An Ill-Fitting Name: Snippet 1
Asmodai was his name, because he had stolen it along with the life of the wizard it had belonged to before. It wasn’t the first name he had taken in this way, but it was the name he got stuck with, through every fault of his own.
It is said among some legends that the seventh son of a seventh son will be born lucky, or have magical powers, but nothing much is said about the third sons of third sons, which is what Asmodai was, before his name was Asmodai. Was he born wrong, or was he made that way? None of his siblings turned out the way he did--not that he knows how they turned out. They each scattered to the winds in their own different ways, avoiding an often absent overworked father and obsessively violent alcoholic mother. These are not excuses, merely the catalysts that would put the boy that Asmodai had been in the care of a certain psychotic mage who would mold Asmodai into the terror he would become. Like recognizes like, and the older man must have seen the seed of something wrong in that boy, to take him as an apprentice. To teach him dark magic, and the depths of psychological manipulation, how to draw energy from blood and how to make a body disappear where no cop would find it. Like recognizes like, but they were not completely alike. If they had been, then surely the older man would have seen the glint in the eyes of the boy, and known before it was too late that he had taught too much. But no. Overconfidence was his downfall. He wasn’t the first person the boy killed, but his was the first name and power he took fully for his own. What was his name? What had it been? It hardly mattered now. Asmodai has had many names, more than he can be expected to keep up with. You might expect him at least to remember the first, but you would be wrong. He doesn’t even remember his own name, having bound and locked it away, somewhere far and deep, safe in his subconscious, on the day he killed the twisted man who taught him magic.
Asmodai remembers more than enough of what does matter. He remembers the callused, sandpapery skin of a firm hand pinching his chin between an unforgiving thumb and forefinger, the piercing blue eyes of the man that would be his mentor forcing him to meet his gaze, looking deep into his soul and all the dark unnamed desires squirming within. It was not the first time Asmodai had run away, but it was the first time someone besides the police had caught him.
“You’ve suffered,” said the older man appreciatively, after the silence between them had stretched nearly to unbearable. The man let go of Asmodai and held out his hand. “Wouldn’t you like to make sure that others suffer too?”
Names are powerful things. Before that day, Asmodai had not understood what it was he wanted from the world, but the man who would be his mentor had named exactly what he wanted. He wanted to make sure that other people suffered. As soon as it was spoken and given a shape, he knew it to be true.
And he was good at it.
Was. Was good at it. And now? Asmodai swears, the rage in his heart as white-hot as it was that day nearly a month ago when that bitch as good as stole his magic from him. Sure, he can kill the old-fashioned way, as nearly every other serial killer does, but he had a certain style and freedom he enjoyed that was impossible to achieve when bound by the regular laws of nature. And he isn’t willing to accept yet that this may be all that remains to him.
Asmodai reflects on these things from a motel room that has come to feel like a prison cell. He can leave whenever he wants, but where would he go? What would he do, when he can’t do whatever he wants to whomever he wants to do it to? He rips open the day’s single serve coffee packet and jams it in the little electric coffee maker on the worn desk. It will taste terrible, as every other near-instant coffee he’s made here has tasted, but he wants to drink something as bitter as he feels.
His memory jumps around as the machine hisses and burbles with purpose. He traces back the well-worn path of where and why everything went wrong, as if that could change any part of what happened. The first misstep, years ago in New York City, when the ill whims of fate crossed his path with the path of that damned witch. He underestimated her then, and, well, perhaps that had been a frequent mistake of his, now that he thought about it. He had thought himself stronger, able to call upon darker and more powerful magic than she could. His hand drifts to the mottled skin marking the nine-pointed scar where her curse had taken out his right eye all those years ago. What had he thought, that she’d simply gotten lucky? That he could truly make her pay for this? How wrong he had been.
