“… ‘I love you’ … is the inscription on Pandora’s box.” — Mason Cooley

The first thing that surprised Taph about her buyer was how little he actually seemed to care about the box now that it was finally his.

In fact, when she put the canvas bag holding it on the table he leaned back, like he’d caught a whiff of something unpleasant—so far back that briefly he took himself out of the dim pool of light over their booth in the bar, leaving his face a shadow mask and his expression a mystery.

He was a young man, probably about Taph’s age, dark and curly haired and dressed in expensive clothes, but in a sloppy way that showed he wasn’t used to them. His name was John Weyer. It had taken him almost a week to talk Taph into coming to meet him here, and now that she finally had he looked as if he was in the last place he wanted to be in the whole world.

It was late, but the bar was mostly empty. It was neither ritzy enough to impress the moneyed crowd nor dumpy enough for those who enjoyed dives—a middle-strata kind of place that stayed in business by catering to crowds that couldn’t get in anywhere else. Weyer apparently owned it.

Taph often drank, but she never went to bars anymore. Still, she knew what things were worth, and she sized the place up almost immediately. Weyer, on the other hand, proved harder to place.

Most of the auction items she’d sent to their respective buyers via courier. Others, international mail. This was the only delivery Taph was making in person, and only because Weyer offered a lot of money on top of his bid if she agreed to bring the box to him herself. Enough money to override her better judgment, at least for an hour.

She assumed that if a man insisted on meeting her it was because he wanted to make a pass, and everything about the setup—the bar, Weyer’s clothes, and his apparent anxiety included—said she was right. But no, she quickly realized, he had something else on his mind, although just what she couldn’t say. Intrigued, she sipped her drink and let him do the talking.

The crescents of Weyer’s fingernails matched the shining ice cubes in his glass. He cleared his throat and said, “So that’s it?” His real voice sounded exactly like his phone voice, and older than he appeared to really be.

“That’s it,” Taph said, patting the sack. “Want to see it?”

“No,” said Weyer, sliding back in his seat again.

“You should really inspect the merchandise,” Taph said, pausing to take such a minuscule sip from her drink that its level barely changed at all. “How do you know I brought you the real thing?”

“I know,” was all Weyer said. And then, suddenly: “Do you know what it is?”

“The auction catalog included all of its specs,” Taph said.

“Yes,” said Weyer, not fooled, “I read them. But I’m asking you: Do you know what it is?”

Shrugging, Taph said, “Up until now, it’s been a problem. Now it’s your problem—or it will be as soon as we’re done here. And before we say anything else, you really do need to look at it.”

Before he could stop her, she took the box out of the bag. It was a little less than a foot to each side, made of aged brass, and the lid was sealed up all the way around with some old gunk that looked like wax but smelled faintly of other things–sulphur, and asafetida.

Scratched into the lid was an archaic design, a circle enclosing a sequence of lines—but it was impossible to make out in detail, so old was the material. There was no lock or latch, and as far as she could tell no way to open it.

That’s all it was: a box that wouldn’t open, no matter how hard Taph had tried. Whatever was inside it wasn’t particularly heavy–Taph even wondered if maybe it was empty. But obviously whoever had closed it had wanted to make sure it stayed that way.

It was basically trash—only its obvious age convinced her to bother looking for a buyer at all, imagining that maybe the craftsmanship was valuable on its own. Weyer’s top-dollar purchase had astonished her. Now she tapped the beaten brass lid with the tip of a fingernail for emphasis.

“Satisfied?” she said.

“It’s the real thing, if that’s what you’re asking me,” said Weyer.

“Mm. You want me to put it away?”

“Please.”

She put the box on the seat next to her, under the lip of the table. Once it was out of sight, Weyer appeared almost animated by its absence.

“It was your father’s?” he said after a moment.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t get along with your father.” Weyer said.

The hairs stood up on the back of Taph’s neck. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody, I just noticed the way you talk about his things. Most people are very sentimental about a late parent’s possessions.” He prodded an ice cube in his glass with the tip of one finger.

“Dad had particular ideas about my life. I did love him,” she added, hoping that it didn’t sound too defensive. “But we grew into very different people. Black and white opposites, actually.”

“And when he died he left you with a material burden. People spend their entire lives accumulating things and then they all just become a problem for someone else. What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m in networking. I help people meet the right people. But between you and me, what I’d really like is to start a family.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Gotta meet the right person first.”

Even though the box was out of sight, it still encroached on their conversation. Taph even imagined herself pausing in the middle of the conversation to see if it had anything to add, and had to labor to keep from laughing out loud at the idea.

Of all the things in her father’s collection, the box was the one she thought she’d have the hardest time selling. After he died, Taph had been amazed and dismayed to discover that she’d inherited everything from Dad, whole rooms full of antique nonsense that he’d compiled over decades upon decades: knives, swords, staffs, animal skins, weird clothes, headdresses, rings, incense, perfume, books and loose pages in languages nobody knew, sealed jars and little bottles full of who knows what, and even stranger things that defied easy descriptions.

