Heart of Ashes

The Devil and the Maiden

A short story from the

Vengeance of Caine
series.

Somewhere a clock chimed midnight and Lillith stood, looking up at the building she had the misfortune of calling home. There was nobody standing outside as they usually did, trying to lure some drunk, faithless bastard into their little den of iniquity. Even the most dedicated of the whores inside had apparently deemed it too cold to go out but they never really needed to, they just got business and, thereby, avoided the wrath of the owner of the establishment. She knew the slimy little pimp was probably standing inside waiting for her with a leather switch that was usually used for other things.

She stared at the building a while longer. The paint was peeling off the walls and it was riddled with damp. She figured her health would be better off if she stayed outside in the snow. She felt it seeping through shoes that the soles were coming off of. Her dress was threadbare and the shawl she'd wrapped around herself wasn't much better. She felt a sneeze coming on but she stifled it so as not to alert anyone inside to her presence.
She shivered. Her chest was aching and she wouldn't have been surprised if she'd caught pneumonia. What she'd give for a warm bed and a cozy fire. Fire. The thought of fire made the ache in her lungs spread and wrap around her heart. It hadn't been her fault. She felt a tear roll down her cheek, slightly comforted by its warmth, as she remembered her parents' screams the night her house burned down. It wasn't her fault that a spirit had attached itself to her. It wasn't her fault that it had burned her home down. None of it was her fault but everyone said it was, they called her a witch. She couldn't get any business because of it. So, instead, she got beatings. The spirit left after it had destroyed everything she held dear.

She wiped her tears away and took a deep breath, staring at the door. She began walking towards the door, the snow crunching beneath her feet. She felt her heart thundering in her chest.  Then she heard a voice. The voice of a saviour for the evening.

"Are you working, harlot?" his voice was deep and richly accented, it was like smooth silk or the softest velvet.

She turned around and she saw the man. He was tall and he had broad shoulders. He had long, black hair. It cascaded over his shoulders and brushed his waist. Unlike the other men in the village, his face was smooth and he was so pale his skin reflected the moonlight a little bit and made him glow. He reminded her of an angel only she knew he wasn't. Angels didn't hire whores.

He stepped out of the shadows and she saw that be was wearing a suit with a long, black coat that, judging by the sheen, was made out of velvet and his eyes were so dark and delicious. They appeared to have a  reddish tint in the half light, only adding to the mystery of this stranger.

She was surprised. Nobody wanted her anywhere near them. Nobody that knew her anyway. He must have been from somewhere else. His accent suggested it. His evening's choice suggested it. She felt more afraid of him than he seemed to be of her and that excited her. He wasn't her first customer - no, men had been that drunk before - but he was the first she truly appreciated. He wasn't drunk. He hadn't even been drinking. Where most men smelled of alcohol and smoke, he smelled of rich and exotic spices. It suited him and the scent got stronger as he approached her.

"I suppose I could take one more customer," she said, trying to sound experienced because she knew he was.

She saw one corner of his beautifully sculpted mouth turn up in a smile, "Good."