> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.ann-cudworth-writes.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Demon Seeks Witch (part 1 of 6) - URL: https://www.ann-cudworth-writes.com/demon-seeks-witch-part-1/ - Published: 2026-08-11T13:54:49.000Z - Updated: 2026-08-25T11:20:23.000Z - Author: Ann Cudworth Labor Day Weekend 1992 Friday I am a demon/familiar without a witch to bind. It’s a problem. I’ve been hunting for a new witch in Ruxton Beach, New Hampshire, for three hundred years. Humans were once my meat puppets; now my powers are fading. The best I can do is read the surface of their minds and possess lower animals. Tonight, I’m inside a seagull, perched above the greasy decks of the Crusty Clipper restaurant, watching an impressive display of human gluttony. Kludges of deep-fried whole belly clams dropped into gaping mouths below me. Gulping throats sucked down pitchers of a noxious cocktail called the Rip Tide. They brought out a six-foot lobster roll for one guy. He'll be at the all-you-cannot-eat buffet we serve in Hell when his arteries close. *Fries…fries…delicious fried fries…* Hungerburbled up from the gull’s mind, so I let it swoop down to an unprotected plate. We were up and away with our prize before the human even twitched. Fry in mouth, we skimmed the rooftops of the main drag, Atlantic Avenue, and landed on the Conch, an outdoor concert stage. The Mystic Ponies had finished their set for the evening, and it was mercifully quiet. A meager audience trickled to parked cars and boardwalk bars. One of the local vampires, a two hundred-year-old college boy named Brandon, closed in on his evening meal. She’d wake up on the beach tomorrow, slightly anemic. The gull vocalized my surge of jealousy. Vampires had it so easy. When would I find my witch and be complete again? My ride was still hungry, so we landed on the rim of a trash can. I sniffed for a witch, and the gull pecked at a pile of pizza bones. Then, the faintest whiff of magic. Could it be? I extended my senses, turning toward the sea, and there you were. My spirit resonated with longing, and we flapped our wings with excitement. You sat waist-deep in the water at the end of a jetty under the waxing moon, raven-haired with sea-glass-colored eyes. What did you watch in the water? There were nothing but briny shadows in the moaning tide. Lavender twists of magic shimmered on your fingertips, like the first flight of snow melting over the ocean. It was witch sign. I was sure—mostly. But I'd been fooled before. The Seventies were full of wiccans. I had to find out if you were real. I dispossessed the gull, dropping it on the sand with a feathery plop, and flew to you as my elemental self, a vaporous knot of twisting temptation. The bittersweet scent of your powers filled my senses as I approached. I prayed you could see me as I hovered in the air before your eyes, pulsing with a firefly’s rhythm. You slid your gaze, under black lashes, over the ocean to me and raised a dark eyebrow. Lilac tendrils reached from your heart, and I arched my vapor trail toward them, like a cat hoping for a caress. I drifted closer, gathered my feeble powers, and read your uppermost thoughts. You ran a local game arcade on the boardwalk. Mom was dead, and Dad had early-onset dementia. They’d named you Karly Jean, and they loved you, even though you were different. Our magics intertwined, and my powers strengthened. I hugged your scent, your magic, into my center and rolled into a happy ball of light. Great Luci’s tongue piercing; it was delicious. Dark fires, I had to bond with you and become your familiar. # An incoming ferry hooted at the dock. You sighed and looked at your watch. I was forgotten. My wisps sagged; our moment was over. But I couldn’t let you go. I followed you home, soaring on the wings of expectation. Your pink flip-flops slapped on the wooden treads as you climbed the stairs to your apartment over the arcade. I possessed a scuttle of field mice and commanded, “Gather daisies, lilies, and wild raspberries to me until you drop.” And when the mice lay exhausted in the alley behind the arcade, I summoned my murder of crows. “Take this bouquet to Karly’s window—that one up there.” I spun like a dust devil on top of the telephone pole across from that window, waiting for you to notice my gift and beckon me inside. Three hours passed, and you remained oblivious to my wooing despite a pile of dying flowers on the windowsill. You were cocooned, smoking weed, and watching Seinfeld reruns. I fell for you that extra bit more when you expertly cursed at the television. That was me; I put a hex on it. I’m a demon; that’s what we do. Ultimately, my efforts at floral enchantment failed. The midnight winds scattered my bouquet across the alley after you’d gone to bed. I tried to enter your dreams, desperate to absorb more of your power, but each time I neared your subconscious, a snapping wing slapped me from your mind. Strange. That had never happened before. I gave up at dawn, wondering why I couldn’t bond with you. The field mice sighed when your landlady swept up my dead flowers and threw them in the trash. --- Demon Seeks Witch (part 1) Demon Seeks Witch is a paranormal fantasy featuring hidden heritage, a love triangle, and a redemption arc. Set in Ruxton Beach, N.H. it follows Huxley Bleakbeam Hollowstew, a demon-familiar, as he seeks to woo Karly into becoming his witch, while her guardian angel father and a golden voiced rival work to make sure he never gets the chance. Ann Cudworth (also writing as A. C. Worth) is the author of short fiction in Metaphorosis Magazine, Exterus, and Sci-Fi Lampoon, and the anthologies Score—An SFF Anthology, Radicle, and Sages of Metaphorosis. She writes science fiction and urban fantasy, shaped by workshops at Odyssey Writing Workshop and the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, as well as Futurescapes and the Juniper Writing Institute. Copyright 2026 Ann Cudworth. All rights reserved. Read more at [https://www.acworthwriter.com/](https://www.acworthwriter.com/?ref=ann-cudworth-writes.com) My stories are written by hand and edited with ProWritingAid.