Hi, I'm Lilith.

            The band played the intro as the commercial break ended. The audience applauded as Jonah Donahey took center stage, bowing several times with his hands pressed together as if in prayer. He smiled, and bobbed his head, his manicured hair moving not an inch.

“Coming up next, we’ve got one of the world’s biggest musical sensations, whose new album ‘The Lovers,’ has broken all the charts. Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s put it together for three time Grammy winner, Lilith!”

The crowd roared as the stage darkened. A musical sting filled the studio. A pair of manicured hands seemed to pour from the front of the stage, gesturing as the pop star rose like a mist through the floor boards, resplendent in a pale pink jacket and matching skirt, her blond hair framing her almost childish face.

“Do not be afraid,” she said, “Our fate cannot be taken away from us. It is a gift.”

The music of the band swelled as lights rose behind her.

“Turning, turning in the widening spiral,” she began crooning, the crowd roaring with approval, “The Prince cannot hear the Court . . .” The background dancers in their bodysuits began to crawl from the wings.

Lights spun about as the bridge dropped, Lilith barely moving as the cries of the audience threatened to overtake her amplified voice. She caught the eye of an audience member and winked mischievously.

“Desire hurts but sin is worse,” she breathed as the lights went out.

“We’ll be right back!” Jonah Donahey shouted over the din as they went to commercial.

During the break, an aide ushered Lilith over to the couch by Donahey’s big desk, gesturing for her to sit. She did so.

“Hi, I’m Lilith,” she said, flashing her enigmatic smile.

“I know,” the aide responded automatically. “Stay on the left side of the couch, okay?”

“Okay,” she responded.

“Hey,” Donahey whispered away from his own mic, “Great set. Great. You mind if we get into some personal stuff?”

“I’m,” she began to say, shaking her head, her hair turning from platinum blonde to raven dark. “No, that’s fine.”

“Can you do that again, on camera?”

“Do what?”

“Your,” Donahey pulled away as the lights swelled. “And we’re back! Once again, we’re talking with the star who’s hit single ‘Original’ has been on the top of the charts for three months, Lilith . . . I have to say, it’s great to have you on the show.”

“Thanks, Jonah,” she said without any inflection, “It’s good to be here.”

The crowd laughed, as if at a secret joke.

“Now, Lilith,” Jonah began, “You’ve been in the news recently.”

“Have I?”

Another laugh. Donahey mugged for the camera.

“Word has it that you’ve been seen out and about with a certain star whose name I won’t mention, except perhaps to say that his last name is Cooper,” The crowd made a noise that sounded like a bird to her. “Is there any truth to the rumors? Are you two an item?”

 “What does it mean to be an item?” Lilith asked. “Maybe I should check my phone.” The crowd reacted. Donahey snickered.

“Are you two seeing each other, I mean.”

“I see many things,” Lilith responded, brushing down her skirt with an extra hand that jutted oddly from her wrist before disappearing. The audience let out an audible gasp. “I think he sees me. Or maybe another me. It’s hard to remember.”

“So, lots of late nights, then?”

“Some nights he’s perfectly on time.” Another big laugh.

“So, no complaints in the romance department I take it?”

“Love is a beginning and an ending,” she replied, taking a moment to realize she was quoting one of her own songs. Donahey nodded at her.

“So,” he went on, “You’re between big projects right now, but I understand you’re the new face of . . . What is it again?”

            She turned to the audience, producing a jar of pale cosmetic from thin air as she put on her odd smile.

“(Im)mortal,” she said, holding up the jar so that the logo could be clearly seen, “You might be mortal, but you don’t have to look that way.”

            The studio audience clapped. The jar in her hand disappeared as camera one switched to camera two. Her outfit deepened too in color, turning almost indigo.

            “And do you actually use it yourself?” Donahey asked.

            “Every day,” she answered, “You don’t need glamour when you’ve got- You’ve got-”

            She shook her head again, and her lipstick turned to match her jacket. She looked over at Donahey and blinked.

            “Hi, I’m Lilith.”

