Chapter 8: Rage Against the Dying of the Light

You – you have oolong tea, fo- for me?" Annis asked over a meal the next morning. Cook Panetta had made venison stew for our midafternoon breakfast, with stag from the Court of the Dun Cow's woods and tender chunks of potato and carrot from Annis' gardens.

Annis treasured tea above all things. Often, it had been the only solace in her life, besides our friendship and her predilection for pining over Peter Stonecroft. She had books in seven languages about the art of Japanese tea ceremonies, the philosophy and esoteric medicine of the drink in China, Ayurvedic applications of the brined leaf, and of course, the fine art of England's favorite concoction. Tried as we might, no tea bushes grew in our greenhouse – and she had yet to try the sacred oolong of lairds and kings.

"Ah, yes, you must see my garden sometime this weekend, dear Annie. Abigail and I are to set out for my manor at Wolf's Glen for the weekend – there is no reason you cannot spend a night. I have two guest rooms, after all," Samael said amicably, delicately taking out the loose-leaf oolong tea stored in a glass Mason jar that was sealed with wax and twine from his black robe. "I cannot believe it has already been a week since I have descended my wandering soul upon Invermoore, exhausting all your resources and attention. I fear I have been a dreadful guest."

Annis blushed, her pale, pinched face cherry red. It made her look so beautiful, her freckles alight with fire. "But – but my Laird Black, every day, you set to reaping the wheat sh- sheafs with your blade, pruning the cherry and apple trees, and bundling lilac bushels for the market."

"Indeed," I agreed, pleased as pudding that Samael was getting on my best friend's side. "You are not an idle man, Samael."

I tended to the estate by day – ledgers, taxes, supplies for villagers, hosting visitors – and by night we spent quiet evenings in the study, getting to know one another, or went for a beer or some cold cider at Rosy's pub. I had learned that Samael's favorite color was red, his least favorite color lilac, and that he looked best in blue. He had a fondness for Japanese cooking, having spent a whole decade there in the Edo period, and also enjoyed commedia del arte, in which he sympathized with Arlecchino. When I replied that I had a Colombina mask – one of the precious few remnants of my father's travels that Puther and Redelia had not burnt – he said we would have to go to Venice for Carneval next season.

I liked Samael's cut gem eyes. I liked how he danced a Viennese waltz – slowly teaching me the steps. How his lips tasted in the rain – like rice wine – and how his bones glittered in twilit gloam. There was not an ounce of cruelty in him – instead, a wisdom and quietness that befit his immortal age soothed his every step.

"Shall I go steep the – the oolong tea? I know just how to – to prepare it. One could stay I had been studying m- my whole life for this!" Annis glowed, darting away into the kitchen. Soon, the smell of the best tea riches and taste could procure flooded our senses as the tea kettle boiled.

I set my eyes on Samael – he in his human form, jet black hair back in a braid, and winked. "You have tamed my fierce Black Annis."

"I fear she has tamed me, my bride," he winked back, his ridged brow and stern cheekbones settling like twilight across his severe black collar. He was in his reaping robe – they seemed to be most comforting to him – and every night, he descended upon Sheol, to tend to the souls his lesser punishing angels had collected during the day. Samael always emerged chipper in the morning from his quarters, smelling of tears and roses.

"Say, why do you smell so lovely in the dawn?" I asked, teasing him. "Are you freshening up for your picky soon-to-be wife?"

He grinned, his sharp, ivory teeth and pale olive skin alight with amusement. "That mixture is from pressing offering oil with Michael to anoint the dearly departed before their presentation in Adonai's court room. Every prayer of the heart – true prayers, the steel prayers of forlorn souls – blooms in Gan Eden, at its very apex, in a precious rose garden. Father answers them all in his own ways. Michael and I dress and counsel the souls, rub the anointing oil of Father's benediction onto their baby-fresh brows, then I present all the soul's sins to Adonai, and Michael defends their righteous deeds. Afterwards, they pass on... into wherever one goes. I am never too sure. Of course, there are reincarnates, or those bound for my Father's lands in Gan Eden... I only reap Abrahamic souls. Whether destined for Naraka or Hades, I could not tell you the rest that are outside of Father's dominion. My other psychopomp friends guard their trade secrets close to their breasts."

I smiled, squeezing his hand. "I could listen to your stories for eternity, like Parvati learning graces from Shiva's lap for all time."

He blushed. "You are a flatterer – and a cutthroat, at that, my Abby. I am not used to a women's affections. I need little but my farm and my fields; my books and my hunt."

"And your seventh bullet in Der Freischutz," I teased, referencing the famed German opera from which Samael – Zamiel of the Wolf Glen I was now Lady of - got his nickname, 'The Black Huntsman.'

