And I'm excited.
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Excerpt one -
Satori stands in the centre of his bedroom. His fingers and the lace cuffs of his shirt are stained from the charcoal he uses to scribble symbols. Markings cover every surface: the bare floorboards, ceiling and walls. Even his wardrobe and door are covered in intricate black sigils.
He unbuttons his shirt, swearing as he leaves fingerprints on the cotton. After tossing the garment on to his bed, he unzips his jeans, and forces the denim over his legs and to the floor. Standing naked, he smells himself. There is no trace of her scent on his body. Realising this feels like losing her all over again.
His fragile-looking, angular body is lost in the forest of writing. It expands around him, a web of ancient knowledge. The tips of his fingers prickle with energy.
He pulls silver rings from his fingers. Pushing back his shoulder-length hair, he removes the hoops from his left ear, and finally the silver stud from his sharply pointed nose. His jewellery jingles like tiny bells as he lets it fall, scattering like distant stars across the midnight duvet. On his pillow, dozens of photographs lie like fallen leaves. Some are intact but most are torn or defaced. Her face holds his thoughts for a moment: pale, perfect and framed by a mass of ebony curls. He shakes his head to clear her image. After this is over he will make her love him again. Maybe she will beg for his forgiveness. A wolfish grin grows across his face at the thought of Star on her knees, begging him to take her back. He licks his lips. His face feels hot, his body cold. In spite of his impatience to start the ritual, he waits. Sucking deep breaths in through his nostrils, he collects his thoughts—he mustn’t rush. He must be in control of himself and his desires.
Whispering, he draws the same glyphs on his body. He starts with his toes and the soles of his feet, moving upwards and over his skin with practised dexterity. Charcoal drags against his skin, which blossoms pink below each mark. The growing tattoo obscures his features.
Although he knows the words he needs to say, he reads the passage again, to be certain. He draws two circles on the floor and steps into one of them. With the fingers of his right hand he traces a pentagram in the air before him. Then he recites the words, his voice slow and clear, pronouncing each syllable with care.
‘ … This is my will,’ he says finally.
Lifting a silver dagger above his head, he concentrates. An excited grin spreads across his graffiti covered face and with tremendous force he plunges the knife downwards, severing the air in front of him. Through the tear he can see swirls of darkness: Chaos. He calls to Furfur, creator of love between man and woman, to share with him his demon’s power so he can win Star back.
A long, slender leg steps through the gap, followed by a lily-white body. The interloper is female, naked and hairless.
‘I am Satori,’ he says. His voice quivers with fear and excitement. He coughs and tries to speak with more authority. ‘I have brought you—’
‘Brought me? I think not. I saw the door and came to see the fool who caused it to open.’ Her emerald eyes are full of contempt.
Satori’s confidence withers. Malice thickens the air like gelatine and the demon’s aura chills the room. Although he suspects it is fear rather than the cold that makes his body shake so violently. Staring at her in silence, he realises he has made an error. Through all his planning and preparation, he did not see this coming. What went wrong? Instead of Furfur, contained and compelled to do his bidding, ready to elevate him back into the arms of his beloved, he is faced with something else, something threatening. He raises his dagger above him again, ready to expel her before it’s too late, but before he can open his mouth she knocks the dagger away with the back of her hand.
‘I am your guest not your minion, and you will not dismiss me,’ she says.
Excerpt two -
Freya trudges back up the stairs, wearing one of her sister Tanya’s skirts. Tanya’s bedroom remains untouched, except by Freya: a shrine to the girl who once was. Freya moves her hips in circles, like a belly dancer, as she walks towards her room. Satin brushes against her ankles. She feels romantic yet powerful, but has no one to test the effect on. Her eyes linger on her brother’s door for a moment. Her heart pounds as she listens to the movements inside. Does he have a girlfriend? Her hand hovers at his door-handle. One smooth click and she could open the door. She pauses there, frozen in time, a statue pointing towards temptation or salvation. She bites her lip then turns away. He’s my brother.