            “Yes, you are,” Donahey replied. The crowd guffawed. He turned to the audience, swiveling in his chair. “Hey, we’ll be right back! We’ve got the world’s biggest hot dog eater coming up, and one of TV’s hottest comedians, Mr. Richard Touchstone, all after the break! See you then!”

* * * * * * *

            “She’s repeating herself again,” Sonnelion said, replaying the interview while reaching out towards the screen, each wave of awe and laughter washing over him like a warm tide.

            “They didn’t notice,” Michael said, wrinkling his nose, “Do you have to do that now?”

            “It’s second hand, but it’s still pretty fresh.”

            “So,” Michael said, “Only a matter of time, I guess. How long do you give her?”

            Sonnelion looked away from the television to stare at Lilith, who was looking at her own reflection in the mirror before, and perhaps also the reflection of her reflection on the walls behind her.

            “Oof,” Sonnelion huffed. “A month? We’ve got the tour coming up. I don’t know if we-”

            “Who am I?” Lilith asked, turning her gaze towards Michael.

            “You’re a superstar,” Michael said, walking up behind her and massaging her shoulders, which seemed to bend beneath his touch. He tried not to recoil. “You’re the biggest thing since sliced bread. You’re Lilith.”

            She nodded. “I’m Lilith. Do you like to fall asleep to music?”

            “I like to be exclusive,” Michael replied, grinning sadly. “You keep just being you, okay doll?”

            She squinted at herself. “But- I’m . . . Am I okay?”

            Sonnelion moved across the dressing room and extended his palm towards her. “You’re not just okay, you’re extraordinary. You’re Lilith. No one can take that away from you.”

            Motes of multicolored light moved between the two for a moment. She seemed to settle somewhat in her chair.

“And no one tells me what to do,” she said.

            “That’s right,” Sonnelion said, wheezing. “This is a big month. You’ve got to be ferocious.”

            “I am Lilith, hear me roar,” she said, with some verve. Michael looked over at Sonnelion and nodded.

            “We should be good,” Sonnelion said, and turned his attention back to the screen, rewinding to absorb the bigger reactions.

* * * * * * *

            The arena sung along in tandem as Lilith floated above the stage, six different copies of her mimicking her every action as she seemed to dance upon thin air, blue fire playing behind her as the song rose to its crescendo. She sang the last lines of ‘Original’ repetitively, her voice doubling and doubling, and then the flames burst into fireworks as she spun upwards, belting out the final chorus. The lights came down somewhat. The performance was over.

            “Thank you,” she said as she regained proper footwork, the lights focusing on her as her doubles slowly faded into her. “Time is short! Your heart was made to be broken and be remade! Goodnight!”

            As per usual, there were so many people stuffed into the hallway backstage that she had to depend on her bodyguards to clear a path.

            “Lilith!” A microphone was being shoved at her. “Lilith, are the rumors true about Monte Carlo? Are you having an affair?”

            “Get back,” one of her bodyguards said, shoving the bespectacled paparazzi aside.

            “There’s no future if you forget the past,” Lilith said. “Unless you get enough likes on instagram.”

            Some of the fans tittered, delighted to have the opportunity hear her speak in person. She made a triangle out of her hands and placed it over her left eye, winking. The fans pressed against her entourage, arms outstretched.

            “Lil,” a voice called out as she was muscled through the throng, “Lil, it’s me- It’s Tyler!”

            She stopped and turned, finding herself confronted by a sandy haired man with dark circles under his eyes. One of her bodyguards put out his hand and easily shoved him backwards.

            “Lil, I’ve been trying to-” The man wrestled with the bodyguard ineffectually for a moment. “Lil, I never heard back from you! I’m sorry if I- Dammit, get off of me! I’m sorry! Lil! I miss you!”

            Lilith froze for a moment, shook her head, her locks growing two feet and curling somewhat to the delight of the hallway.

            “Hi, I’m Lilith,” she said, blew a faux kiss and moved on.