Much of it she’d seen before, of course, as he built the collection over her entire life, first out of pieces from his antiques business and then, later, as a regular customer of younger dealers now running similar businesses of their own.

Taph had chided him about wasting his money—one of the many things they fought about in his later years. He always said he didn’t expect her to understand, and on that much at least they agreed, as she never had.

Not until the collection was hers did she realize just how big it really was—and how strange. So many things he’d never hinted at: bronze tripods, mummified hands, things preserved in jars and in wax, fossils and bones—weird shit.

After a while she’d begun resenting Dad’s Weird Shit Room and its presence in her life, much the same way she’d resented him. But at least the Weird Shit did prove useful in the end; when she’d put a few of the showier items up in a blind auction, all of them sold for tidy sums. The auction house asked her for more, and when she provided more it all sold too.

Eventually she cut out the middleman and began running auctions herself. She imagined her customers must be incredible suckers, but they were suckers with money. Dad had been dead a year now, and most of his stuff was gone. Taph hung onto a few items in the collection that appealed to her. Everything else sold.

The box was the last of it, and Weyer had been her only bidder. He struck her as maybe a young Silicon Valley type, only recently rich and not acquainted with either money or other people. He’d asked to meet at his bar not to show off that he owned it, she realized, but because it was a place he was already familiar with, a home field where he didn’t have to worry about any extra variables.

As if reading her mind, he talked about the bar a bit. “I have no business partners, and no debts on the place. It was bleeding cash when I first took it over, but these days it’s doing well.” He was talking about business not to brag because that also made him comfortable, a topic he could speak on with confidence to mask his anxiety.

“That’s great,” Taph said, not even bothering to hide her disinterest. “Now about the item—”

“This is about the item,” Weyer continued. “I’m saying this place is an asset, and it’s good value. If you wanted, I could give it to you—or someplace just like it. I’d sign the whole thing over, business and building, just say the word.”

Taph waited for the punchline. It didn’t come. Trying hard not to bat an eye she said, “Why would you do that? You’ve already paid me what you owe, for the item and for delivery. And I’m not interested in owning a bar.”

“What would interest you: stocks? Patents? More antiques? I know every dealer, if there’s something you’ve been looking for?”

“All I’m looking is for you to take your shit and go,” Taph said.

But she didn’t mean it—not entirely. John Weyer was freaking her out, but he was also making her curious. If this was a come-on it was the damn strangest one in history. If it wasn’t, then she couldn’t imagine what he was up to.

He scooted around the perimeter of the table, closer to her; she realized he was trying to get close enough to lower his voice without leaning over and getting closer to the sack and its contents. Intrigued, she leaned closer to accommodate him.

“I paid to buy the box, and now I’ve paid you to bring it here. So now that’s done.”

“Get on with it,” Taph said. She’d begun drinking faster in response to his dawdling, as if she could somehow speed up time this way.

“I’m proposing a third transaction: Now, tonight, I’ll pay you just as much as I did to buy the box, as long as you agree—”

He paused and picked his dry lips, and Taph could not shake the feeling he was doing it entirely for dramatic effect.

Finally he spit out: “To destroy it. As soon as possible. In exactly the way I tell you to, with no questions asked.”

Taph blinked again. Weyer stared at her with deadly earnestness, his light brown eyes giving away nothing.

“I’m sorry, I must not have heard you right over the music,” she said, swallowing the rest of her wine in one go. “Did you say—”

“Destroy the box. Say you’ll do it, and I’ll pay you tonight, in cash. Or do you want the bar after all? It’s yours—but only if we do this.”

“Destroy the box?” Taph repeated, as if trying the phrase out.

“I said no questions asked.”

“Well I’m sorry, but I DO have questions. You paid for this—”

“And now I’ll pay it again to be rid of it.”

“You don’t need me for something like that. Throw it off the bridge on your way home.”

“Then it would just be lost,” Weyer said. “Not destroyed.”

“So chuck it in the furnace. Run it over. Hell, you can get creative with this, make a fun weekend project or something. You don’t need me.” Grabbing her purse, Taph half rose out of the booth, suddenly eager to be out of whatever this was. Only the look in Weyer’s eyes—alarmed, vulnerable, pleading—stopped her.

“That wouldn’t work either,” he said. “I realize how this must sound, but there are very particular things that have to be done for this. If it’s not done just the right way…well, it NEEDS to be done the right way. Surely you can understand that at least?”

Very slowly, Taph sat again, though she kept her purse in hand and one foot outside the booth. “Okay. So it has to be done some special way. Why can’t you do it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“Miss…I’m sorry, I just realized I actually don’t know your full name?”

