Samael fixed us rosehip tea and set to roasting the doe on the fire. I made myself busy making a vegetable stew, chopping some carrots, onions, and turnips he had in the corner kitchen. The kitchen knives were sharp and silver, with ash handles, gilt with gold.

"You asked me of my time at Invermoore..." I obliged.

Samael smiled, puffing on the coals with his hollow cheeks. The flame lit. "Yes, I did."

A distant look overtook my black pearl eyes. I sighed in remembrance of ghosts long gone, those restless dead: "I will tell you: it was hard, at first. Killing my own kin, no matter how wicked. And when I came back to Invermoore, every inch of the manor was stained in bone or blood. It took months to rebuild and hire new staff, and here I am, twenty-five and ancient, marriage-less and heirless. Perhaps it is best for the MacKay line to die. The monsters grow bolder by the day, and the fey grow feisty. As science marches on, it is only in places like Sedgewood that it seems the folk can still entertain the ideas of angels or vampires."

Samael smiled – at least, I thought he did. He took his phalanges and turned the doe on the spit. The smoke was cedar – it would give the doe a beautiful taste.

"I have missed you."

"We had one conversation, Samael – on my deathbed..."

"And still, in the span of my hourglass, with time frozen, I held you to my bosom for many lifetimes."

"When you say it like that, it almost sounds romantic!" I laughed.

He did not laugh. Far from it. He paused, letting a ghost of a breeze he summoned turn the spit. He cradled his cheek in his bone hands, and his look at me was almost wistful. "Abigail, I held your soul in my hands. I rarely ever handle souls before death – it takes quite a remarkable spirit to make me want to grant one the blessing of immortality. You could say I have a vested interest in your prosperity."

"Oh, my apologies," I said, blushing ruby.

"Your soul talks. Of her dreams. Of her desires. Her fears. I can whisper to her. She is my constant companion, a junior Reaper, if you will."

I flinched. "Is it like an angel of death, to covet souls?"

"Think of yourself as a diamond, Abby. Rare. Precious. Hard to break. I find kinship in you. It is a lonely office, but I thank Adonai for my work nonetheless. Look:" Samael came to his secretariat – it had a Chinese knotwork of dragons and was made of rosewood and gold veneer - and opened a great leatherbound tome. It was written in Hebrew, by the looks of it – "The Sefer HaChaim: I record the deeds and lives and deaths of all souls I reap. I love to learn, what makes people tick. But a darkness is coming to Sedgewood, Abigail. And I fear you will need my alliance."

"What kind of darkness?" I asked, curious. "The beasts are growing spiteful, hungry."

"The magicians. They have turned their eyes to demons in London. They are working black spells, summoning djinn, the Goetia, even Lucifer himself, in return for maiden's slit throats. I abhor an unfair death." He shook his head, then made the sign of the Magen David in the air. It burned with holy fire. "There is a great beast that sleeps under the Sedgewood, Abigail MacKay: the Wyrm of Balor. From its generative flesh hails a hellmouth, a portal to Gehenna, and all sorts of frightful things shall spring forth, from the time great giants walked the earth, and the Fomorians left England for Eire under evil one-eyed Balor. The old gods... they are waking. I need you to be my ears and eyes, dear Abigail."

I shuddered: "The Wyrm of Balor? But how am I going to do that?" I narrowed my eyes. "As Lady of Invermoore, I must know more about this threat, dear Sam."

Samael ate a hind quarter as I ate a flank. The cutlery was served to us by invisible servants. "I am in want of a wife, Abigail."

I balked. "Huh?"

The Reaper laughed low, then suddenly became human – blue black hair, pale flesh, gray eyes like stars. His hook nose, as if it had been broken by his twin Michael, was endearing, and his hair cascaded down his back in ripples.

"In truth, Abigail, I am lonely. And you are the only fitting bride. Half of life, half of death. Just like me."

"That is not romantic! Even if – even if you have this human form."

I blushed, looking away. His biceps and pectorals strained against his black robe, and he smelled of roses and loam. "Samael, you do not want me. I am a lush. A spinster. I can only quiet the demons in my head by obsessively reading Othello and drowning myself in sherry. And my hunger – it never stops."

He took my hand in his: "Let me quiet that hunger inside you, dear Abigail. I can hunt alongside you, Lady of Invermoore – out of all creatures, large and small, I can stand by your side..." he offered. "I give you my scythe if you want it. The balance between Sheol, Twyleth Teg, and Earth is askew as the magicians work dark magick, summoning terrors and the restless dead. It is only a matter of time before Balor and the Formorians return, before Maeve comes to Queen Lleuwinda to claim the Dun Cow, and before all Gehenna breaks loose with restless dead. The corruption grows by the day in London. I reap more dead by the week. The devotees of Moloch's mantle go up, up, up in high society, to the belles of the balls and the Parliament, up to the king and queen. I need strong allies, who I am selectively cultivating."