            “Who was that?” she asked when she had returned to her dressing room, her dress turning from sequins to snake skin, the cold scales sweeping down over her legs.

            “By Lucifer, that scumbag reporter,” Sonnelion spat. “I don’t know how he got in here. It won’t happen again, alright doll?”

            “No,” Lilith said. "There was a man . . . He had shadows under his eyes. He- I think he knew me.”

            “He- He was probably just some fan,” Michael said, unscrewing one of the two dozen water bottles in the room, “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

            “But maybe he did know me . . . I mean, who am I?”

            “Ugh,” Sonnelion said. “I thought we’d have more time.”

            “Wait, Michael said, waving his hand. “Let me- Lilith, doll, you know you’re going to be in Sydney next week. You’re the headliner. Sold out show. Do you remember?”

            “You cannot serve God and Mammon,” she said, nodding slightly, the recollection of the lyrics of ‘Two Masters’ filling her head.

            “Right,” Michael said. “Two more shows and then you’ll- You’ll go on vacation, or to a meditation retreat. Whatever you want.”

            “In every job that must be done . . .” Lilith paused.

            “That’s copyrighted,” Sonnelion said, tugging up one of his sleeves. “I think we should just wipe her-“

            Lilith snapped her index finger against her thumb. Sonnelion flew back against one of the dressing room mirrors, shattering it.

            “The job’s a game,” Lilith said, looking at her reflection in the jagged pieces of glass. Each one reflected her. Sonnelion groaned as he picked himself up, black ichor oozing out of his numerous wounds.

            “Right,” Michael said, backing away. “It’s just- You’re-“

            “But that’s going a bit too far, don’t you think?”

            “Uh,” Michael breathed, searching. “Uh, indubitably.”

            Lilith gleamed, her smile actually shining with a glint of light. A black hat appeared above her head, spinning slightly before settling atop her brow.

            “Sonny needs a bit of,” Michael started to pick Sonnelion up. “He’s tired. Needs some, uh, rest.”

            “I’m,” she struggled to form the words. “I’m hungry. Is there a- Is there a Jack in the Box near here?”

            “She’s not supposed to eat,” Sonnelion said, spitting out a black gout of blood. “Ever! Even in a commercial!”

            “Shut up,” Michael said, “She’s-”

            “Practically perfect in every way,” she said, her nose becoming more button-like.

            “Yes,” Micahael said, half carrying Sonnelion out of the door. “You get some rest yourself, doll, alright? Big days ahead. I’ll send out for some food.”

            “That’s a piecrust promise,” she said, “Easily . . .”

            As the door shut, she found she couldn’t finish the sentence.  When the food came, a burger with fries and ketchup, she tried to bite into it, but it tasted like nothing. She took another bite. She looked down. There were no teeth marks on the bun.

            “Why it’s the most disgraceful sight I’ve ever seen or . . . My name isn’t . . . My name isn’t . . .”

            She looked back at the shards of glass from the mirrors. Sonnelion’s blood was misting into the air like smoke. Several dozen faces, all her own, stared back at her.

            She shook her head, her hair shortening considerably as it became fiery and swept to one side, her body shrinking ever so slightly as her snake-skin dress became an off the shoulder affair of Prussian blue.

            “Hi,” she said. “I’m Lilith.”

* * * * * * *

            “The continuing allegations of sorcery continue to swirl around two time gold medal winning Olympic figure skater Feng Mian,” the talking head on the television intoned, “Mian has most notably dropped out of the upcoming Winter Olympics, a move that rocked the international circuit. Nian Zhen, Mian’s trainer continues to deny any collusion with magical enhancement in the skater’s performance . . .”

            The broadcaster turned slightly, glancing ever so briefly at the off screen teleprompter.

“In other news, musical superstar Lilith has cancelled the final concert of her Benediction Tour, only one day before its scheduled Tokyo finale. Lilith’s manager, Michael Saint James, has cited exhaustion as the primary-”

Sonnelion snapped his fingers at the television, but it kept playing. Huffily, he picked up the remote and shut it off.

