No Good Deed
by Kyra Cullinan

It's got her face on again today, which doesn't surprise Caleb. It favors the Slayer's form lately, all slinky tanktops and wanton mouth, a faade he finds fitting for its own evilness.

"They think they know," it says, arching an eyebrow at him. "Why I'm here. What caused it."

"The witch of course," he says. "Meddling with the ways of nature. Unable to let anything lie," but before he's finished talking, it throws back its head and laughs, showing white teeth and golden throat. An affected gesture and he scowls.

"And that's what they think too," it tells him. "They forget so soon. Even the Slayer, who saw me, talked to me long before that resurrection."

"But the reversal of her death --"

"Yes, of course, that's what did it," it snaps. "But this girl dies too much. It was the boy, the first time. Breathing her back here. Inverting the natural order. Weakening the whole line."

"He's tainted by them," Caleb says. "Too many women, around him all the time. He submits to their bidding. Filthy as they are."

It's got a light in its eyes, looking at him, and he feels cold, black shivers start somewhere deep inside his loins.

"You're so charmingly quaint," it says, hopping off its wine barrel to slink toward him. So much depravity in the movement, and he can feel its power trickling to fill the lessening distance between them, to fill him, an empty vessel to do its will.

It stops in front of him, so close that if it were real he'd be able to feel all that wicked, female heat pouring off it, smell the temptation-laden scents of womanhood.

"Let's give him a proper thank you, shall we?" it suggests and he smirks back.

"Oh, I think that can be arranged."


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