I balked. "I need to think about this, Sam."

He nodded, his languid eyes burning with blue fire. "I understand that this is sudden, dear Abby. But I consider you my dearest friend. The only soul who has walked my road. I do not spend several lifetimes entertaining and talking to just anyone. Back from the dead, indeed."

I sighed, knitting my hands together and burying my face in them. "This is a lot to process, dear Sam. I suppose I could do worse for a husband – Death and the dhamphir, after all. But when I... am near men, the burn-hunger in me worsens. I get half-sick of shadows, like the Lady of Shalott, and even opium in my tea cannot stop my bloodlust. I fear we cannot be intimate. But you must test yourself as a hunter on the kelpie in Pottsmouth before I agree. We must see if we work well together."

He smiled solidly, as if he was a marble statue. His pale skin and cut-glass eyes, blue as the waters Leith in Edinburgh, peered at me in curiousity. "That is a small test, to have a worthy partner. I wonder..." He took his knife and cut his throat. Black blood seeped out, flowing in rivulets onto his exposed chest, the pectorals prominent and strong. He took his reaping robe, knit of shadows, and undid the severe collar. "We could at least see... if you like the taste of me, dear dhamphir."

"Samael, please, leave – I cannot hold back like this!" I frightened, digging my nails into the oak table as the alluring scent of his deathly blood, like licorice and chocolate, assailed my senses. I covered my nose as the membranes started to hemorrhage at such a forbidden delight.

I would be sorely ill if I did not feed!

He laughed to high hell. "Then drink full well."

The impulsive Reaper – damn it, he was as rash as any man at the sight of a pretty lass! - came over to me, floating across the floor in his severe black robe like a ghost, though his boots skimmed the ground, and lifted me to his arms. "Think of it as a trial marriage, dearest Abigail MacKay."

I balked. "Oh heavens, this is so unladylike of me," I said, but I pressed my lips to the black flow. It tasted of whiskey and chocolate torte with cherries atop the frosting. Just as mama used to make on my birthdays. I licked the flow, and Samael moaned, bracing his muscles as I sank my fangs into his throat. The burn-hunger and my predatory instinct toppled any common sense I had, and fire lit in my belly as I drank down his zuhama, which had once been offered to Eve in a Garden long ago.

"Why do I... feel so tired, so heavenly?" I asked, feeling great fondness for the man who offered his very lifeblood to me. No man, or creature – save Lleuwa – had ever trusted me this much. We had the instinct of killers, after all – a part of me even wanted to throttle his throat.

"You are the first man I have ever fed off. I always resisted, not wanting to be a wicked MacKay," I sighed.

Samael carried me to the guest room, a plain, beautiful woodworked bedroom he had carved with creatures from Jewish mythology, like mud mice and the shamir of Asmodai and Solomon. Milham, the great Hol Bird of Luz, crested the bedpost.

"My blood, like my Kiss of Life, has restorative properties. It lets one heal from any injury... and my dear, you have an injured heart. Please, sleep off your worries, and I will take you home in my carriage."

He tucked the blankets over my breast – they were seafoam blue and smelled of lavender and old books – and kissed my brow as I fell into a beautiful dream. Rain drizzled outside and a dire wolf cried in the distance.

I dreamed I was standing at the altar with the Reaper, his bones painted gold as sunlight shattered his black robe to reveal a brilliant, fiery heart. My wedding dress was ruby red, and underneath us, the church floor burned with restless souls, demons cavorting in the rafters.

A strange dream. A strange man.

But then, a dove pierced the chaos, and lifted us up to Heaven on its silver back.

I saw stars in Samael's eye sockets. They seemed to hold the sun and the moon.

We kissed, and he turned human. I ran a hand through his barn owl wings and black hair in the dream – they felt like warm snow.

I awoke in absolute peace, finding myself in the back of a black carriage, nestled in the same blue blanket. I wiped fog from the windowpane with the pad of my thumb and found Samael driving the cart, Marino and his roan attached to the carriage reins as he served as my footman. The Reaper was human, his wings hidden to disguise himself. He wore a black and navy suit and waistcoat, a large silver hourglass with rubies at his breast pocket.

It seemed Samael and I had a deal indeed.

What would come of it, only the gloaming knew.