“How are we going to recover from this?” he asked. “I need more inspiration if we’re going to move on.”

“Maybe we change her career,” Michael said, making himself a vodka gimlet in the kitchenette. “Just for awhile. Do something different. She could be in one those live television musicals-”

“Go Disney?” Sonnelion turned around rubbing at his neck. His wounds were still raw. “She’s the face of Infernal Chic, and you want her to play Cinderella?”

“Maybe,” Michael said, “Maybe we could get Taymor to-”

“This one is done,” Sonnelion said, cutting Michael off, “End of story. I just need to . . .”

Sonnelion kept his mouth shut as Lilith half-oozed out of the corner of the apartment, her form jerking slightly as she sank to the floor. One of her arms wasn’t right, twisted backwards. Her hands too were transposed, the palms on the wrong sides.

“Hi, I’m . . .” She looked unsure.

“Hey, doll,” Michael said, “You feeling any better?”

“Did you know that people really like dogs?” Lilith said, reverting to her inflectionless speech pattern. Her arm twisted around to its proper place. “Do you know what a dog is?”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “I’ve, uh, I had a dog, I mean, my parents did, when I was a kid.”

“What’s a kid?” she asked. “Were you a goat once?”

Sonnelion couldn’t help but snicker. “Hey, doll, Michael and I had an idea. We thought maybe you’d like to watch something fun.”

“Sonny,” Michael said, pressing around the counter. “Maybe we don’t have to- I mean, she seems-”

“I like fun,” Lilith said, not aware that she had suddenly appeared next to Sonnelion. Her double in the corner began to sink into the floor, singing out a quiet note of distress as she faded from existence.

“I know you like fun,” Sonnelion said. “I made you that way.”

“I don’t,” she shook one of her hands, righting it, but her dress began to go translucent. “You. I don’t understand. Am I . . .”

Sonnelion put up his palm, gently. “Just let me put this on, okay? I know you’ll like it.”

He picked up the remote and navigated to Youtube.

“The internet is tubes,” she said. “And weird.”

“Yes,” Sonnelion said, navigating the search function.

“Lilith at the Grammy’s,” she said, staring at the video’s title as it began to play. On screen, a beautiful young woman was sitting atop a golden throne, a man and woman chained to it, both of them covered in glittering silver paint. Ominous flames roared in the background. A pentagram floated above the seated figures head. An unseen audience began to scream.

“Do not hope to see Heaven,” the woman said, darkly, her black hair twisting like serpents across the throne and against the backs of the near-nude couple chained to it. “Come with me, across the dark shore, into fire and ice.”

“She’s . . . Perfect,” Lilith said. “In every way. Who is she?”

Sonnelion did not answer as the opening of ‘Inferno’ began to blare. Winged eyes began to descend, starring directly at the screen, and by extension, its viewers. A crescent appeared beside the pentagram. Feathered wings began to sprout from the woman’s back as she slowly rose, the crowd roaring even louder, so loud that the opening lyrics of the song could barely be heard.

            Sonnelion reached out towards the screen and closed his eyes.

“Who is she?” Lilith asked again.

“She’s,” Michael said, looking away. “She’s Lilith.”

“But I’m,” she said, blinking. “I’m- I’m. I mean, Aren’t I-”

“You’re no one,” Sonnelion said, softly. “You’re a . . . figment of my . . .” He tried to finish his sentence, but the word he tried to mouth was slurred beyond comprehension. The crowd began to cheer as the dance break began.

“You’re . . .” Michael began to reach out to touch her, but stopped. “You’re a dream. A superstar. You’re not real. I’m sorry.”

“But I’m-”

Sonnelion turned and snapped his fingers towards her.

* * * * * * *

“Our next guest,” Helen Crosier said, looking smart in her pantsuit as she addressed the audience, “Has been through a tough year: A cancelled tour, a breakup, a five month retreat to Hawaii . . . But she’s here today, and is going to be performing the debut song off of her next album, ‘Tenebrae,’ Ladies and Gentlemen let’s welcome back to the stage the world’s biggest pop star: Lilith!”

