Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

grandfather for Eton. He remembered looking back to see his father in shirtsleeves and a stained waistcoat, standing at the garden gate, fists clenched, as their carriage steamed away. That was the last time Melizander had seen his father alive.
    Melizander fingered the slim tools; despite having been in his pocket, the metal implements were cold to his touch. He focused in the shifting illumination, studying the padlocks and clasps. These were no ordinary locks. Bronze and iron, inlayed with silver and gold, they had been specifically designed to be proof against daemons. Surely his goal lay just beyond this last obstacle. His tools arranged on the stone, Melizander set to opening the numerous locks.
    ****
    William, bound and gagged, hung suspended from a rack of chains in one of the club's many private rooms. Ashtariel rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, savoring the tension in his muscles. Though a daemon, he now possessed a corporeal body, subject to physical stress and strain— and arousal. His stood forth arrogantly as he took in the first bit of his evening's handiwork. William watched expectantly, patiently submissive, awaiting Ashe's attention.
    Ashe walked towards the wall and its rack of diverse implements. "What's your pleasure, my young friend?" He fingered a light suede flogger. "Shall we start softly or…" Ashe ran his hand across the equipment "…move directly to the evening's serious business?" His hand fell upon a vicious looking cat o' nine. William whimpered; the sound rife with need and desire.
    The daemon's heart began to race as he considered how to fulfill the young man. The infliction of pain satisfied a primal craving of Ashe's daemonic self, yet the gratification of the lordling's need held even greater contentment for Ashe himself. And therein lay his fundamental paradox: he cared for those who submitted to him, wanted to alleviate their latent suffering through pain and submission— a desire which was anathema to a true daemon for whom hurt and suffering alone were the goals. Pushing aside his philosophic challenge for the moment, Ashe selected the flail and turned back to William whose eyes grew wide with anticipation.
    Softly the daemon stroked the tails down the young man's back and along his buttocks. Pale gooseflesh rose to greet the leather knots. Their bits of bright metal caught and reflected the light of the numerous candles. Ashe drew back his arm and let fly with the whip. "Let us begin."
    ****
    Lightly manipulating the small bronze pick, Melizander felt more than heard the snick of the last lock. He blew out the breath he had been unconsciously holding. A thrill of anticipation filled the artificer's chest as he lifted the final hasp. He hauled on the iron-bound door; hinges groaned and creaked, filling the darkness with their protests. Slowly the entry widened; stale, dusty air wafted into Melizander's face. Musty and papery, the dry atmosphere made him sneeze again. His faulty lantern flickered in sympathetic response.
    Afraid of risking a flame near the books, he shook the lantern which flared to life again. The green glow preceded Melizander into the room. Bloody hell! More a closet than an actual room, the space was stuffed full from floor to ceiling. Shelves lined the walls, overflowing with scrolls, papyri and books of all shapes and sizes. The artificer caught his breath, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of materials. He had expected to find numerous works, yet nothing like this. It was as if the library of Alexandria had been stuffed in a broom cupboard!
    His time was growing short. Clearing a pile of crumbled papyrus, Melizander set the lantern on a shelf and began to search through the documents. Treatises on mathematics, astronomical maps, alchemical discourses, many of which Melizander would have given an eyetooth to read fully, were quickly tossed aside as he rooted through the masses of compiled erudition. A small pamphlet caught his eye. On thie Subjegaytion ov Daemonickal Enttities. Not what he sought, but it might be of use. Melizander placed it in his satchel and continued his exploration.
    Coated in dust and flecks of vellum, Melizander finally scanned through the last book. Nothing! Frustration welled in his gut. It had to be here! It had to be! He couldn't be wrong— for years he had searched— everything pointed to the Society having the codex. He had to be in the correct place. Otherwise, his father would have been right— and that was