New York City, though he doesn’t remember exactly the year--perhaps 2011? 2012? The year didn’t matter, and so he didn’t commit it to memory. Vengeance is timeless. He remembers what matters: the warm, approving sun on his skin, and he fresh from having magically turned a man inside out, hiding the body with a flick of his fingers deep at the bottom of the Hudson River. It was time to find his next name, and no community of magic users in the country was bigger than the network in New York City. He could probably have his pick of any name he wanted here. As far as names went, ‘Asmodai’ was a little strange. It had suited the wizard he took it from in its way, and sure, had served him well in the time since, but he didn’t want to get attached to any one name, lest it gain power over him. And so it was time to leave Asmodai behind and take a new name. He shuddered with delight, sweet memories of Asmodai’s murder playing in his mind. What a violently erotic affair that had been. Asmodai...it was almost a pity to have killed a young man so beautiful, naive, and foolish as he had been, but his terror, his tears, had all been the most delicious yet. Surely this next kill would be even better.
He took a deep breath, bringing his attention back. First things first, he needed to find said magical community. Make friends, insinuate himself into the social scene, find the next name that would suit him. No need to rush. This was his favorite kind of hunt, and it would no doubt take months to complete. He already knew that trying to detect magic would be pointless—the city was teeming with it. He closed his rich brown eyes, and focused on the flow of magic within the city. He would find where it collected, perhaps, and work his way from there. Who he found didn’t matter, he just needed someone to start with. The flow of magic seemed to be leading north, toward the center of the city. Made sense. Time to walk. He opened his eyes, and was surprised to find a young woman looking at him with a knowing smile. She held out her hand as their eyes met.
“Call me Elaine,” she said, her hazel eyes sharp and playful on him, sizing him up. “You must be the new mage in town.”
What luck, he remembers thinking. What fantastic fortune. The universe wanted him to have this. He gave her the same winning smile that had lured so many others to their deaths. “Asmodai,” he said, shaking her hand. He looked like a kid caught out sneaking dessert before dinner, sheepishly running a hand through his sandy brown curls, smiling appreciatively. “How did you know?”
She winked at him. “Let’s call it word on the street. I said the word, and here we are, on the street.”
“Ah, a secret then.” She wasn’t exactly his favorite type, he thought, but he wasn’t going to turn down what fate offered. “Say, what do you like to do for fun around here?”
She would have been his ticket in. He should have just taken her rejection in stride, taken his time, taken it out on her much later, with a better grasp on who she was, what her weaknesses were. But something about her made him want to make her suffer. Who the fuck did she think she was, to tell him no? There would be other magic users. The bookshop owner, perhaps, if he could ever find his way back there. No, his mind was made up the moment she turned him down, and he smoothed over any awkwardness that could have blossomed with seemingly patient understanding. He knew that he would make her pay, and he would do it that very night. He paid little attention to the overtures of friendship that evening, and so doesn’t remember exactly where they drank and ate, what sights they saw, because it didn’t matter. He played the part he wanted her to believe in perfectly, and that was what mattered. He hardly had to work to get the opportunity he needed.
Binding spells were one of his specialties--among the first spells he had ever learned. It was easy--cutting through a dark alley, no witnesses, and her attention was elsewhere as she led the way. In no time she was frozen, immoble before him, a wild fear in her eyes, and everything felt right. The binding held fast. He would have his way, and then he would kill her. He smiled. He grabbed her by the chin, testing that he was in control, turning her head this way and that, a horrifically mad glint in his eyes.
“Oh Elaine,” he’d said, mocking the syllables. “Though I know that can’t be your true name, it doesn’t matter. First I’ll take you, then I’ll take your life, and I’ll take my time working my way through this city until I’m satisfied. Eventually someone here is bound to have exactly what I want. Even if you don’t.” He paused, his hand cupping her cheek. “Enough talk, I think.” His hand slipped around to the back of her neck, his fingers clenching roughly in her hair until she winced in pain. His magic kept her silenced, but he left her face just free enough that he would get to see every spasm of suffering.
“Good girl,” he whispered, pulling harder. “I will enjoy every bit of this.” He leaned in, crushing their lips together to steal a kiss.
Well, that had been his intention. Would he have seen what was coming, if he’d left his eyes open? Their lips met, and then a sharp, unexpected pain. His lip was between Elaine’s teeth, and she had bit down hard, quickly drawing blood until her mouth was full of it. He had no time to react. She spat out a blood curse, wild and blindly--no sound, just a sudden explosion of ripping agony centered in his right eye. Asmodai screamed, staggering back, his concentration broken, the binding spell dropped, blood everywhere. On instinct his hand had flown to his face, feeling ruin beneath his fingertips. He pulled his hand away and looked down at it. Red, absolutely covered. Pain so searing he almost couldn’t think through his rage. He looked up at her.
