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Love Cherish Obey: Chapter Three

General Content Warnings

Threats of Sexual Violence

Rosalind surfaced to consciousness at the sound of a knock on the door, bleary and temporarily confused as to where she was. The fine linens of the bed were rich with lace and embroidery compared to her simple chemise, and the sun streaming in through the windows was colored by panes of stained glass.

"Good morning, Mistress," Anna curtsied as she entered the room, deftly handling the breakfast tray. Rosalind realized she was ravenous, and her mouth was dry and gummy.

"Is that…tea?" she asked hopefully.

"Tea and toast, and some kippers, or if you don't prefer kippers I've got some gammon back in the kitchen, but you'd have to wait a minute for it." Anna put the tray down on a side table and turned to face her. She looked slightly confused, though the only thing out of the ordinary that Rosalind noticed was the novelty of not serving her own breakfast.

"That all sounds lovely; I'm rather hungry. Can I please have sugar and cream in my tea?"

Anna's face broke into a surprised smile. "Of course, ma'am! May I say, you're looking well this morning."

"Looking well?" Memories of the night before flooded back through her. She had been beaten to hell and back. She passed a hand gently over her face and found lips soft and unbroken, no pulpy bruises rising on her cheek where she had been struck. She traced a hand down over her neck, a sudden heat rushing through her as she remembered the demon biting her. The skin there was smooth and clear. Had the demon…healed her, somehow? She tried to picture that beast tending to her wounds and could scarcely imagine it.

Anna pressed a cup of tea into her hands as she sat there in her reverie, and she drank automatically.

It was shockingly sweet and rich with cream; normally she would find it far too rich, but it seemed like the most delicious thing she had ever had. The cup was drained before she knew it and Anna took it to refill it without asking.

She slid out of the high bed. Though she was loath to leave the soft feather tick, she wasn't sure toast had ever smelled so appealing. She tried to remember her proper table manners, but she felt like falling on the food like a ravening beast. Anna set out pots of preserves and yellow butter, and the toast on the pretty bone china. Cyril had good taste, at least, or whoever did his buying did.

Three cups of sweet tea, a thick slab of toast with butter and blackberry jam, and a pair of kippers later and she no longer felt like she was collapsing in on herself. Anna had been busy laying out a wash basin and other grooming tools.

"I'll say, ma'am, it's nice to see someone with a healthy appetite around here."

Rosalind blushed slightly. "I'm not sure why I was so hungry." Blood loss, I suppose. And a lot of other activity last night. She was sore in every muscle. She repressed a shudder at the vivid memory of hauling Cyril's corpse into the hedge maze. If her demon had healed her, apparently she hadn't bothered to go more than skin-deep. But she must have done something; Rosalind's face must have looked like something the cat dragged in when…

That's right, she hadn't put herself to bed. She'd collapsed on the lawn, fully clothed in her traveling suit. The whole night last night, from when she had been shown into the conservatory on, felt like a bizarre dream sequence, but the bits at the end felt particularly hazy. If she had collapsed outside and woken up here, did that mean that her demon had carried her to bed?

God, the body had been outside. Rosalind felt suddenly sick and cold. She glanced over at Anna, but the maid seemed cheerful and calm. Maybe she wouldn't be grieving if she knew Cyril was dead, but Rosalind couldn't imagine her being calm about it. If the demon had cleaned up her wounds, surely she'd also done something about the corpse, right? Rosalind couldn't be sure. The idea of that creature leaving the corpse on the lawn just to make trouble felt all too plausible.

Maybe if she wasn't standing over the body with the bloody knife she wouldn't be charged with murder. The wedding wouldn't go through, and there would be no money for her family, but at least she wouldn't go to the gaol. Best to just keep going as if I know nothing.

"Let me help you tidy up, ma'am," Anna said, breaking her reverie. She drew her by the hand over to the vanity and started to unbraid her hair and gently brush it out with a silver handled brush. "Travel must have been rough for you yesterday, poor thing. There's bits of tree in your hair."

Rosalind blanched as she remembered crushing herself into the topiary as Cyril hunted for her and made a non-committal noise.

Anna got her cleaned up and dressed; there were all sorts of fine, new things in her size waiting for her in the wardrobe. Cyril's man of business must have gotten her measurements from the dressmaker when she had gone for the fittings for her wedding dress. Her old things had been dreadfully shabby and mended, so it was strange to have such fine silk stockings and such deep lace on her chemise. Maybe she'd be allowed to keep the clothes even if Cyril was dead and they couldn't be married. But probably they'd just be sold off.

"Oh, this is lovely." Rosalind brushed a hand over the sleeve of the blue velvet wrapper.

