology 1. Old Awakenings 2. Weight 3. Soul of My Soul 4. The Golden Locket 5. Just Desserts 6. Death in the Highlands 7. Dorian 8. What Lies Under the Candlelight 9. Shades of Dorian 10. First I Was Afraid, I Was Petrified 11. Long Black Veil 12. Changing of the Guard 13. The Promise 14. Move Fast and Break Things Acknowledgments Coming Soon! About This Anthology The Devil Who Loves Me Within these pages, we unearth stories that challenge conventional notions of good and evil. This anthology delves into the haunting beauty of forbidden unions, improbable affections, and unconventional desires. It invites us to question the boundaries of our own hearts and the nature of love itself... sometimes in ways unexpected. Old Awakenings by Alex Fox I enter the musty stone tower to greet the poor sinner. The poor sinner I will kill three days hence. The chained witch sits within the iron cell of the tower, the sun from the thin-slatted windows falling across his face. The witch does not look like a witch. Nay, for he is a young man, lithe and fine-boned with hair dark as a raven’s wing. He doesn’t speak, just looks at me with those amber eyes, lighter than gold they are, and always watching. “Why do you look at me so, witch?” I say. He says naught. He just smiles and shrugs. “I said, why do you look at me so.” The small folk of our hamlet would rather be caught dead than making eyes at a headsman, but this witch, he smirks and watches me, happy as a hen in shite. “I’ve not had much company over the last few weeks.” I snort. “Aye, most folk wouldn’t bandy words with a witch, that’s so.” “I’m no witch,” he says, the smirk gone from his face. He shifts so he is half-hid in the shadows, the chains about his wrists clinking as he moves. “You’ve been tried by ten God-fearing men.” Though truth be told, I’ve never seen a man-witch before, and he bears little resemblance to the crones I’ve burned in my day. He shakes his head. “They don’t know their arses from their heads.” “They say you were taken by an illness, sputtering water from the murk, white as a ghost, and talking to the wind.” “Aye, ill I was. I helped another, a young wanderer, and fell ill. But I’m not now.” “And what of the wind?” When he smirks, it’s like the fear leaves his face, and he is a man anew. A stranger. “The wind speaks to all who listen. To all who respect the old ones. The ones who were here before Christ came unto this land.” I snort. “Heathenry, then.” He shakes his head. “Nay, sir. To all who listen. I can see it in your face—you are of old Saxon stock. Tell me, do you ever hear the lilt of the crow and wonder why it’s calling to you? The murmur of the wind through the rushes?” Suddenly, the dank of the cells and the smell of slops and sweat is gone, and I’m standing amidst the rushes out in the fens, where the cold, briny wind blows in off the coast and the crows circle high overhead. A place from my childhood. And the witch, he’s standing with me like there are no bars between us. “Devilry,” I say, but I linger all the same. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. When I open them, I am back in the cells. The witch’s arms dangle ’twixt the bars, and he grins at me. It is dark beyond the thin-slatted windows, and I wonder where the time has gone. I step away. “I’ll not be burned alongside you, I won’t now. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. And you.” I pause, looking him over. “You will burn.” When I leave, I can still feel his eyes on me, even as I follow the muddied streets to the town’s outskirts where I live. An old woman averts her gaze as I pass. She spits at my feet and hurries on. The small townsfolk treat us headsmen like vermin, like things unclean, yet it is we who must contend with the filth of the streets. It is we who drive the sword through the arsonists, through the highwaymen. It is we who burn the witches. Without us, the good law would be run amok, for men are animals, untamed as wolves. Only when I stand upon that platform do the small folk see me for what I truly am. It is then when I have the power. It is then when I wield the blade, torch, or rope. It