THE DEVIL’S MISCHIEF

The first time May Renner laid eyes on George Stankline was in the fall of her twenty-fourth year. She was young and naïve, barely past the sting of unreturned love, when she first joined The Clown to earn some pocket change by putting animal flesh between bread. Stankline was a new addition to the company that year, and he was more than welcome to engage in not-so-brief conversations with Renner during work-free hours. A bruised heart was worse than none—it clung to anyone who showed it even the slightest mercy.

George Stankline was that mercy to May Renner.

She came to the realization on a terrible evening, the night she escaped the person Renner once believed was the love of her life.

It was messy. I saw it—the look of relief, perfectly hidden beneath a mask of shock—when the four-wheeler struck Renner’s so-called soulmate.

He wasn’t a good partner, she told herself. He could never love her the way she loved him. His eyes were for Julie—always Julie. What was the point of marrying a man who still belonged to her sister? To him, May was only a shadow. A reflection. Never the one.

But she wasn’t just a reflection. She was older. Smarter. Stronger. More passionate. Better in every way. So why Julie? Why always Julie?

May could never understand it. Only a few months separated them, yet Julie drew everything to herself—love, respect, devotion—the things May should have had as the firstborn, the rightful heir. But in everyone’s eyes, she was second. Second to her sister. Second to the one she should have outshone. Always second.

It was only when something went wrong, all heads turned in her direction. May. The eldest. The one expected to carry the weight, to take the blame, to fix what was broken. She worked herself—my ass off, as she spat it—to keep the house running, to pay the bills, to cover the endless costs of their sick, bedridden mother.

And Julie? Her perfect, delicate sister? All she ever did was sit pretty at their mother’s side, basking in pity and affection, while May tore herself apart just to keep them all alive.

A bitter taste clung to her mouth—the weight on her shoulders, the burn lodged in her heart. By nightfall, she reached for a fag, dragging hard, as if smoke could wash the day clean. It filled her lungs, smothered the ache, blurred the edges of her feelings.

One Saturday evening, May found herself letting out a long sigh, a ribbon of smoke curling into the dark as she stared across the street—at her own reflection staring back from the glass of the opposite building.

She looked… spent. Older than her years, as if time had crept in early and carved its mark across her face. Lines pressed into her skin where once there had been only softness, only youth. The shadows beneath her eyes dulled the spark of mischief that still lingered in their green.

Her complexion was darker now, touched by fatigue, and her golden curls—once shining and perfect—fell in loose, tangled waves. She raked her hand through them, rough, impatient. Not like before, when her fingers slid through with careless, sinful pleasure.

Strong, steady arms closed around her waist then, pulling her against broad shoulders, anchoring her to the only happiness she dared to claim, fragile and fleeting as it was. She let her head sink against him, breath easing out as the tension bled away. Safety wrapped around her as surely as his hold did—the kind she had only ever known with him. Being there in his embrace was like stumbling out of the wilderness and finding the one door that would always open, no matter how lost she’d been.

With him, words were unnecessary. His presence alone was enough—the pull of his lips, the hush between them, the silence that carried her mind to places they dared call “heaven”… or “sin.” As if the titles themselves could baptize vice and call it holy.

How foolish of them, I thought, smiling to myself.

They reminded me of Sarah and Tobias—though only as their inversion. Where those two fought for love, clawed for it through trial and faith, these mortals flaunted nothing but lust, envy, and hunger. Tobias had once struggled to drive me away, desperate to shield his bride. But this good man? He beckoned me nearer, as if begging my hand to consecrate his—and her—ruin.

And I would love to, honestly. Because who but the most wretched of souls would pray not to God, but to a demon, for such hollow gifts?

Strange creatures, these mortals. Their frailty disgusted me… and yet, I couldn’t look away. There was a certain amusement in watching these specimens sabotage themselves, enslaved to the unquenchable greed of their hearts.