She was a terrifying sight. His blood ran down her chin. Unfamiliar sigils marked her face, glowing against her skin. Her eyes--they were something else, hazel irises gone, and in their place two glowing red Xs focused in anger on him, and it was at that point he realized that now he couldn’t move.
“You are not welcome here, you are not welcome in this city,” she hissed, “and if I ever see you again, I will kill you.”
He doesn’t remember through the haze of pain exactly what she did, but next thing he knew he was suddenly outside the city limits, blood streaming from a wound he could not get to heal, and utterly unable to get back in.
Before that day, Asmodai’s entire goal in life had been to make other people suffer. He added a new purpose to that short list: make that bitch pay for what she had done to him.
It would be years before an opportunity would present itself. To start with, that bitch never left New York City, and no matter what he tried, he couldn’t get in.
He learned that no healer he found could get the scar to go away. He had had the sort of face men and women both found beautiful, before. A face it was easy to fall in love with. The first healer, a skilled young man of discretion not in the habit of asking unpleasant questions, had been very apologetic when his magic could do nothing. Asmodai killed him anyway.
He also learned that there was something about being cursed that other magic users could now pick up on. No matter what silky lies he told about how he got that scar, they all seemed to sense something off. No makeup could hide it. No glamor could conceal it. No good wizard would get close to him now, their guards up, their names far out of his grasp.
In time, he was content to roam the country, killing as pleased him, waiting for his opportunity to come. Surely a day would come that she would set foot outside her city. He set up spells that would let him know when she did. He waited.
Asmodai looks at the paper cup in his hand, the oil-slick sheen of the coffee surely too hot to drink. If he had his magic, he thinks irritably, this could be a perfect cup of coffee, exactly the right temperature to drink, the taste exquisite regardless of how stale the beans were that made it. But no. His opportunity had come, and not only had he wasted it, he’d gotten himself completely fucked over for his effort.
He sniffs the coffee. Smells awful. Gingerly, he hovers his tongue toward the liquid. It’s clearly too hot. He sets the cup down, and thinks back to that night. As if turning the memories over in his mind will give him peace this time, when it hasn’t every other time before.
He had, over the years, imagined thousands of ways to torture and kill her. So why, when there she was before him again, had his mind gone completely blank? A thousand ways to make her suffer, and suddenly he had forgotten them all. His heart raced, secretly thrilled with possibility as he worked to bind her to the spot on the ground where she had appeared. He approached her, smooth and unhurried, and spoke.
“At last, at last I can finish what we started.”
Her hair was longer, he noticed, pulled back in a sensible ponytail. She wore reading glasses that she hadn’t worn the last time they’d met. But the look of wild rage in her surprised eyes when she saw him and shouted “YOU!” --that felt very familiar.
Her shock gave him an easy opening to bind her leg to the ground. “Mmm, didn’t you say you were going to kill me if you saw me again?” he said lightly, looking around expectantly. “All talk, I suppose.”
“Maybe I have better things to do,” she replied, glaring at him, her face darkening.
“Is that right?” he smiled, but it was a cold smile that did not reach his eye. He focused on trying to bind first her right arm, then her left, but he could feel her fighting it, warding him off.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve come around. Death is one of those too good for you kind of things. I think it’s better for someone like you to suffer.”
He should have had the upper hand, ambushing her as he did. But she must have been stronger than he realized, because the magic was so damn slippery and he couldn’t get her arms bound. The other leg then, he thought, changing his focus.
“I see the eye failed to heal quite nicely,” she called out. “Would you like the other one to match?”
“Shut UP, witch!” he growled. He pulled out his pocket knife, cutting his hand, drawing upon his own bloodshed in magic to get her other leg bound. “Enough TALK. I will torture you. I will dominate you. And I will slowly, slowly kill you.” He began walking toward her, taking in the sight of her as he could feel the binding slowly catching along her left arm. He had been too focused on his own spell to pay attention to what she had been doing. He remembered hearing her chuckle, and then the feeling of being violently knocked unconscious.