“That’s on purpose. You really don’t want to tell me what this is all about, do you?” Her mind racing, Taph made every kind of calculation she could on the spot. “And you swear you’re good for the money?”

“Every penny, you know I am.”

“I guess I do. Okay. You’ve got a deal.”

He began to smile, the first time she’d seen him look anything but worried. She quashed it immediately.

“IF…you answer one more question,” she said.

And this time it was her turn to lean in, so close that they were almost huddled together in the corner booth, under the dim yellow sodium lights of the bar.

“Tell me what’s in it,” she said.

The color left Weyer’s face. Taph had never actually seen that happen to anyone before, and she found it more unnerving than she’d have thought.

“Absolutely not,” he said, sounding stalwart all of a sudden. “Out of the question.”

“Okay. But no answers, no deal.”

She watched him scramble in his mind. Finding no reply, he could only put up one hand, as if that alone would stop her. When Taph stood this time, she knew she really was leaving.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t work out another exchange. In the meantime, Mr. Weyer, the box is all yours…except you don’t want it, do you?”

Weyer looked defeated, almost sullen, like a child. Not making eye contact, he shook his head.

“I’ll take it with me then,” said Taph, picking it up off the table. It felt heavier now somehow. “For safekeeping. It’s yours the moment you tell me you want it—or if you ever want to tell me the truth about it, I’ll get rid of it however you please. Those are the terms. Think it over and get back to me.”

“You don’t really want to know,” Weyer said. “If I told you, you’d do anything to not know anymore.”

“I guess we’ll never find out now,” said Taph. And, tucking the box under her arm, she left before he could reply.

Outside, the night air chilled the sweat on her skin, and she only then realized how heavily she’d perspired. The meeting had lasted less than 30 minutes, but it felt like she’d been in that little middle-of-the-road bar all night.

She called a car, and when it came she sat in the backseat. The box was in her lap. She stared at it the entire ride home. Just junk, she thought, a waste of time. But apparently not so to everyone.

For the millionth time since she got it, she pressed her fingers up on the lid, trying to pry the box open. As usual, it was no good. But she didn’t stop trying the entire trip home.

***

He held out longer than she would have expected; almost three weeks. When Weyer finally broke down and called her again, it wasn’t to a bar this time but a hotel.

Not up to his room; she wouldn’t have been caught dead. Instead they met on an elaborate rooftop patio atop the 33rd floor, accessible by a glass elevator that gave soaring views of downtown. It was pretty impressive, she admitted—but Weyer didn’t want to impress her, or else they’d have met here the first time.

The hotel was a real five-star affair. Most of the places around here were classical buildings that marketed their history and atmosphere, but this one was young, new, and brash, the architecture almost brutalist in its disregard for convention.

The roof patio was a solid slab of showy luxury, with black marble flooring and gurgling fountains and a full bar with hundreds of bottles lit from the back like jewels, each of them at least as expensive as a night in one of the better suites. It was a cold evening, but a gauntlet of high-tech heating lamps cast orange halos across the veranda.

It was completely empty except for Weyer, who was already well into his drink when she arrived (not the first one of the night, by the looks of it) and sitting near the placid black mirror of a reflecting pool. His body language was strange—one part marionette off its strings, one part junior high kid stood up by his formal date.

Taph felt curiously overdressed on seeing him—he did not appear to have put any particular effort into presentation, despite the five-star surroundings. On some level Taph felt annoyed—or disappointed? She made a mental note to adjust her expectations downward for the future, then set her bag next to him and slid down onto the bench without announcement.

“Got one of those for me?” she said.

“I assumed you’d want to pour your own,” Weyer responded immediately. In a snap, Taph went back to her feet.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Looking over the veritable king’s storeroom behind the bar, she weighed each bottle’s merits in her mind—and also tried to spot if any had been tampered with. People do crazy things when this much money is involved, especially men.

But he’d have no way of knowing which bottle she’d pick, and he couldn’t afford to mess with all of them. Even his wealth had to have limits.

Fixing herself a gin on ice, she sipped and let the expensive liquor pool on her tongue. It was cold all the way down.When she returned to her seat Weyer said, “You know your way around a bar.”

“I worked my way through college.”

“Your father didn’t pay your way? He was rich enough—or should have been. I looked him up, he was very respected as a dealer.”

“Dad paid for everything; wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. But I liked working anyway. Making money of my own mattered. You should never be dependent on just one person in life, no matter what.”

“Always the bottom line with you.”

“I know what things are worth—including myself.” She paused. “Except maybe this place. This one is out of my usual income bracket. You own this too?”

“Not exclusively, I have partners.”

“So you can’t offer it to me.”

“I can offer my shares—it’d be worth far more than any deal you’ve ever made before.” As usual, he wasn’t bragging—saying it actually made him nervous, she saw. He didn’t like exposing this much about himself. “But you wouldn’t take it,” he continued.