“How long are we going to keep this up?” he murmured against her ear, his breathing slow, calm on the surface yet straining with something unsaid.

Another weary sigh slipped through May’s lips. She inhaled a deep breath in.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, sounding almost nonchalant.

“No.” George shook his head. His hands shifted gently, guiding her until she was turned to face him, close enough that every breath and every doubt lingered between them.

“Then let’s keep this up.” Her mouth curved in a sly half-smile as she looked at him.

He lowered his forehead to hers, his breath mingling with hers, eyes locked on the challenge burning in her green gaze.

“No,” George said, steadier this time. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. His voice carried the weight of a choice made—the one he had dreaded, yet desired all the same. “You have to choose. It’s him or me. You can’t have both.”

May wrenched his hands around hers and stepped back, a sharp roll of her eyes cutting deeper than words. The sly curl of her lips vanished, replaced by a frown that flattened her beauty into something cold.

“We’ve been over this, George. How many times do I have to tell you?” Her voice was clipped, impatient, her brows pinched tight.

“Not until you give me an answer,” he shot back, desperate, as if her refusal were dragging him toward a conclusion he didn’t want to face.

“You want an answer?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then.” She gave a small, almost mocking nod, as though collecting herself. “I want to be married. To be cherished the way my sister is. If I can’t have that... I’ll lose myself.” Her laugh was soft, but it cracked at the edges, betraying the grief that undercut her words. “Maybe I already have.” She gave a helpless shrug.

George’s eyebrows furrowed. “You are loved, May. I love you.” His voice thinned, pain etched into every line of his face. “Isn’t that enough?”

He reached for her arm, pleading, but she recoiled sharply, her voice rising, jagged with despair.

“Oh, George.” She shook her head, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Can’t you see? It isn’t your love I want.”

His heart splintered into pieces at that. He saw May twist the ring on her finger—her anchor, her reminder. In that small motion he saw the truth: he was never her choice, only her distraction. A substitute for the love she craved elsewhere. She took him the way she took her cigarettes—drawn in for comfort, then cast aside when the taste turned bitter.

At last, he understood. Everything was painfully clear to him.

“I see it now. I see it clearly,” he said, eyes hardening as the realisation settled in.

Then he walked away.

It was the last time they saw each other. Stankline abandoned The Clown and locked himself away, his thoughts circling the same image: the ring on May’s finger. She held it as if it were sacred, as if clutching it tightly might coax love from the man who had never given it.

George knew how May clung to that dobber, but he was no different. His own hunger for her burned just as fierce, driving him to claim her by any means. If she could bend her father’s will to secure a marriage to her sister’s suitor, then he could bend something greater. He would. Prayer, sacrifice, spirits—whatever it took, he would make her his.

And so George Stankline called me—on a night when Edinburgh howled with wind and rain. Winter had just bared its teeth; the streets slick with water, the wynds thick with mist. They called it the Athens of the North, but to me it reeked as it always had—Auld Reekie. A city of stone, smoke, and sorrow, with its kirks and tenements huddled together like sinners waiting for judgment.

Of all places, George chose a kirk for his verdict. God’s house—though by now, as much mine as His. It sagged at the village edge, windows gaping like broken teeth, the bell tower hollow as a ribcage. Moss had claimed the gravestones, and inside, the pews sagged in rows like weary penitents. The altar, once drenched in prayers, bore only George’s frantic chalk scratches. The air stank of mildew, dust, and memory, as if these stones remembered sins.

And there he knelt, my little supplicant, hunched in his circle—lines already smudged by the uneven floor. Three pathetic candles guttered, their flames bending strangely, as though even fire knew to pay respect to me. Above, rain pattered and lightning clawed the sky, heralds announcing my arrival.

He had laid open his treasure: cracked leather, yellowed pages, inked sigils. And with precise hands, he traced my name—Asmoday. King of Desire. Lord of Wrath.