He sips the coffee, which manages to somehow be both watery and still bitter to the point of being sour. When he came to that night, she was gone. And if she’d stayed gone, everything might have been okay. He could have regrouped, come up with a better plan. Taken the time to see through the blinding anger and bloodlust, to figure out what he would need to do to overpower her.
He got back to his motel room that night, all blunt force trauma and broken ribs from being slammed into the nearest tree by a concussive magic blow. Healing isn’t Asmodai’s specialty, but he knows a little to get by. He slipped into his bed, settling into a sort of meditative healing state, thinking pleasing thoughts--remembering the feeling of his fingers on the thin and pretty throat of the wizard’s lover as she died, and god what a fantastic feeling that had been, as the man who had held the name Asmodai was frozen, unable to move, only able to cry. How long ago now that had been. The wizard Asmodai had loved him too, and that made it all the sweeter, what he had done.
These were the things he was thinking when he felt his blood stir in a way it shouldn’t have, as the door to his motel room slammed open, and there she stood. That fucking bitch, with power and murder in her eyes. She had bound him to the bed.
“Shhh,” she said, her binding spell squeezing his throat, silencing him. “We aren’t done.” The spell pressed down on his chest, tears springing to his eyes from the pain. This was not right. She had no right to do this to him. She had left. Why was she here? How had she found him? Her magic dragged him down, making space for her to climb up and sit cross-legged at the head of the bed. She dragged him back up to her, putting her hands on his temples as he looked around wildly.
“I do hope this hurts.”
He couldn’t tell what she was doing, but all the telltale signs of her magic at work began to show, her terrifying face aglow with sigils, her eyes gone and the glow of red Xs in their place. He felt a ripping sensation in his memory, and then a curse taking shape, constraints being threaded around him. As she began to root her curses deep in his mind, through the pain he could hear the echoes of it as she did.
Who cares if you know who I am, what I look like, or any of that, if it triggers a complete temporary loss of all magic and movement when you so much as think of me?
Know that I did this. Be infuriated. And be utterly powerless to do a damned thing about it.
He doesn’t remember exactly what she said next. He was not listening. He was in howling, excruciating pain, unable to move, unable to scream. She took his knife from his pocket, stabbed him in the side, and filled a vial with his blood.
“Just in case,” she said. Asmodai felt like the pain would tear him apart.
“You’ll be able to move eventually. Once you stop thinking about me.”
It was days before he had been able to move again.
Even now, he thinks, gulping down the last of the brackish coffee, he’s not moving because he overcame her curse. She took pity on him. The very thought fills him with a roiling, sickening anger all over again. She had appeared in his motel room once more, the magic of it splitting the air with a deafening crack.
“It would be funny, honestly, to let you die like this,” she had said, walking up to him as he lay there, seething and immobile.
“I think I’ll keep you like this when I’m around. But perhaps I’ll be benevolent enough to allow you some movement when I’m not near. Would you like that?”
His anger pinned him in place, unable to move, unable to speak. This was nearly how he had spent all his time since she’d left: simmering in his hatred, imagining violence that he couldn’t act on.
“I ought to make you beg for even that,” she said as she summoned her magic, her hands stretching out for his temples, “but I am nothing if not benevolent…”
He could feel her reaching into his mind, a horrible and unpleasant sensation, her countenance as terrifying as before. But he could also feel her tweaking the curse, freeing him to be able to move if she wasn’t there. The restriction on his magic, however, she left alone.
She lifted her hands away from him, her face returning to normal. As he watched, she held her hand out over his chest, magically probing to see which of his ribs was the worst off. For a split second, she acted like she was going to press on it, then grinned wickedly at him.
“No, I wouldn’t,” she said, standing up instead. “Hate me all you want. You can’t do anything about it.” She disappeared from his room with another ear-splitting crack.
Tentatively, Asmodai sat up. He screamed, in spite of how much it hurt to do so, and punched the wall until his knuckles were bruised and bloodied. He stared at his hands when the immediate white hot rage cooled down, and couldn’t even use his magic to heal them.
That had been a little over a month ago now. She hadn’t returned. And neither had his magic. He throws the empty paper cup in the little trash can, and stares down the hopelessness of another day.
- NEXT SNIPPET -