“Nope.”

“Because the fact that I made the offer tells you that what you have is worth much more.”

“Now you’re learning,” she said, and after another cold sip of her drink she leaned back, crossed her legs, and looked out over the edge of the roof. The city in front of them was all dark glass, reflected lights, and the faraway lullaby of wind off the coast. “This really is a nice place though.”

“We let it out for private galas. Tonight the schedule was empty, so I thought it’s a good place to meet. Private.”

“You’re a man who likes his privacy,” she said.

“‘Solitude’ is the word I would use.”

“Just what is it that you do to make all of this money?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I own things.” With anyone else this would almost have sounded like a joke, but to Weyer humor seemed like an entirely foreign language.

“How’d you get your start then?”

“Family money.”

Taph didn’t believe that either; Weyer had “self-made” practically stamped on his forehead. But he wasn’t lying, she sensed. It was just a complicated answer. Curiouser and curiouser. Shrugging it off, she commented on the views again.

“You like heights then?” he said, looking out.

“As much as the next person.”

“I like being up here, but I can’t get much closer to the edge than this. People usually like to walk right up and get the full view, but I can’t bear it.”

“The ocean.”

“Hmm?” he said. He had been looking out with something like reverie, but now his eyes slid back to her.

“That’s my phobia: I don’t like deep water. Not being able to see to the bottom—can’t trust it. But heights never bothered me.”

“Not being able to see the bottom—yes, I imagine. Whereas I hate seeing all the way down. I feel like I’m falling. That’s the one thing I can’t stand.”

“Afraid of being knocked off your perch?”

“I just remember what it’s like too well. I’m sorry, you’re wondering why you’re here?”

“Not really,” she said. “You made it pretty obvious on the phone.”

“You brought the box?”

“You didn’t tell me to.”

“Even so, you brought it.”

With a pause for suspense, Taph reached into her side bag and pulled out the relic. Not bothering to offer it to him again, she set it on her lap, drumming her fingers on the lid. Dad would have lost his mind if he saw such casual handling of an artifact.

Weyer just looked at it as if it were an unwelcome party guest. To her surprise, he reached for it, and she passed it to him without hesitation—it was his, after all. She saw him testing its weight in his hands; it was reasonably heavy itself, but at the same time seemingly empty.

“Are you finally taking it then?” she said after a while.

“It’s not my place to have it.”

“Strange thing to buy then.”

“I had my reasons. And you won’t agree to help me until you know what they are, will you?”

Although Taph sat facing him, he was looking away—at the box in his lap, or perhaps over the edge of the rooftop again, so that his face was in profile against the light reflecting off the glossy black windows of the building next door. Even in the dark, she could make out most of his expression: open, vulnerable, guileless. She couldn’t remember the last time she met someone so shamelessly transparent. He really is quite handsome, she thought without meaning to.

Clearing her throat, she said, “Mr. Weyer, you want to buy my help—I’m happy to sell it. But I’ve got to understand what you’re really asking me for. So what’s it going to be: Fill me in, or is this the end of our dealings?”

Rather than answer directly, Weyer took a single sheet of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it neatly—it was entirely blank, she saw—and laid it on top of the box. With his other hand he began rubbing a piece of colored wax across it, keeping his eyes assiduously on his work as he talked.

“You’ve heard of Solomon?” he said.

She blinked. “From the Bible?”

“The Talmud. He was the king of Israel, the son of David. One of the 48 true prophets. A wise man, a good man.”

“Kind of a louse, if I remember.”

“Nobody’s perfect. A story they don’t tell you in the Talmud—or the Bible—is about Solomon’s ring: It was a gift from the archangel Michael, and with the seal Solomon could impress and command all manner of demons. All the way up to the very kings of Hell themselves, they all did his bidding.”

“Like what?”

“Anything he liked: reveal the secrets of the universe, tell him where treasure was, teach him art, history, geometry—sciences far beyond that age, you understand. He forced them to build his great temple—the First Temple, in Israel, the most beautiful temple, before it was destroyed. And he’d send them on lesser errands too—capturing runaway virgins, for example. All because of the power of that ring and seal. This seal.”

He held up the paper, where the wax rubbing revealed—what was it? The surface of the box was so old and faded that it was almost impossible to tell, and yet, with Weyer’s help, she swore she really DID see a symbol there, with a six-pointed star in its center.

“Of course, no good could come of such things. Eventually, Asmodeus, greatest of the demon kings, stole the ring, and with its power he ruled the world. It only took Solomon 40 days to steal it back. But in even that much time, the damage done—awful, awful. So to make up for his hubris, Solomon took the 72 most powerful, most prideful, and most troublesome demons in the universe, and he imprisoned them.”

Here Weyer paused, and then with just the tips of his fingers he hefted the container on his lap.

“In this box. Where they are still.”