"You won't want to be in your wedding dress quite so soon, I'm sure. It's a shame none of your family could be here to help you get dressed." Anna seemed to suddenly realize what she'd said and bit her lip as though bracing for an earful. It was deeply awkward that Rosalind's family wasn't here, and Cyril had no patience for that kind of impertinence from the staff.

Rosalind attempted a reassuring smile. "I suppose it's just getting used to how things are going to be, going forward, so I'll have to put a brave face on it." Who knew if that was at all true, but she was going to attempt the brave face one way or the other.

Anna politely excused herself, promised to return soon, and left Rosalind alone. For a while she stared out the window, as though if she looked long enough, she might see a clue to solve the mystery of what happened last night, although her room faced the opposite side of the grounds. Then she paced. Each tick of the clock was a reminder of the impending ceremony and the unknowns it would bring.

I should act as though everything were fine, she told herself. She mulled over what she would be doing if that were true. It was such a fantasy she could barely imagine it.

A walk on the grounds would be nice. Then she'd be able to see if anything was left at the scene of the death. But…she wasn't dressed for it. And she'd surely be shooed back to her rooms anyway, to prevent the groom from accidentally seeing the bride before the wedding.

The writing desk caught her eye, and she resolved to write a letter. Surely that was something an excited bride would do. But once she sat down with paper and pen in front of her, she wasn't sure who to write to. Her family had all but abandoned her to her fate, and she'd been discouraged from giving any details of the arrangement to her friends. A short note to her mother, perhaps, letting her know that she was well.

Thirty minutes later that's all she had written: 'Dear Mother. I am well.' When she attempted to expound, the previous night's memories flooded in, and she certainly couldn't put any of that in a letter.

'Cyril is,' she wrote, then stopped and thought. Kind? Perhaps. A gentleman? Certainly not. 'Dead,' she added, then looked at what she'd written with horror.

She put the letter in the fire and started over.

'Dear Mother. I am well. Cyril is kind enough. He has been a perfect gentleman, despite the strange situation.' It was a bald-faced lie, but it was the lie they'd be expecting her to tell. She added a few more pleasantries without any meaning behind them, careful not to sound too happy, lest her sisters resent the comfort she suddenly found herself in, or too unhappy, lest her mother feel guilty for sending her here.

Just as she was sealing the letter, Anna returned with two other maids trailing behind her.

"Oh, one last thing, Miss." Anna handed her a small book. It took a second for Rosalind to recognize it as Cyril's spellbook. "I found this over in the corner. You must have dropped it when you were getting to bed last night."

Rosalind barely kept herself from gripping the book with white knuckles when she realized what it was. "Thank you, Anna. So sorry to make more work for you."

Anna gave her a grin. "Well, that's what I'm here for, isn't it? Rose, you can put that dress on the bed and go fetch the boots. Mary, put the sandwiches down on the table."

Rosalind looked over at the two little chambermaids as the younger women scurried about.

"Miss, you seemed so hard set that I had the kitchen make up a few sandwiches out of that gammon, and I've got some more tea for you. Can't have you fainting at the altar!" Rosalind failed to stifle a hysterical giggle, unwillingly recalling the altar she'd nearly fainted at last night. Anna gave her a curious look at the outburst.

"Must be…wedding nerves?" Rosalind ventured. The contrast between the pretty room—big soft bed, maids waiting on her and bringing her tea, soft touches on the nape of her neck as her hair was twisted into a fanciful arrangement for the wedding—with the brutality and horror of the previous night was mind-bending. It made Rosalind feel like she was going mad. And hard not to consider what was to come. It wasn't like Cyril would be waiting at the altar for her. What would happen when he didn't show?

Anna smiled and smoothed a stray hair back from her forehead. "Wedding nerves, I'm sure. You seem to have come through your meeting with him last night alright, though?" There was an unspoken question in Anna's eyes, and she glanced over at the two other maids briefly. "It's just lovely to see you looking so well this morning. You were a bit wan after such a long carriage ride yesterday, if I may be so bold, Miss."

Rosalind swallowed a bite of the sandwich, the fine gammon suddenly very dry in her mouth despite the butter. There was an implication in Anna's words that Rosalind couldn't quite define. Had she known something of Cyril's plans? Stupid. She had to know something. She lived here; she was one of the few servants left after Cy had dismissed most of them. But Rosalind didn't get the feeling that Anna was an accomplice to Cyril's dark deeds.

"Have you, ah, seen Master Cyril this morning? Is he well?"

Anna ducked her head to hide her eyes at Cyril's name. "Not I, Miss. Mr. Yates, that's his valet, would be the one to assist him in the morning. But you'll see him soon enough at the chapel."