Throwing herself onto her bed, Freya sighs. Routine crushes her. She can feel it squeeze the life from her until only husk is left. She opens her school bag. The smell of old pages escapes into the air. Her electrified hand reaches towards the book.
~*~
On the way home she’d passed a bookshop. A book called to her through the window. She wanted it so badly it made her shake. Checking her purse she almost walked away. Three pounds would never be enough, but the book dragged her back, its promise like claws tugging her hair. The coins felt like concrete in her purse. So what if don’t have enough money? I’ll ask about it anyway. The shopkeeper smiled and took the book from its stand, his eyes never leaving her. She felt his stare as she grasped the paperback from his hand. Her ragged breath ruffled the yellowed pages.
‘Pay me what you have and call in with the rest next week,’ he said.
‘I will pay you every penny.’ Even if it takes longer than a week. ‘Thank you.’
~*~
Freya stares at the cover; a beautiful woman with long hair and a snake between her legs laughs at the world. She traces the image’s naked curves with her finger. If I cannot kiss boys I can at least drink words of love and sex.
Lying on her bed, thighs squeezed tightly together, she flicks through the pages. She needs to pee, but holds it inside her, luxuriating in the feeling. It adds to the tingle. On almost every page there are line drawings, unusual and exotic people, men with beards, asleep yet ecstatic, mounted by a woman. So many drawings, most, but not all, are sexual. Her mouth feels dry, and her thighs moist. She tries to ignore the burning sensation in her bladder. Wanting to stay like this, to feel this heaviness inside of her. She reads the first paragraph. The words are hard to understand. She rereads it, trying to make sense of them. Urgency builds inside her. She really needs that piss. Throwing the book across her mattress, she crosses her legs. Almost too late, she sprints to the bathroom, harnessing her bladder for a few more moments before warm relief then the familiar emptiness returns.
As she walks back to her room her fingertips brush against the painted wood of her brother’s door. She pictures him in his faded jeans and white t-shirt, bare-footed, his nose buried in a book while his iPod whispers music into his ears, lost in his own world.
Excerpt three -
Paul lifts the head and sets it on a low table. He pauses then turns it a few degrees anti-clockwise. His movements are gentle and full of reverence. A thread of sweat trickles down his brow as he concentrates. ‘Vessel of Balon, I have fashioned you with my Art. I have given you life. Now answer in truth. If the sorcerer Satori battles Lilith, can he destroy the demon?’
The room is silent. The glyphs on the head glow red. Its obsidian eyes shine as if lit by an internal fire. Satori’s ears strain to hear the answer. Holding his breath, he watches the head. Every hair on his body stands on end. In spite of his fascination and desire for knowledge, his body tells him to run from the room and never return. A trio of cold, powerful voices echo each other. ‘No.’
Satori sighs. ‘Ask it whether I can get rid of her.’
Paul asks and the same deep, alien voices reply. ‘Yessss.’
‘How?’ Satori asks. His voice is brighter now.
‘The magician Satori must use his instinct. The answer will not be found in one thousand years of research.’
‘What kind of answer is that?’ Satori yells. He lunges towards the vessel. Paul stops him and holds him fast.
‘No, you can’t break it,’ Paul says, shaking. ‘Please, you cannot break the seal.’
Paul’s breath tickles his ear. Satori steps backwards. He needs to think.
‘What will you do now?’ Paul asks.
Satori shrugs. ‘There’s never been a magical problem that I’ve not found a solution for. The vessel told me to follow my instincts, and my instincts tell me I need to keep looking. So I’ll go back to the books until something else pops up, I guess. But at least it means I can ignore all the modern volumes. What have you got older than one thousand years?’
Paul doesn’t answer. He covers the head and relocks the cabinet.
‘You really made that thing?’ Satori asks.
Paul nods. ‘I often wish I hadn’t. It’s like the picture of Dorian Gray. It haunts my dreams and plots my downfall.’