The studio went entirely dark as a huge, pale, impossibly gorgeous face appeared before the crowd, her black makeup running down from both eyes and lips, her hair fantastically white.

“Hi,” she said, “I’m Lilith.”

Your Drawing Sucks

            “Your drawing sucks,” Bill said, chewing on a tootsie pop.

            “I know,” Ron replied, trying to focus on the curvature of the line he was drawing. A bell jingled. A customer from the parking lot entered the store and wandered through the snack aisle before selecting a tin of potato chips and approaching the counter.

            “One ninety-six,” Ron said, swiping the tin over the scanner.

            “You take souls?” the customer asked, smirking.

            “No,” Ron responded, “Just cash money.”

            The customer tugged on his hat and put down a fiver.

            “That’s three dollars and four cents change,” Ron said as he put down the dollars and cents.

            “That ever get to you?” Bill asked, still chewing as the customer exited, his gas and chips paid for.

            “No,” Ron answered, but paused. He gestured to the pad of paper before him, and the scrawl upon it. “Does this look like a face to you?”

            “That?” Bill replied. “That doesn’t look like anything to me.”

            “Hmmm,” Ron breathed as he picked up an eraser and wiped the page clean.

            “That would bother me,” Bill said. “All that ragging. It’s not your guy’s fault you’re here, is it?” Bill chewed more thoughtfully. “Is it? I never did understand what went down. You know, with The Merger and all. You guys were run out of Hell, right?”

            Ron tried to focus on the thought- The very idea of a human face. He traced a line with his pencil. It didn’t look right.

            “Ron, you with us? Roooon?” Bill flicked a bit of water from the soda fountain at him and intoned, “The power of Christ compels you!”

            “Jesus,” Ron replied, “I’m just trying to- Goddamn it, just piss off, alright?”

            “Piss off?” Bill whistled. “I didn’t know you knew such harsh language.”

            “I spent some time in England in the-” Ron gathered his breath. “Fine, fuck you, Bill. And since you asked, I didn’t get kicked out of Hell. I chose to come here.”

            “To work at a fucking seven eleven?” Bill began to laugh hysterically.

            “No,” Ron said, beneath his breath, “I wanted to learn how to draw.”

* * * * * * *

            “It’s not right,” Ron said, crumpling up his work. It didn’t look anything like what he had been imagining.

            His apartment was small, and practically empty. A mattress on the floor, an empty bookshelf, a pot and pan with a well washed set of cutlery. The only things of value he owned were his tools: Pencils, watercolors, expensive sheets of paper, colored markers, ink, styluses that were at least a century old. But there was no art. Ron, who had once been known as Ronove, one of the Marquis of Hell, whose talent for art, rhetoric, and language had once been unsurpassed, was now bereft of skill. Even drawing a straight line was an ordeal for him.

            He picked up the Redbook he had borrowed from work and turned the page. The picture perfect face of the pop star Lilith starred up at him from beneath the glossy page, smiling eerily.

            “No,” he muttered. “It’s too unreal.”

            He thumbed through the rest of the magazine before putting it down. All the women were done up in the classic Infernal Chic style. He didn’t want to draw an ideal. He wanted . . . He didn’t know what he wanted.

            Ron sighed as he turned off the lights, scooping up his notebook as he left.

            The café was only a block away. “Hey, Ron,” one of the regular baristas said to him, already making him his customary latte as he rummaged in his pocket for cash.

            “Slow day?” There was no one else in the café. He tried to remember the baristas name, but nothing came.

            “Eh, there’s a game on,” she replied. “Most folks are probably down at the Haunt.”

            Ron put down several dollars and the correct change, tossing a buck into the tip jar as he accepted his cup.

            “Thanks,” she said, scanning her phone.

            “Sure thing,” he said and took up his customary seat across from the door.