Samael took my forearms from across the table – medieval in design, with gaping Green Men on the legs – and stroked the lily-white skin with his knuckles. "I do drive a hard bargain with aberrant men. But for you, Abby – anything, no cursed bullet required. Say, we should go to Germany this fall –"

There was a scream from the kitchen. I dropped my spoon.

"Abby, help!" Annis cried.

We rushed into the kitchen, Samael's feet floating across the floor in rapid, gaseous black storms. I came to see Long Lankin, with his long knives of claws, crawling through the window, his red eyes boiling. Lankin looked to all the world like a Spring Heeled Jack in his tatter coats and rolling pupils.

"Ho, Lankin, get off my property!" I shouted, taking my pistol from my belt and firing at him – a Colt Revolver. I fired a warning shot straight past his head – we had a tenuous peace, here in Scotland, with the Master of the Gorse – but this was too close for comfort. "You do not belong here, good sir!"

He descended upon Annis, who used her claws to stab him. Samael summoned his scythe and quickly scooped Long Lankin up to hang by his waistcoats from the pole end of the staff. Lankin tore at the air like a hungry wolf.

"The Blood of the Beast!" Long Lankin crowed. He pointed a spindly butcher finger at me. I pressed the gun to his head.

"What is this nonsense, you stupid drunken louse?" I demanded, binding his hands with my supernatural strength. Too much whiskey – the monster stank of it.

"Hic – the Hellfire Club has placed a mark on your pretty little head, wee lass. They say thou hath taken up with the Dragon Laird. Say thou art to bear the Blood of the Beast!"

I paled, then blushed, then fury rose in me.

"What nonsense, Lankin. That is Christian talk. I am a man of Yis'rael, not some stinking Protestant rumors. Dragon, indeed," Samael said sternly, his voice like gravel and ice. It elicited shivers in me.

Samael set Lankin down, me still binding his hands, my gun pressed to his temple. Samael reprimanded him: "Go report back to the underbelly of London that no son of mine is for sale."

I blushed. We were far from the chapel... far from consummation of any sort! We were taking our time, kissing, holding hands. "No child of mine would be an Antichrist, foolish Lankin. I am a noble, of MacKay blood. You know full well the Antichrist is just a rumor humans spread about Samael to tarnish his name."

"Satan!" Lankin crowed.

Annis took the tea kettle and promptly dumped it over Lankin's brow. Red welts formed on his greasy skin.

The room fell dead silent, a subtle thread of cold like a knife piercing all our hearts. Samael quickly shifted to his Reaper form, his bones like hoarfrost.

"Lankin, disrespect my name again, and the blade of Gehenna thou shalt meet," Samael said in a voice that had no language, a great wind billowing out from his robe. It swept the remnants of tea water and Long Lankin out the window, at which the monster of egresses disappeared into the gorse. "My apologies, dear ladies," Samael said, slipping white gloves onto his hands as if to restrain himself from pummeling the trespasser. His brow twitched: "It seems Lankin spoiled the oolong tea. I shall brew it anew."

Annis and I gathered ourselves into the tearoom, frightened by Samael's great show of power, and Long Lankin's threats.

It was a great offense, using that name for Samael. And a plague upon the house who uttered it. Annis and I quickly gathered salt and spread it through all corners, entrances, and exits of Invermoore.

"To think, insulting the future heir of Invermoore, and Laird of Wolf's Glen, like that." Annis crossed herself. "God fear the Black Huntsman."

My lip was dour, my look foreboding. I could see my dark pincushion eyes and gaunt cheeks in the shine of my Colt Revolver as I polished it. "How dare he. Still, we know Lankin is a drunkard. But we must be wise to threats, Annis. We have many allies, but moreover, more enemies now that I am to wed the Angel of Death and have killed the MacKays." I smirked, angry. "The Hellfire Club has not existed for forty years in London."

"Lankin was mad drunk, out of his mind, away with the fairies, Boys of Bedlam and Mad Maudlin."

It was my turn to cross myself: "Away with the fairies indeed, dear Annis. Mincing moon pies cut from children's thighs..." I sang the foreboding folk tune, mixing the lyrics up to my liking. "It seems many of us are with the fairies, these days..."

We took tea in near silence. But soon, the atmosphere loosened, and we went about our day, readying for our sojourn to Wolf's Glen, Samael's manor, that evening.

Still, niggling doubt tickled the back of my throat... Ha-Satan. The humans feared him, but to us monsters, he was the blade of Adonai, much as Michael was God's shield.

"A price on my fair head, indeed," I muttered, thinking long as rain fell over the heather. "And whatever fruit my womb might bring forth."

I would fight tooth and nail for my husband and land's survival. I gritted my teeth, digging my talons into my hands in anger: "No, Hellfire Club, I will expose you and your foul doings. No dhamphir worth her salt would go quietly into that good night!"