"Of course." Rosalind dropped the topic and let the maids dress her like a doll in her wedding gown.

The gown itself was a bit of a menace. There was bobbin lace six inches deep on the sleeves and the hems, and rather more skirt than she was used to managing. The neckline was fashionably low and wide, and while she was grateful that her various bruises and cuts and bites had been healed overnight, the low neckline and new corset were showing quite a bit more of her admittedly generous decolletage than she was comfortable with. Thank goodness she had been able to put her foot down when it came to the train; it was a more manageable one foot, when the dressmaker had wanted at least three. And since it was white—because everyone had to be like the Queen—the train was immediately going to be…

Rosalind made herself take a breath. She didn't completely pop out of the dress, though she wasn't about to try a hop or a deep bend and risk it. Of all the things to be worrying about, dirt on the hem of her dress paled in comparison to the dead groom and the beast from the pit of hell that she'd summoned. Especially when she wasn't going to have to do the washing herself anymore. Unless things keep going badly and I wind up as a laundress in the poor house or a prison or something.

She glumly took another bite of the sandwich. It really was very good ham.

Anna placed a last sprig of flowers in her hair, then stepped back to admire her work. Rosalind couldn't help thinking of where the flowers had likely been grown: the conservatory on top of that…secret magic workroom. "I think you're looking very fine, Miss. I don't remember that we've ever had a bride in the house before." Anna gave her a reassuring smile, then glanced at the clock on the mantle above the fireplace. "I think you're about due for the carriage, if you're feeling ready?"

"I suppose I must be," Rosalind said, trying to keep her voice cheerful. "Could you point me in the right direction? I'm afraid I don't know my way around the house yet."

Anna's voice was not unkind. "I'll take you to the door, Miss."

* * *

There was not much conversation during the short trip; Rosalind spent the time looking out the window at the unfamiliar countryside, too absorbed in her anxieties to engage with Anna's attempts at conversation. Rose and Mary didn't even try. The steady beat of the horses' hooves slowed as they arrived at the chapel.

It was not the first time that Rosalind had been to St Bartholomew's, but this time the tall, pointed spires and impressive stained glass windows felt ominous rather than welcoming, despite the bright morning sunshine. The church's gate was open and Daniel Bailey, Cyril's best man, was pacing in front of it. When he noticed the carriage coming to a stop, he hurried over to it, waved off the coachman, and opened the door himself.

"Miss Kerr, thank Goodness,"—he glanced down at his pocket watch—"at least you're on time." He reached up to hand her down out of the coach. There was a lot of dress to contend with. Anna and one of the little scullery maids had already alighted from the coach and were standing at the ready to carry her train. As soon as they were out, the coachman flicked the reins and set the horse back in motion, pulling the carriage down the lane.

"Mr. Bailey," Rosalind greeted him noncommittally. She wasn't sure what to make of Daniel. His role in Cyril's life seemed obvious when she'd believed Cyril to simply be a nouveau riche businessman: a shallow hanger-on with more looks than wit. But now that she knew the truth…

He huffed in exasperation. "Everything's running late. Cy was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. The guests will be arriving soon, and…" Suddenly a moment of panic crossed his face. He patted his pockets, then calmed. "Still've got the ring, thank God. Right where I left it." He appeared to notice Rosalind again. "It's a shame, all this and none of your family able to attend."

"Ah, yes, well…"

"I can't imagine; I know I'd be utterly depressed if none of my bride's family were able to come to my wedding. Or, ah, if none of my family were able to come, either."

"Yes, I suppose…"

"I guess you and Cy are just made of tougher stuff than I am. But where is he? I wish he were a little less tough and a little more punctual. He's usually not so bad. Oh, right, the vestry. Just through those doors and down the aisle and it's through the door on the left. Someone'll come get you when it's time."

Rosalind didn't need the directions; she'd toured the church before. But she decided it wasn't worth trying again to get a word in through his nervous babble and moved toward the church entrance with a mumbled thanks. Anna and the other maid dutifully followed her, train in hand.

"There he is," Daniel muttered to himself just as she was walking through the door. Once inside, Rosalind glanced out the window. As Daniel had said, Cyril's carriage was just pulling up to the church. She needed to be sure what was going on. She needed to see if Cyril was really alive again.

Anna paused, tethered to her by the dress, but clearly trying to shepherd her to the nave. "Miss?"

"You two go ahead to the vestry. I'd like a moment to myself."

"As you say, Miss." Anna looked unsure, but they both obeyed.