            He didn’t actually drink his latte. Coffee tasted acrid to him, and reminded him of his years in Hell. Instead he opened his notebook and took out his pencil. For the better part of the next half hour he devoted his time to sketching the table and chairs opposite him, and the window beyond. This may have been the fifteenth hundred time he had done so. He had lost count some time ago. When he was done he examined the results. It wasn’t terrible. He often found stationary objects to be easier to conceive than living ones, and they usually didn’t move. Still, the perspective was off. He turned the page and began again.

            Sometime later the door to the café opened, letting in a chill blast of wind. Ron shivered and looked up.

            The new customer was probably a grad student at the nearby college, young but not immature. She had auburn hair with a single thread of gold in it. It was clearly artificial but subtle. She wore a long pea coat and a gray woven hat and scarf, and tall black boots. Centuries upon centuries of studying and overseeing the torments of humans had made Ron a certain judge of human character that, while nothing compared to the skills of Minos or Radamanthus, allowed him to see all manner of things in the simplest gesture, the faintest change of facial features.

            Sincerity, that was the word that leaped at him as the woman briefly met eyes with him before walking to the counter. A lack of artifice, save for the vanity in her hair.

            “Can I have a tall?” she asked the barista.

            “That’s one eighty five.”

            The woman paid, then tipped a dollar even though the barista’s back was turned. She glanced towards Ron, who realized he was staring, and set his gaze firmly on his notebook.

            The woman sat at a distance, and took out a book from the satchel she’d brought in with her. It was a dog-eared copy of ‘Why the Sea is Salt’ by Alice Fager. Ron had read it a few years back, but had a hard time remembering it, other than that it had been clever, and that there was a twist ending. He struggled to call up the reveal, but he’d spent so much effort drawing the table and chairs that nothing would come.

            The woman turned the book and bit reflexively at her lower lip. A moment later she swept a bit of her hair out of her face and took a sip of coffee.

            Ron turned to the next page of his notebook and, placing his pencil against the paper, began to draw.

            When he stopped he looked at the clock above the mirror behind the counter. It had only been seven minutes. Before him, on the page, was the woman, biting at her lip, her hand, her hand, he had never been able to draw a hand that was anything more than a stick figure, turning the page. It was black and white but it was her, almost photo-like in its perfection.

            “Hey,” the woman’s voice brought him out of his reverie. “Hey, you, Hell-Guy, are you drawing me?”

            “Uh,” Ron let out as he moved to close the notebook but it was too late. She was already looming over him.

            “Well, let me see it at least, Hell-Guy.”

            “My name is Ron,” he mumbled as he turned the notebook around.

            She stared at it blankly for a while and then, “Wow. I mean. Wow. You’re really good.”

            “Thanks.” He felt a bead of sweat coming on in spite of the snow falling outside.

            “I mean, it’s weird, you doing that, but, can I . . . I mean, can I see some of your notebook? Do you, like, make art? Like, are you an artist?”

            “I-” Ron put his hand over the notebook. “It’s not very good. I mean, the rest of it. I just thought that you- Uh.”

            “Man, you’re bad at this. Are you, uh,” she looked to his still full, cold coffee cup, “You done with that?”

            “Yeah, I guess I am.”

            “You want to get a drink or something?”

            “Yes.”

            “I’m Emma.”

            “I’m Ron.”

            “You said that already.”

            “Right,” Ron said.

            As they left the Barista flashed Ron a thumbs up. Briggite Ron suddenly remembered. That’s her name. Brigitte.

* * * * * * *

           

            “Dude,” Bill said as the last customer left. “I can’t cover for you forever.”

            Ron held up a finger, his ear pressed against the convenience store’s only pay phone. “Just, hold on, I’m just waiting to- Uh, hello?”

            “Mr. Ronove?” Said a voice on the other end of the line. “Is this Mr. Ronove?”

            “Yes! Yes. Is this Ms. Nichols?”

            “Yes, but you can call me Linsday.”

            “I’m, uh, I’m so glad to hear from you Ms., uh, Lindsay.”

            “Well, I’m glad to speak to you too, Mr. Ronove. Do you prefer Ronove?”

            “I guess,” Ron answered. “Yes?”