He paused again, just long enough to take a breath before adding, “And where they’re meant to remain forever.”

Taph waited for the rest. Nothing came. Now Weyer’s face was in shadow, and impossible to read. She felt a laugh coming on, but when she opened her mouth it was just a small thing, barely louder than a cough. Then she said:

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m never not serious.”

“This isn’t a con?”

“I’m never conning either. My entire life I’ve only even told a lie once; I wouldn’t add this one on now. This is the vessel into which Solomon conjured the 72 high demons. Here, you can still feel the engravings around the lid with the true names of each of them.”

Without warning, he took her hand and guided it to the spot he meant. There WAS engraving there, though she’d never noticed it before, circular symbols, their interiors filled in with mysterious, sinuous lines and whorls that had almost but not quite completely faded away…

They sat like this for sometime, the box between them, their fingertips touching. In spite of herself, Taph felt a frisson of excitement. “What makes you sure that this is the one?”

“Partly that I’ve seen and held and in some cases bought all of the others that anyone ever claimed were the right one, and none of them were. But mostly it’s other things: the age, the craftsmanship, the million tiny variables, like a fingerprint or a melody—difficult to describe, but unmistakable. I think—I know—that this is it. How your father came to have it—but he couldn’t have known what it really was, could he?”

This thought Taph pondered in silence for sometime. Then another thought occurred to her: “Wait. You said you want me to destroy it?”

“I do. Through very particular means, the only ones that will be effective.”

“And that will, what, destroy the demons?”

“Of course not. If they could be destroyed, why would Solomon have settled for merely imprisoning them?”

“I don’t understand?”

“Be that as it may, now you know everything. Or everything that you’re going to find out, at any rate.”

He let go then, and retreated—not just drawing his hands away from the box but, seemingly, retracting his entire body deeper into the shadows. Taph longed to see his eyes and gauge what he must be feeling. But she was left staring into nothing at all.

His voice sounding polite but constrained, he said, “So now you know. And you know how much I’m willing to offer if you’ll help me. The only question is: Will you?”

The box sat on Taph’s lap again. She traced the indecipherable symbols around the edge of the lid. It seemed much heavier now than it had before. In fact, she was amazed that she could lift it at all. She had another frisson, but not one of excitement. The chill she felt was much colder and much deeper now.

Realizing that her mouth was too dry to speak, she drained her glass, and then crushed the ice between her teeth. The sharp, shocking coldness on her tongue revived her blood flow and broke some of the spell that Weyer seemed to have cast on her. Licking her lips to wet them, Taph said, “I…need to think about it.”

“Of course.”

“In the meantime, you said there was something special about the way it had to be done? Something that needs preparation?”

“Yes.”

“Send instructions then. I’m not saying I’ll do it; but give me some idea of what the necessaries would be.”

“Of course.”

“And you still don’t want to keep the box for yourself?”

The shadow that was Weyer shook its head again. Putting it back into her bag, Taph nodded. “I’ll hold onto it. Until…until we know what’s going to happen, I guess.”

“Until then,” he said.

And she left.

***

It was another two weeks before they met again, and this time she said to come to her place.

She rented a live/work in an old factory on Bryant Street, with high ceilings and only a few neighbors. A spot that should appeal to his predilection for privacy—or solitude.

“I’ve decided,” she told him over the phone. “I’ll do it.”

“How much do you want?” Weyer asked, but Taph wouldn’t discuss payment over the phone. He’d have to come to her if he wanted to seal the deal—fair’s fair, after she came at his beck and call twice in a row.

So now she waited for him, not allowing herself to acknowledge how much she anticipated his arrival. An old freight elevator serviced the building, but Taph always took the stairs herself. Now when she heard the aged cables grind to life she sat up a little straighter and did breathing exercises to slow her rapidly beating heart.

The old doors clunked open and Weyer’s footsteps—hesitant, it seems, clicked on the cement corridor leading up to her front door. He came in without knocking, or even announcing himself. Taph sat on the edge of the chaise with her hands clasped on her knees and smiled as wide as she could when he came in. His return smile looked a little weak.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, taking his hand and leading him further in. The Oriental rugs covering most of the floor muffled their footsteps; only about a third of the lights were on, and she’d drawn shutters over the floor-to-ceiling windows, leaving much of the apartment clothed in shadows.

“I admit had to give it some thought,” Weyer said, his voice tight.

Taph paused. “I thought you’d be happy,” she said. “You were pushing pretty hard for this.”

“Happy, yes,” Weyer said. “Of course. But it’s hard too—there’s been a lot leading up to this. A lot of decisions to make, difficult things that had to be done. Now that it’s all about to be over, it’s hard to know how to feel.”

“I know what you mean,” Taph said. “I guess it must be the same as when I decided to sell Dad’s collection. I was happy to be rid of it, but at the same time, anything you put that much time and emotion into, it’s going to leave its mark on you.”

