Macbeth woke up with a pounding headache and a clear barrier in front of him. Like an animal in one of these new zoos. He pounded the glass--if it was glass--with his fists, then tried his shoulder.
"I wouldn't bother," an all too familiar voice told him. "Even if you had some sort of weapon, it wouldn't do you any good." Demona dropped into view and pressed a hand against the only thing keeping him from strangling her. "Even my claws hardly make a scratch."
"What do you want, Demona?" Macbeth asked. "Have you finally grown tired of this game?" He slammed his hand against the barrier. "Are you just here to taunt me before you kill me?"
"Kill you?" Demona laughed, and the gleam of her fangs and the light in her eyes was worse than her fiercest snarl. "Oh, no, Macbeth, I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to do something much worse, something you'll never be able to forget." She leaned in as close as she could. "I'm going to make you enjoy yourself."
Macbeth snorted. "Then I wish you luck, she-devil. I've enjoyed nothing for at least a hundred years."
"That's because you're a fool."
Macbeth had seen that smile before--it was the same she'd worn before battle. Back when they'd been allies, and he'd thought nothing of giving up his youth and soul to a monster like her. It was so long ago he couldn't even remember if she'd been a monster yet, and now Macbeth thought he might be too tired of the world to care. When he'd been younger--
But what is "younger" to such as we are? he asked himself.
Demona smirked at him. "It is time, my love."
She was a conniving, duplicitous creature, but Macbeth knew better than anyone when she was telling the truth. He could see the way her smile softened, hear the sweetness come into her voice.
A living shadow with stark white hair came at her call. "I was wondering if you wanted me at all, night angel."
Macbeth knew that voice, and hearing that voice made him realize he knew the face. Goliath--or rather some version of him. Macbeth didn't know how or why this abomination had been conjured up, but if Demona'd taken him as her mate, he couldn't be trusted.
"Of course I do, Thailog," said Demona. "I always will."
Macbeth looked away as she reached for her fellow hellspawn. I wouldn't have wanted to see this even when I liked her!
He could look wherever he wished. He still had to feel the slowly building pleasure of being kissed. It'd been so long--and she knew. Demona knew better than anyone what it was to have to hide from the world. For her there'd been no one of her kind to get close to for centuries. As for him, he'd given up; he could no longer stand having to sneak away as people noticed that he never got any older.
Oh, yes, Demona could guess better than anyone how long it'd been since he'd been able to feel something like this.
His jaw clenched. You're not feeling it now, he told himself. It's not real--just part of that damned bargain.
Even knowing it was only magic didn't keep him from feeling Thailog's lips on Demona's as if he were her. Knowing it was just that terrible pact they'd made didn't mean he didn't have to bite back a sigh as Thailog's claws trailed up and down the demon's back. There was no more hope it'd be painful. They were powerful beasts with claws that could tear down castles. If either of them actually touched him in this manner, Macbeth assumed the pain would be excruciating. That he could live with. He'd felt Demona's pain before--hell, he'd caused it. Sometimes it was agony that made him unable to stand or see, but it faded soon enough.
But Thailog's lips and claws he felt just as the thick skinned Demona felt it, and this was an insult. As long as he was caged and she was right in front of him, moaning softly in response to Thailog's fangs nipping at her neck, he'd have to be a part of this.
"Stop it, Demona," he said. "You've proven your point."
She glanced at him. "It doesn't look like you want this to stop," she said. Her tail was twitching like a cat's as Thailog lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. She obviously liked what she felt there because Macbeth felt another rush of pleasure--then waves of it as her claws tightened in his shoulders, and her hips started to move.
He turned his back on them. He'd never had much interest in what exactly it was gargoyles did. Now he didn't want to know what exactly was making him--her--moan and shiver. He could no longer keep from moaning when she did, and he knew exactly when her back would arch or she'd clutch at her mate because he was doing the same things. In a cage, by himself, while Demona laughed.
He slumped to the floor, his back against the clear barrier. His fingers scraped against the cold floor. He knew she could hear him. The demon might even be watching his hips thrust against the air. But at least she didn't know that no one else had ever reduced him to such a state before--it was bad enough that he recognized that.
She screamed like a leopard as she came, and Macbeth knew that because at the same time he came in his pants with a strangled moan.
For a moment it was as still as death. And then Demona started laughing at him again.