            “Well, I have some good news for you, Mr. Ronove,” the agent sprawled on. “There’s been some serious interest in your work. Serious interest. I’m certain that you are aware that your style of art is hot right now. There’s so much demonic or, uh, what is the word, Infernal? Anyhow, your work is . . . What can I say? It’s just so genuine. Sincere. It’s classic. Those paintings, those prints,” she took an audible drag on a cigarette, “It’s like something from another century. I mean, I suppose that shouldn’t be that surprising-“

            “Um, hold on,” Ron said, as Mr. Karras entered the store, already red in the face.

            “You,” Ron’s manager said, “Get off of that phone!”

            “Do any of them want to make an offer?” Ron asked.

            “Hang up the goddamn phone!” Mr. Karras urged. He was a foot shorter than Ron, but far more frightening.

            “They do,” Lindsay said. “How high do you want to go?”

            “Uh,” Ron held the phone at a distance. “Uh, one hundred and forty?”

            “For just one of the prints?”

            “GET OFF OF THE FUCKING PHONE,” Mr. Karras roared. Ron hung up the phone.

            “Clean up the coolers,” Mr. Karras said, moving towards the rear of the Seven Eleven. Ron shuffled over and began to re-organize the coolers, moving items that would expire sooner to the front and turning items around to be more attractive. While he did so the phone rang. Bill picked it up and said, “Yo, Ron, it’s your agent. You sure about that price?”

            “Uh, yes.”

            “You want to go higher?”

            “I, uh,” Ron said as Mr. Karras poked his head out of his back office. “Yep. Tell them not to call back until they, uh-”

            Bill replied into the receiver and hung up the phone.

            Ron was redisplaying the novelties when the bell jingled. Emma walked through the front door and Ron felt . . . It was hard to define. The sea at night. Two dozen birds flying at wing. A beehive. The feeling of an embrace. The last breath of an enemy. Her blond lock seemed to catch the light.

            “My haunting,” Ron said, walking over to the phone and redialing the agent’s number.

            “Ron Swan-song,” she replied with her half smile.

            “That’s sad, don’t say that.”

            “Is that weirder than calling me ‘My Haunting?’”

            “It’s a joke. Remember our first date?”

            She waved the comment off. “When are you growing a moustache?”

            “I can’t-“

            All of a sudden Ron was aware that he had grown a very thick moustache, And that his hair had become as thick and rich as Nick Offerman’s. Emma snickered.

            “You going to get all libertarian on me?”

            “No,” Ron said, “I mean, I don’t know.”

            The strange thing was that he suddenly realized that he could cut wood, craft a canoe, build a log cabin, appreciate whiskey, and every other superficial thing that the fictional character from Parks & Rec could accomplish. And . . . Why did the government need his money?

            “Shit, don’t do that!” he said, pretending to listen closer to the silence on the other end of the telephone.

            “Do what? Give you an awesome moustache?”

            “No,” Ron said, “It’s just, it’s free will, right? I mean, I should get to choose how-“

            “Jesus,” Emma said, “Lighten up, Hell-Guy. What are they talking? Seriously? You hear from the agent?”

            “Oh, they, uh-“

            “Ron!” Mr. Karras said, emerging from the back room. “Now is not the time for romance! Lady friend must leave.”

            Emma took a moment to look Ron in the eyes. Will you fight for me?

            Ron took a breath. “She’s not bothering anyone. The place is empty, Mr. Karras.”

            “She comes and buys nothing. This is a place of business not a Tinder Date.”

            Emma snorted. “No one uses fucking Tinder anymore.”

            “You,” Mr. Karras said, “Out.”

            Emma didn’t move. Mr. Karras moved a step closer, somehow managing to make his paunch threatening.

            “She stays,” Ron said, surprising himself. The phone rang. Bill picked up the phone.

            “It’s the agent lady,” Bill said, pausing. Mr. Karras breathed in and out, his nostrils flaring. “She says someone is asking two hundred thousand.”