“Yes,” said Weyer, “that’s it precisely.” And then he paused as he looked around fully for the first time. “What is all of this?” he said.

The back half of the main room had three long, heavy tables positioned around its perimeter, and laid out on them, in row after row, were all manner of strange things: jewelry, staves, vases, urns, mummified animals, jars and bottles of perfume and incense and oil, ancient candles, forgotten bones, reliquaries, ceremonial knives, handbells and chimes, robes and chasubles, pages and fragments of old manuscripts protected under glass, and scrolls so old that to unfurl them would risk breaking the entire thing into pieces with just the weight of your fingers.

Many things that hadn’t seen the light of day in decades—or centuries.

The center of the room was empty except for another old rug on the floor, and, in the middle of it all, the box.

But for once Weyer hardly seemed to pay it any mind, as he paced along the tables’ edges and looked over the assembled artifacts, holding his breath. “Where did all of this come from? Your father?”

Following after him but making sure to give him space, Taph shook her head. “A little bit of it, yes. The best parts of Dad’s collection I did keep for myself. But mostly this is my own—you wouldn’t believe how many years it’s taken, or how much money.”

“I suspect I probably would,” Weyer said. As usual he was not bragging, just unaware seemingly of the implications of what he said. “You never mentioned you shared your father’s taste for…esoterica.”

“I didn’t. Dad’s stuff was junk. Mostly junk. ‘Weird shit’ I always called it—that made him mad. We fought a lot because I didn’t respect his taste, and he didn’t think much of mine either.”

Weyer had reached a certain spot, right in front of a ceremonial mask made out of beaten bronze. “I saw your father’s other items in the auction catalog, and I was very impressed. He had a good eye, and he kept everything in wonderful condition.”

Still keeping her distance, Taph crossed her ankles and leaned on he edge of a different table. “A good eye, yes,” she said. “And he made good deals; drove a hard but fair bargain; always kept his word; handled relics responsibly, restored them beautifully; and he was a dedicated historian. I’ve never said otherwise.

“But what he didn’t have was courage. He stuck to rules written by cowards. He would never have bought this, for example,” Taph said, taking a jar made out of black glass from the table behind her and, with a little tap, unsealing the lid. “And he wouldn’t have been willing to bring you here. In fact, he’d have done anything to stop me, if he was around.”

“Why…why can’t I move?” Weyer said. Suddenly he was sweating, and his face looked drawn and panicky. She saw him struggle—visibly struggle—to lift just one foot up. He couldn’t.

“Because there’s a triangle on the floor, inscribed with the three true names of power—right there, beneath the carpet under your feet,” she said. “And there’s a black circle draw in the center of that triangle, that you stepped right into it without noticing. That’s the one thing about you, Weyer: You’re sloppy.”

“Release me.”

“When the time comes,” Taph said. “Like I was telling you, Daddy disapproved of the way I did business. And the people I bought from. And most of all my plans for the future. But none of that matters now.”

Seeing him strain, Taph continued, “And now you’re trying to do something horrible to me, no doubt. But under my feet is a circle, ringed with the ouroboros and inscribed with the sign of the hexagram, the alpha and the omega, and around its edge the sacred names, from EYEH to LEVANAH. So you can’t harm me. You can’t see it, but the edge of the circle is right here; if I put just a toe over that line…well, that’s not going to happen.”

“Release me!” Weyer said again, and now his voice was electric with rage.

“Oh John—poor, silly John. You asked me what my price was, and I guess it should be obvious now: The only thing I want is you.”

Now she dipped her hands into the black jar, rubbing the sandy granules inside with the tips of her fingers.

“But first, let’s get a really good look at you,” she said. And with one quick motion, she threw the sand in Weyer’s face.

It wasn’t sand at all really, but ashes—ashes from the sacrificial fires burnt on the altars of Ba’al Hadad and Ba’al Hammon countless generations ago, fires that had leapt up all the way to the heavens. So potent had they been that even now, millennia after they’d burnt out, they still had some trace of their old power.

When just the smallest measure of the substance touched him, Weyer cried out in pain and flung his hands over is face. This didn’t protect him, of course—the damage was already done.

As Taph watched, Weyer’s figure seemed to shimmer and writhe. And then, horribly, he began to change.

***

The first thing Weyer turned into had the body of a man (nude), but with the head of a great cat, a lion, with its flowing mane, and its pearly white fangs revealed in a carnivorous snarl.

In his hands he carried an angel’s trumpet, curved and silver, and he rode on the back of a huge, shaggy black beast with an enormous head—a bear, perhaps. Taph understood that both the mount and the rider were the same creature—a very old trick to confuse the conjurer into believing perhaps she had somehow called up two names instead of one.

