The Demons of King Solomon

  “There has always been a glass between us, even when one enters the other. A sort of privacy screen, always.” She forces herself to open her eyes, to regard him directly, even though she’s afraid. “Even when I’ve felt your touch, there has always remained a distance of unknowing.”

  He appears lost in consideration, not ready to meet her gaze. “What you ask comes at great cost.”

  “I know.”

  “All lives have an end. Altered by knowledge, one gives way to the next.”

  Dalia nods. “None of us can have more than three.” She wonders if she should have asked about their second meeting, instead of this.

  “You told me so.”

  He looks at her, and kisses her fingers as if preparing to say goodbye. “You would know what this is, then?”

  Her throat tightens. “Tell me,” she demands.

  Belial leans in and grants to her the scent of northern fir trees, the pungent waft of aging cocoa, smoke of drying cloves, and winds blowing in from equatorial seas across a beach of black sand. Memories flood in, from the world’s every corner. Unwinding his last secret, he whispers to Dalia her one desire. Belial’s only lie has been to hint at separation between them. The truth is that Dalia is herself Belial, and has always been since that encounter, hiding on the stairs.

  She watches his face change, his rigid posture slipping, straightness becoming asymmetric curves. Narrow eyes of icy blue widen and brown. Alabaster skin flushes pink. Belial is no less appealing, may even be more beautiful. Dalia of Belial cannot speak, overwhelmed by revelation.

  Hot pain burns her gut. She flinches, looks down, and sees her own black-stained hands grasping the pewter handle, pressing the knife into her flesh.