            “I quit,” Ron said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

* * * * * * *

            “I like the use of the color blue,” one of the attendees said, gesturing towards ‘The Rusalka.’ “It’s subtle.”

            “Thank you,” Ron said, reflexively pressing down his lapel. He hadn’t worn a modern suit before tonight. The last formal human garb he had worn had been a gambeson and a suit of full plate drenched with blood. There was too much starch in his collar.

            “Where do you get your inspiration?” the guest asked.

            Ron glanced over at Emma. She was grinning like a cat, half laughing at some story Zero was telling her. Her hair fell out of place, and she brushed it backwards.

            “Life,” Ron answered.

            Ron wandered through the exhibition, wishing that his shoes were not so uncomfortable. People murmured at him. He sipped on a glass of champagne.

Ms. Nichols approached him, shimmering in a dress peacock green.

“A certain party has made an offer on ‘Samizdat.’ It’s a sizeable-“

“Sell it,” Ron said. Lindsay nodded, and sauntered off.

Ron looked around. So many people. So much wealth. Human wealth, but still. He took another sip of champagne, then put down the glass.

“Ronove?” a voice said. “Is that you?”

Ron turned. What appeared to be a man smiled at him, his hair slicked, a white tuxedo making him look like a 1940’s nightclub singer.

“Apologies,” the man said, “I don’t look myself very often. But you remember old Pazuzu, don’t you? What was it, Mesopotamia?”

Ron laughed. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t- It’s been a long time, right.”

“Right,” Pazuzu flashed pearly white teeth. “Quite the show you’ve got here. Getting in on the art scene. Not bad. Lot of scratch to be made from these fools.”

“You don’t like the art?” Ron felt a bit white hot anger flushing his cheeks.

“The art? The art is amazing. You must have-” Pazuzu scanned the room. “Oh, is that her? The one with the dyed hair? No wonder.”

“No wonder what?” Ron asked.

Pazuzu regarded him with his eyes, green with a bit of gold in them. “Oh. Ohhh,” he said. “You don’t get it, do you?” He laughed.

“What?”

Pazuzu poked him lightly with his finger. “You think this is you, don’t you? You think you could draw a damn square without inspiration? Without little miss gold in her hair? I can see why you like her. You’re lucky. You know I had to possess three different people to get the Exorcist franchise into the big time?”

“I don’t know what-“

“Ronove,” Pazuzu said, lifting a champagne flute from a passing tray, “By Lucifer, I hate to say it, but if you think it’s you making these paintings . . . I’m sorry, Marquis, it’s not you, it’s her.”

“I’m not a Marquis anymore.”

“Well, you’re not an artist, either,” Pazuzu said. “Sorry, but them’s the breaks. Just try it. Without her. Sorry.”

Pazuzu excused himself and mingled with a nearby crowd, asking them if they could sew socks in Hell to predictable laughter. Ron sipped on his champagne.

* * * * * * *

“I just don’t understand why you-“ Emma broke off, and grabbed her coat.

“Don’t leave,” Ron said.

“I need to go out.” The door opened and closed.

The canvas before him was empty, save for a single incomplete line. He knew he could draw . . . Anything. Anything if he thought of her. Sunrise above the desert. A jungle cat speckled with light. A soldier of an ancient war, noble and resolute. Skeletal whales beneath the sea. A beautiful woman, with a golden strand of hair, laughing. Happy.

But that was not him.

A single line. Just a single, perfect line.

The line was jagged.

The phone rang. He ignored it.

* * * * * * *

The pencil danced somewhat as he pressed it against the page.

            “Ron,” Mr. Karras said, frowning. “The cooler.”

            “On it,” Ron said, and moved over to reorganize the contents within. “Milk is expired,” he said. “Should I toss it?”

            Mr. Karras grunted affirmation.

            When he returned from the rear of the store he saw that Bill was thumbing through his notebook. The old him would have been irritated, but he merely sighed as he returned to the counter.

            “Your drawings still suck,” Bill said.

            “I know,” Ron said, staring down at the sketch of the human face on the last page of the notebook. It was crude.

But I’m getting better.