Demon Seeks Witch (part 2 of 6)
Saturday
Mid-morning, I possessed a cat who had caught, tortured, and eaten one of my mice. We sat on the sidewalk licking our paws, and I puzzled over my bonding conundrum when, to my eternal annoyance, the damned Seraphim Yofiel manifested before me.
Yofiel, First Guardian of the Third Gate, arrived in Ruxton Beach twenty-four years ago with the subtlety of a circus train. Their spherical body contained one great unblinking eye orbited by fiery halos and three sets of wings. Most annoying of all, six ancillary mouths at the base of their wings chanted “holy, holy, holy” in an off-key chorus. Yofi surveyed the mortal plane with a skeptical glare and patrolled the beaches of Ruxton as if they were a lifeguard. They filled the breeze with the stench of burning frankincense.
That morning, they clanged onto B Street, shoving me out of the cat, who threw up a half-digested mouse. Hungover tourists oozing along the sidewalks around us twitched like frogs on a skillet as Seraphim Clapper-brain Fluffy-pants blasted a thunderous fanfare and began my inquisition.
“Huxley Bleakbeam Hollowstew, you plebeian transgressor of the diabolical, what are you doing?” Their blazing eye scoured the passing faces. They were always looking for a pearl among the flotsam.
“I might ask the same of you,” I said. This noisy bag-in-cense needn’t know my plans for Karly, my dear soon-to-be witch.
“Our heavenly duty remains a secret. There is more peril on this mortal plane than you are ware of,” they pronounced as their glare jerked downward, scrutinizing the shoreline.
What was this winged noisemaker talking about? I lived for danger; mischief was my constant companion. Oh, I forgot. Someone might die of boredom here.
How did a mighty seraph, one of those who stood closest to Biggie Holy, fall to Ruxton Beach? Yofi must have transgressed mightily to be sent this far down.
They continued their questioning.
“What’s your mischief today, demon?”
Lucifer Morningstar. The dream of bonding emboldened me enough to challenge this gasbag. “I’ve found a witch, so leave me alone, you winged jukebox.”
That did it.
Yofi turned, and a blazing light blasted from their eye, toasting my wisps. Their halos spun with a high-pitched whine and heated the air.
What had I said?
“Stay away from Karly, malefactor.” His voice boomed the command, and the people passing us glanced at the sky.
How did this bombast know your name? I dug in. Demons have rights too.
“Not if she wants to be my witch, Basso Un-profundo. I know the rules about bonding with humans, and I’m not using spells.”
“Filth, once she smells where you come from, she shall never desire you.”
I smirked; Yofi was all thunder and no rain.
“Beezel’s bub, you are so boring.”
Their eye bulged with fury. I changed tactics and misdirected their anger with temptation.
“How about a trip to the nude beach, Yofi? I know you want it.”
It was a low blow, but it worked. Their mouths clamped shut as their wings beat in a humming blur. Their halos blazed with righteous light. My wisps streamed behind me, snapping in Yofi’s wing wash.
“Take heed, fetid effluvium,” Yofiel said as they rocketed into the sky.
“Eat my tufts,” I replied.
But I was late with my taunt; Yofi didn’t hear my words. Evacuating the incense from my core, I recatted and padded down B Street to Atlantic Avenue. There was the Play-a-Rama, just opening for the day. Hell’s bells and tinkertoys, you were going to be my witch. Yofi be damned.
#
Back in elemental form, I hovered among the ceiling beams over the games. Pinball machines lined both walls from front to back. They were a devil-blessed entertainment designed to suck quarters out of adolescent pockets. More expensive diversions filled the middle spaces—games like The Claw and Duck Hunt, games you might win a stuffed animal playing. At the back, to the left of the change counter and t-shirt stand, five Skee-ball pits leaned against the ball-pocked walls. Abandoned in the corners were vintage games, displayed more for ambiance than actual entertainment. I landed on one to watch a creaky Zoltar judder his puppet hands over a crystal ball. And when his cabinet spit out a preprinted fortune, I understood how to communicate with you.
All I needed was a scribe, willing or not.
My scribe arrived with the unfortunate name of Dennis Muntz. With anxious glances toward the older boys, he sidled up to the Frogger game with jingling pockets. I slithered into his head. Possessing the pudgy fourteen-year-old wasn’t much of a challenge. I’ve gotten more resistance from Labrador retrievers.
“Write these words on a piece of paper. Give it to Karly, and I’ll ensure you win all day,” I said from the cesspit of his mind.
“Who are you, weird thing in my head?” asked Dennis, his mental voice even reedier than his actual one.
I slapped Denni’s amygdala to let him know I was serious and explained.
“I’m Hux, an actual demon and your worst nightmare.”
His resistance was immediate. “Not doing nothing for you.” Eyes slit with calculation; he checked his reflection on the nearest chrome surface.
I sighed, letting my wisps droop over my core.
“I’m not giving you horns.”
“Why not?”
Unbonded for so many centuries, I barely had the wattage to possess this half-sized human, so I cheated. Dah, dah, dah, dah, do bee do be do. The super-smooth tones of elevator Musak filled his brainbox. “I’ve got all the hits from the fifties, Dennis. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.”
He endured another minute, but his neck was sweating. “Ok, I’ll do your bidding, but I will win Frogger all week,” he demanded.
“As agreed. Now, get on with it. Denny, my pup. You’ll be a fierce union negotiator someday.
After ten minutes of painful cursive lettering, Dennis recited the words he’d written on a mustard-spotted napkin.
Magic, can you feel it?
Karly, your familiar is near.
Say “Hux” thrice to bind your spirit.
And soon, I will appear.
Then he added, “Suckiest poem ever.”
He wasn’t wrong; translating Demonic to English undercut the prose and doused its fire. But I stuck to my plan. “Shut it unless you want your lips sealed permanently. Give it to her, and I’ll release you.”
“And I’ll be a champion at Frogger? All week?”
“That’s the deal.” Negotiating with mortals was tiresome, but here was one more human who’d bargain with the dark side. I glowed brighter with that small win.
Dennis shuffled to the counter and stood, waiting for your attention. You accepted the crumpled napkin from Dennis and dropped it on a tray beside the cash register, half listening to a family from Boston complain about the pahking in Ruxton Beach.
I waited for you to read it.
Yofiel’s laugh brayed across the boardwalk. Manifested as a buff lifeguard, he paddled a surfboard against the waves to rescue a mother and daughter from the sneaky rip tide current. But Yofi was too late to save the day. The exhausted swimmers were already past the breakers, leaving the arms of a dark-haired man who swam like a dolphin. They rose to their feet, staggering from exhaustion. Yofi finally arrived, helping them back to their towels, scanning the empty waves for their rescuer. They didn’t like being upstaged, especially during a rescue. A sharp sea breeze kicked up, rattling the shop doors along the street. And as I watched from the doorway of the Play-A-Rama, the poem you never read blew off the counter and into the ocean.
My hopes sank with it.
Demon Seeks Witch (part 2)
Previously in Demon Seeks Witch: Having failed to win Karly's heart right away, Hux meets Yofiel and discovers there is more to Karly than he thinks. Hux vows to redouble his efforts.
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 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/
My stories are written by hand and edited with ProWritingAid.