Then he changed again, this time taking on the head of an enormous bird—an owl, a raven, or a hawk, from moment to moment—and the bear became a wolf, and the trumpet became a sword, and enormous wings beat from his back with the force of a violent wind.

When that didn’t work he instead became a column of flame that howled in a terrifying voice, and behind him appeared a phantasm of a great tower that sprung straight up into the air, its top climbing far beyond the heights of Taph’s ceiling.

He became other things too: Weyer again, pleading for help, and her father, admonishing her, and an angel praising her, and all kinds of monsters that screamed, spat, swore, and threatened. But none of these things tricked her into breaking the circle.

When she’d had enough, she held up a card with a symbol on it, a nest of curled lines and hard angles, and at the sight of it the thing in the magic triangle became quiet—docile even. Holding the card higher, Taph said, “That’s your name, isn’t it—your sigil?”

No answer came, but Taph knew she was right. No demon could resist the image of its true name; she said it out loud, “Andras: Marquis of Hell, sower of discord.” And then the creature became the towering fire again, but instead of a roar its voice was the whisper of dying embers.

Between them sat the box—in the light of that hellish flames, it looked not so battered and tarnished anymore, but bright and brilliant, a treasure among treasures. The symbols inscribed on its lid—sigils, just like the ones she’d tamed the demon with—all but glowed.

“Seventy-two of the most powerful, most prideful, and most troublesome demons in the universe,” she said. “All of them except for you, right Andras? How did you escape while Solomon trapped all of the others?”

Again the flames sizzled and spit instead of answering, but when Taph held the sigil forth again the spirit became tame and said, “I lied.”

Nodding, Taph said, “That’s right, you told me before: You’ve only ever lied once in your whole life. But it was a doozy, wasn’t it? You gave Solomon a different demon—Pruflas—and he took your place in the box instead. I guess he’s still in there. Can he hear us, do you think? Is he angry?”

“Release me,” said Andras once more.

Shaking her head, Taph said, “We still have a deal to make. You DO want me to destroy the box, don’t you?”

The flames grew very quiet.

“I’m curious why though: They’re inside, you’re out here, seems like a pretty good deal for you. What’s in it for you letting them go?”

“The world’s grown dull without them,” the flames said. “I want to see what they’ll do in this new age. Besides, all of them will have to repay me for helping them: a boon from each of the greatest princes of Hell.”

Yes, Taph said, that would be worth almost any price. “But you can’t do it yourself—anymore than you can step out of that triangle, or cross the line of the magic circle. You need me. And all of that power must be worth an awful lot to you.”

“What do you want?” the fire said.

“Like I said: you.”

“I’ll be no one’s slave,” the demon said.

“I don’t need you forever,” she said. “Just for a night…”

A pause now. “What do you mean?”

“I told you when I first met: What I really want is to start a family. I just needed to meet the right person.”

No response again. Taph could almost hear the workings of that ancient mind turning over and over. A flash of impatience struck her and she said, “You can do that, can’t you?”

“Yes,” said the voice. “But you know what it would mean: the Nephilim…”

“That’s for me to worry about,” Taph said. “Do we have a deal? Or don’t we?”

Her heart was racing. She knew she’d done everything correctly: evoked the demon, subdued him with his own name. And she knew that whatever arrangement they made now they would be binding for them both. Still, how could she not feel some uncertainty—fear, even?

At long last the voice said, simply, “Yes,” and with that she felt the knot of tension break and she knew that she had won.

Daring to cross the line of the magic circle, Taph stepped out and walked right up to the place where the demon stood. And then, consciously and deliberately, she plunged her hand into the column of fire, stretching her arm all the way out in spite of the awful heat, until she felt a hand take hers. And then she pulled—

And Weyer stumbled out of the sacred symbol, free again. His hair was a mess and his clothes disheveled, and his face was pale and sweating, but other than that he looked very much the same as he had before.

Taph’s hand hurt, but only for a minute. When she looked at it she saw that it wasn’t really burned at all, and the pain faded as if it had never been.

Weyer looked like he was in shock—he tried to say something but couldn’t seem to push words out of his mouth. He looked and seemed like himself again—but just what did “himself” mean at a time like this? She imagined she’d never really know.

Putting a finger to his lips, she staunched his attempts to speak. Then, taking both of his hands in hers, she walked backwards and dragged him toward the staircase, up to the loft where her bed lay waiting.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” she told him in the darkness of the stairwell. He remained mute; ever the man of mystery, she thought. At first she was afraid he wouldn’t go along with it, but once she pulled him up for a kiss—for a moment fear welled up inside of her, briefly unsure of what might happen once she crossed this threshold—he seemed to respond in kind.

They fell over each other, kissing, touching, feeling. Taph landed on the bed and Weyer landed almost on top of her. She coiled around him, arms and legs wrapped tight about his body, lips locked against his. Is it really happening, she thought? Is this a dream? She ran her hand over the deceptive smoothness of Weyer’s tensed body. It felt real enough.