I did so enjoy when mortals whispered me back into the world. They thought themselves hunters of spirits, when all the while, it was they who were hunted. I was not permitted to touch them outright, but I could twist a breeze, still a heart, fan the embers already burning in their chests, and let them heed the devil already gnawing inside. George proved as much. He slit his thumb, pressed the blood into parchment, and the sigil drank it eagerly. His lips moved as he called me:

“Veni, Rex Asmoday.
In nomine amoris, ego te voco.
By the bonds of fire and flesh,
By the hunger beneath the skin—
appear before me.

Grant me what is mine.
Grant me her.”

He faltered, breath snagging in his throat. One more exhale, one more gasp of air, and then he spoke her name as though it might keep him alive.

“Grant me May Renner. That is all I ask of you.”

The kirk groaned in reply. Wind moaned through the broken windows, rattling glass like chains. Lightning strikes tore the sky apart, and the candles quivered but refused to die. A hush fell, thick and dangerous. His heart stumbled in his chest.

He knew I had come.

Mortals fascinated me. They carried both heaven and hell within their ribs—heaven for the things they cherished, hell for the things they starved after. It made them almost kin to me, save for that fragile tether of emotion and mortality. They loved to pretend they were rare, chosen. But strip them bare, peel away their skins, and what remained? Raw, red flesh. Meat. Nothing more.

I did not need to tell George outright—he already carried my blessing like a fever. Renner would be his, and through him, she would be mine. All that mattered was that he leaned into the smouldering hunger, let the voice at his shoulder curl into his ear at the perfect moment, and obey. Desire would do the rest. That was all. Yes. He need only wait.

A day passed. Then another. Three. Four. Five. George counted them to seven, waiting as though May might suddenly appear, bowing to his will. He told himself she must feel his absence, that something terrible had surely befallen her. Alone, helpless—she would come running, he imagined, into his arms, whispering apologies, confessing she’d never known how much he meant to her… until now. But the world did not bend to desire. It never did.

It was his turn to bend the world, to twist daylight into weary night if he wanted her badly enough. His fate rested on what he chose at this moment. Once he understood that May would never come to him of her own will—that she would only break when he placed himself in her darkest hour—George left the house, hungry, frantic, dread coiling tight inside him.

What if she never came back? What if she still loved that dobber? What then?

Kill him, a voice rasped from the hollow of his mind.

George stopped dead in his tracks, breath locked in his chest.

Claim her, it whispered again, colder, closer, curling against his ear like smoke.

Four words. That was all it took.

George lunged, shoving the man May adored into the road. Headlights roared. Tires screamed. A wall of steel bore down, and then—crash. The body crumpled beneath the truck with a sound that made the air itself shudder. When it was over, he lay sprawled on the gravel, blood spreading like ink across the stones. His eyes stared, wide and empty, already gone.

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?” May’s yell split the night. Her chest heaved as her gaze darted from the mangled body, to the truck that never stopped, and finally to George. He stood there, breath ragged, his eyes fixed only on her.

Nothing else mattered. Not the horror. Not the blood. Not the man he’d killed. Only her.

“You’re free, May,” George whispered. “Free.”

The word coiled through her, dangerous and sweet. Her chest rose, fell, then stilled as she let it sink in. Free. No vows to bind her, no hollow love to chase. Only this—this heat, this hunger, this man before her.

It felt like drawing her first breath after drowning. Air rushed in sharp and cold, stinging her lungs, making her tremble as if she had been reborn not into innocence, but into something raw.

She looked at him then. His eyes glimmered in the dark, not pleading anymore, but claiming. Fire smouldered there, waiting to consume her.

“George…” Her voice cracked around his name, a single tear sliding down her cheek.

He smiled, thin and certain. “I love you.”

Her laugh was soft, broken—half disbelief, half surrender. And then their mouths found each other, ravenous, sealing it with a kiss beneath the new moon, as though heaven itself had turned away while I smiled. Satisfied.

How long before thy beasts within finally wake… and feast?