Pyrrhic Tantra

The orchestra in the attic had switched to Schubert's Death and the Maiden. A tipsy skeleton fell from the widow's walk into the rose vines that climbed the gutter. The house swallowed it up and rearranged. A scream came from the third floor, and through the shifting glass I saw Puck lassoing a very unfortunate dryad with the Christmas lights.

"The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the lasses in the woods, the holly's got the bum. Kiss me, Thistle-toe!"

"I know that song," I said darkly.

"Puck's?"

"No! Schubert's! My mom plays it when she's painting dystopias."

"Delightful. So how is the campaigning going?" he asked, loosening the belt of my trench coat.

"Winningly." I swatted his hands away. "In my first strike, I exorcise you from the Antwerp hell house."

"Mmm?" He wrestled the coat from me and slung it on the railing he had me pinned against, apparently having forgotten I was becoming a popsicle. Then I remembered the lowest circle of hell and the bath of frozen sinners.

In the background, unibrow-angel softly cried: "We can feel her horrid warmth! Hear the blood peaking in her veins-"

"For the love of syphilis, shut up!" Samael pegged a snowball at the statue's mouth. He grinned, fangs flashing in the snowy night. I wondered if his 'reliquary' really was a garden of unfortunate souls.

Death fingered my poppy red trench coat as if it were a spoil of war. I felt like Red Riding Hood trapped with the Wolf's lecherous uncle.

"Second," I said, pushing him off me, "I get all the laundry you haven't done in a century and toss it in the washer with pink dye and lavender detergent."

"You wouldn't," he growled.

"Fuchsia death robes, bitch. Wholesome and squeaky clean. You'll smell like a perfumed cadaver."

"Playing dirty, I see." He wedged his knee between my thighs. I compared our combat boots and decided mine were cuter.

"Clean, actually."

"If you're taking such lethal measures, I suppose I'll have to take you seriously." he mused, trapping my wrists as he gripped the iron railing behind me. Its wrought iron flowers dug into my back.

Granna's rosary swung on my neck. His eyes zeroed in on my decolletage. To my horror I saw that our scuffle had undone the top buttons of my black sweater. My skin was flushed with cold.

"I underestimated you, maggot," he said breathlessly. It must have been the push-up bra I'd accidentally worn. He slid his hands to my shoulders and leaned into me. One foot on the porch between my legs, he wedged his knee under my neck so it tilted my head up when he stood, as if to put a distance between my assets and his eyes.

"I hope my scathing glare communicates how I feel right now. Incredibly uncomfortable," I intoned. His impossibly ripped quads could leave bruises, I was sure of it. I imagined him in one of those Roman toga thingies with bulging muscles and immediately erased the image. That was not what I came here for, however tempting it might be.

He rubbed circles onto my collarbone. Samael cocked his head in question. "Maggot, have I ever told you that you whine too much? Silence speaks more than prayers."

I was wondering about that lip ring. It kind of grossed me out. I couldn't stop staring. The choppy punk hair cut was an improvement, though. I'd always thought long haired angels looked stupid, holiday cards be damned. He looked like the ghost of Peter Steele.

Preoccupied, I didn't notice him ease the collar of my sweater down. "It's the frilly pink one. Again." He sneered.

"You creep!" I screamed, punching him in the gut. All I did was hurt myself. "God! Are you wearing chainmail?" I groaned, shaking my hand as it smarted. He ignored me.

"A hideous color. Small breasts are the gift of the Shekinah. Only beautiful when freed from their cages… I'll have to fix that."

"No!" I squirmed. His leg pinned me against the railing, and I could have sworn I'd turned into a bowling alley.

He cackled, foul mood apparently forgotten. "Any victory you have is Pyrrhic. In the end, I always win. I'm terminal for you, maggot. The more you squirm, the worse your position, and the further lodged in the wormwood you become."

He thought I squirmed too? Was it one of those tics I never noticed?

Samael ran his fingers through my hair, tracing my ears with his thumb. Leaning in, he kissed my brow, knees rooted around my legs.

"No, Sam!" I said firmly. "Stop that. Now. I came here to talk."

He pressed his forehead against mine, his eyes unsure again. "But you came back for me." He caught my hands behind his owl wings, and all my struggles earned were a handful of feathers. The soft fullness of his lips was drawn out by their metal ring. "I waited for your hysterics to subside."

"Hysterics? Oh, you SURE are one to talk! As if you don't breathe melodrama. You're full of it, Corpseboy. And I don't mean just dust."

Samael's face darkened. He cupped my jaw, sharp nails scraping my cheek. "Then talk."

"Let me go."

His lips trembled.

"What!"

"You'll leave me."

"Oh my god. You're impossible," I groaned, using his hand to face-palm myself.

He hissed as my lips touched his fingers.

"Mmm?" Hormones kicked in, and I couldn't think straight. I drew my mouth across his palm.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't have drunk your blood or- or stolen your... negligee. I wasn't thinking."

I couldn't think either. "Damn you, Sam. I thought the laundry ate it." I nipped at the base of his thumb. He raked his wings up my back, letting my hands go. I brought them to his wrist and clutched his forearm, shaking.

He drew pained breaths. Choking down his cries, he slumped over me, head burrowed behind my shoulder. "I'm so... damn this. Damn you. Why should I apologize?" he begged. "Was it really so awful? Is what I am so loathsome you'd run from me? You didn't, maggot. You stayed, and you let me hold you..."

His lip ring scraped my spine through the cashmere.

"Oh," I said. "That's... different." His skin smelled like the waters of life. Apparently, he showered outdoors. Like them, he tasted sweet. I took his thumb in my mouth, delicately sucking on it. He shuddered, and I felt fangs skim my back.

"Different?" he asked, voice strained.

I closed my eyes, running my tongue up his thumb, sucking. I nipped the top. He groaned.

"Pyrrhic, you said?" I asked ruefully, dragging my lips up his index finger.

"You're teasing me."

"Genius."

"Damn your feminine wiles."

"You really like damning things, don't you?"