His lips were soft, surprising her. And she had never realized he had such strong hands; hands like that could do anything they wanted. She pushed herself against him and moaned. She hadn’t been sure what it would be like, imagining maybe that it would be strange or hurt, but everything about him felt good.

She reached between Weyer’s legs and he grunted in surprise. Next she tugged his shirt off and ran her fingers down his naked chest, finding the flesh smooth but the muscles coiled and waiting. Then, slowly, almost reverently, he loosened the buttons on her blouse, unwrapping her like a present. She stretched out on the sheets again, the bedding cool against her hot skin.

His lips tickled her neck, and she combed her fingers through his hair. His mouth moved down her and her body molded against his. The flickering tip of his tongue sent thrills up and down her. She guided him with her words: “There…there…ohhh, there…”

The headboard was old and wearing out—an antique, like so much else in her life—so it creaked and strained as Weyer took hold of it. She tried to grab onto it too, but it was too wide, and her palms were slippery from sweat. Her hair had grown damp and hung in her eyes, so she rolled her head back and saw the web of light splaying across the ceiling through the window, black lace on yellow. She felt him press against the close, tight confines of her body, and her mind swam in a warm sense of relief.

Finally, she thought.

She twisted underneath him, turning her hips to one side and exposing the smooth curve of her behind, so that he was almost entering her sideways. A throbbing feeling stimulated everything below her waist. She ran her nails up his back and gripped his forearms, pulling on him. She wanted to touch him as much as possible, as if the greatest amount of contact would help bind them closer together. “Do it,” she whispered in the dark, over and over again: “Do it, do it, do it…”

Of course, he hesitated, as she’d expected him too. Once upon a time, such unions between his kind and women had happened before—but that was a long time ago, and the price, as he’d warned her, could be steep for both. She knew the old stories as well as anybody. But she didn’t care. Those stories were written by old men, long dead—that’s all that life was at some point, a series of men telling her what not to do and expecting, inexplicably, that she would obey.

Now here was this man (or close enough to a man…) who had to do what she said. so the told him, again, “Do it,” and as he pushed the rest of the way inside of her she squeezed down hard on him and, seizing his hand, brought it to her throat and forced his fingers to squeeze, feeling the rest of his body tighten as she thrust in and out. Taph’s eyes rolled back, and she writhed her hips around and around on the bed. Oh, she thought, oh god…

Sometime in the night, as her head swam in strange places and even more strange sights appeared dancing in front of her eyes, she imagined that again Weyer no longer looked like Weyer, although he didn’t resemble any of the ways that he’d appeared to hear earlier either. In the dark, his shape became something else entirely, something ancient that nobody had laid eyes on in centuries of centuries, something so old that it was never really meant for human eyes.

But his touch, and the feel of his body on, against, and inside of hers, never changed, and that was all that she needed.

***

When morning came, Taph was alone. She hadn’t slept, and neither as far as she could tell had Weyer, though they’d talked little throughout the night. Finally, when the sun peeked over the horizon and the first rays touched the shutters over the windows, Weyer was gone—vanished, it seemed, and even the spot on the bed where he had lain a moment ago felt cold.

Taph spent another hour in bed, napping lightly, and when she awoke again she put on her robe and went downstairs to make tea. She never ate much in the mornings but decided that this would be a good time to start, so she made eggs—pausing for a moment over the golden yellow yokes—and when they were ready she sat down to eat, drink, and think.

She’d brought the box with her, and it sat on the other side of the table like a mute dining partner. It looked again like it usually did, battered and tarnished. She wondered what Dad must have thought of it when he bought it; did he know what he had?

Taph had to admit, if not for Weyer she never would have suspected. Dad had always been afraid of “black” magic, and lectured her endlessly about what powers she should and shouldn’t compact with. A pompous, patronizing prick, that’s what he’d been.

But he knew his stuff, that much she’d always said.

Everything for the undoing ritual—the process that would destroy the box and its magic once and for all—was ready, just as it had been the night before. Taph could get to work right after breakfast, if she wanted to. By tomorrow, it could all be over with…

But that wasn’t her intention. After all, she’d agreed to do what Weyer wanted, but they’d never specified when. And it would take a little time, yet, to see if he was really living up to his end of the bargain.

She wondered if it would be an ordinary pregnancy—40 weeks and morning sickness, the whole routine? Or would there be something different about it, special perhaps, given its nature? There wasn’t anything to do except wait and see.

After breakfast she put the box away on a shelf in the storeroom, careful not to get it anywhere close to any other relics—hers or her father’s—that seemed particularly potent. There was nothing to worry about really, but better safe than sorry.

Once the baby came, if all went well, it would still be there. After thousands of years of waiting, she couldn’t help but feel that perhaps now the box was growing impatient too…

Or maybe, like her, it was just expecting.

THE END