Less than four years ago.

~Lucy

Trony was mostly done with commanding the host of builders and craftspeople, and the house was all new and shiny. I sat in front of the new TV in the front of the house, right next to the kitchen and close to the door. The latest in today’s set of romance movies had just started.

So far, there was a city person who had inherited her cool aunt’s house, and everything was pointing to the cool aunt having been a badass witch, broom and all. The city person had just found herself with a burst pipe in the bathroom—while taking a shower no less—but her neighbor, the all-around handyman and possibly a werewolf, was coming to the rescue, and he was bringing his wrench.

The witch heir, when she knocked on his door, had been wearing nothing but a towel.

I sighed and looked in the direction of our front door. Nelly hadn’t come back to ask me if I would please, please sleep with him. His pizza money was in my pocket, and his golden eyes were so much nicer than the actress’s.

I grabbed one of the new couch cushions and hugged that to my chest, then let my head loll back on the couch.

Voices and footsteps approached me from the gallery.

“I want class, but I also want sex,” Trony said. “A beautiful devil feeding an innocent twink pomegranate seeds for example. And you can be explicit. Cock, tits, all the good bits.”

“That’ll take me a while. You want big canvases.”

Trony stopped behind my couch, the painter at her heel, sketchbook in hand. His eyes brightened when he saw me.

“Big is good.” Trony focused on me. Her look was scathing. “Lucy, you smell.”

“Huh? No, I showered. I remember showering.”

“Excuse me, but can I sketch him?” the painter asked.

Trony clicked her tongue. “No, you cannot. He’s pathetic, and he smells like angel butt, and that’s coming from me, the only angel in the building. He doesn’t deserve being in a painting.” She crossed her arms. “You’ve watched dozens of these fucking romcoms, and they all go the same way. They get together, they break apart, they get together again, and then if it’s a good one, they get naked together. That new TV? It’ll be ruined like your sex chair if you keep this up, and you know what I did to your sex throne.”

I’d thought her glee about that chair would fade soon, but she was hanging on to it with the bite strength of a medium sized alligator. Yes, every now and then I had enjoyed sitting there during a celebration, but that didn’t make it a “sex throne.” I’d just had sex on there maybe a couple of times, give or take.

“No, what did you do to the sex throne?” asked the painter. I saw him sketching, but I wasn’t interested, looked away.

Why hadn’t he come back here, why wasn’t he begging to feel my cock inside of him yet?

I rubbed my face with my hands. “Maybe it’s amnesia after all, and he forgot where I live.”

Trony rolled her eyes. I could almost hear her annoyance. If her annoyance were a raccoon, it would have invaded my trash can, would have nested there and feasted every night while I lay dreaming of the pretty necromancer knocking on my door and asking—begging.

“He doesn’t want you because, and write this down, you smell of angel ass.”

“But, Trony—”

“Everything in this house is pristine. I cleaned every nook and cranny after the builders. You could eat off my floors. And yet, you stink.”

I ignored the witch heir staring at the handyman’s butt as he fixed her pipes and leaned back.

“Painter? Painterling. Tell it true, do I really reek?”

The artsy person cleared his throat and clutched his sketchbook to his chest.

“Everyone has their limits and is used to different things. For example, my college roommate once got drunk, threw up, and then slept on the bathroom floor. He stank, you know.”

“Like angel butt,” Trony said.

“But Trony, I’m waiting.”

She looked confused, but then her lips pressed tight, and her eyes shimmered with furious sparks.

“Are you telling me you’ve parked your ass down here because you are waiting for that human to come calling? The one who ran away from you?”

“He didn’t run away from me, he just wanted to pay me back. When he had done that, he left, but he didn’t run.”

“Payback’s a bitch,” the painter whispered.

I craned my neck further back. “Why are you taking sides? A moment ago you wanted to paint me. I would have offered you to pose in the nude, but not with that attitude.”

Trony faced the artist. “I have been dealing with this for a very long time, and there are few joys I get to savor while handling this one. You better make those paintings large as a leviathan’s butt hole and naughty as a nun’s thoughts because admiring them will be one of the few joys in my life.”

He wrote that down. “You also said you want them classy?”

“Of course I want them classy. If I want the place to look like the middle of a porn shoot, I just call a few people over. Come to think of it, Lucy; how would you feel about an orgy? A few nice humans who won’t ghost you.”

Her words were like stepping on a thorn, and I jumped right up. Trony took a step back and wrinkled her nose.

“He didn’t. He’s just not been back yet, but he’ll come. And then I’ll make him cum. I may draw it out, but I always deliver. I’m the Devil after all.”

The artist was still taking notes. This was either reason for celebration or concern.

Trony started doing some kind of yoga breathing technique before putting on a sugary smile.

“Lucy. Have you ever considered that you’re thinking about this all wrong?”

“No.”

“Yeah, that was rhetorical. My point is, perhaps instead of smelling up my couch, you should be the proactive element. Read a few more of your smutty books—fuck, watch even more of those yucky cishet movies even. Figure out how to romance someone who, by nature, likes what most other human magic users loathe: dead shit.”

My eyes flew open. Trony had a point, and I felt idiotic for not seeing it. Nelly was a necromancer with possible amnesia. Definitely a necromancer though, and they liked power. Centuries ago, it was standard practice for them to keep a small horde of zombies around to do their bidding.

Buying a necromancer who liked power some pizza and thereby technically indebting him—yes, that would have irked.

“Trony, I think you have a point. Romance. Yeah, I can romance a necromancer.”

The painter whistled. I ignored him.

Trony nodded. Her smiled never reached her eyes. “I can tell you the first step toward reaching that goal. Shower and soap, so much soap.” She wrinkled her nose again. “I did get you a new conditioner. Maybe that’ll help.”

“Trony! You do care.”

“I care that you smell. Now go. I’m not done with the artist yet.”

He looked up. “We’re not?”

Trony struck quite the impressive figure when she wore skintight fake leather and silk like today. The artist, poor thing, only seemed to realize now.

“You asked for inspiration. I’ll give you that. If you’ll please follow me.”

She walked away. The artist didn’t hesitate, but stopped before he vanished out of sight to whatever inhuman delight she had planned out for him.

“Good luck with winning your necromancer.”

If a human felt the need to wish me luck, then… I ran a hand through my hair, and yes, maybe it was a little greasy. But still, I didn’t need luck. I was the Devil. And I had already followed Nelly around a tiny little bit. How hard could this be?

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