Rosalind crouched down with a creak of whalebone and peeked through the window. She felt silly sneaking around in her wedding gown, but she didn't want to be caught spying. Daniel appeared to be talking to Cyril through the door of the carriage, but she couldn't quite see inside. A hand emerged and motioned Daniel inside.

A red stone glinted. Cyril's ring. She'd recognize that tasteless bauble anywhere. She bit her lip. Daniel climbed into the coach and shut the door, but it stayed still. She wondered what they were talking about that required privacy. Then, Daniel emerged again. Rosalind ducked down before he could spot her through the window. She heard the men talking as they approached the door to the church, though she couldn't make out the words. She scurried around the wall and out of the vestibule, and hid next to the font. As the men entered, their voices became clear.

"Well, make it quick, man," Daniel said. "The guests are bound to start arriving any minute."

If Cyril responded, Rosalind didn't hear it.

"And make sure to give that back! I don't want you to make it look like I lost it!" The sound of the door shutting announced Daniel's departure. Good. She'd be able to confront Cyril alone. Footsteps rang through the nave as he walked around the wall.

The man who appeared was not Cyril at all. Was not even a man, in fact. Rosalind's demon stood there in the church, looking around at the stained glass windows. She put something glinting into her mouth and swallowed it. The demon looked different in the morning light. She was a paler shade of red and merely six feet tall rather than six-and-a-half. Her eyes were no longer solid black, which made her look less inhuman, though her irises were a shocking crimson. For some reason she was dressed in Cyril's suit and wearing Cyril's awful ring.

Rosalind could hardly imagine what her presence here meant, but suddenly she remembered what she was hiding behind. The demon hadn't noticed her. She had an opportunity. Cupping her hands, she dipped them into the font, dashed forward, and splashed holy water onto her surprised face.

The demon sputtered, reached into her jacket—Cyril's jacket—and pulled out a handkerchief. "It's you. You're supposed to be in the vestry." Her sharp-toothed grin sent a shiver down Rosalind's spine. "Fuck, look at you." She looked Rosalind up and down, her gaze lingering on her bust. "That dress makes you look absolutely edible. Not that you need the help." She wiped her face dry with Cyril's handkerchief. "Holy water? Were you hoping I'd evaporate?"

Rosalind frowned. "Or melt. I'm not picky. By all rights you shouldn't be able to even come onto holy ground."

"Maybe under normal circumstances. But not even God can keep me out of the church on my own damned wedding day." She looked unbearably smug about it.

"What do you mean, your wedding?"

"Well, since dear Cy couldn't make it, I'll be standing in." She adjusted her cuffs and straightened her tie.

"But you're…" She looked the demon over. Cyril's suit was simultaneously too short and too wide for her. Her wrists jutted from the sleeves and her ankles from the pants. The effect was not flattering.

"Oh, sweetheart, you worry too much. You and I know I really look like this, but I promise: no one else will be able to tell the difference. The wedding will go off without a hitch and no one will have to find out about what you did." She smirked. "And afterwards? I guarantee you'll have more fun with me than you ever would've with him."

Rosalind looked away, a blush rising to her cheeks. "I have no idea what you could be implying."

"Do you know what that prick was planning to do to you? To keep you as a font of virginal blood and never even touch you? Tch." She shook her head. "What a waste! It makes me mad just thinking about it! Well, it serves that cuckold right."

"I thought…don't demons prefer a virgin's blood?"

"We do. But do you know what I like even more?" The demon stepped closer and leered down at Rosalind. "Pussy. Starting tonight, I'm going to show you a world of pleasure that limp-dicked sorcerer could've never imag—"

Rosalind slapped her hard across the face and the sound echoed through the church. She caught her stinging hand in a vice grip, eyes alight with fury, and bared her teeth. "Or maybe I won't wait. Maybe I'll teach you your place right here, right n—"

"Release me!"

The demon jerked back as though yanked by a chain around her neck. She took a deep breath and attempted to compose herself.

"If you really hate the idea that much, then fine," she said through clenched teeth. "Just go through the motions. Your family will get Cyril's money. And once we're done, you won't have to see me ever again if that's what you want, you ungrateful cunt." She turned and started to walk away.

"Wait!" She froze. "Before you go, tell me your name."

"You already know it. You carved it into that corpse. That's what called me here."

"I just…copied it from the book." For no good reason, Rosalind felt embarrassed at the admission. "If we're going to be at the altar together, I can't keep thinking of you as just 'my demon.'"

She turned back toward Rosalind and sneered. "I'm not your demon, bitch."

"Just tell me. I'll make it an order if I have to."

"It won't give you power over me." She sighed. "It's Sliasslaosstalansala."

"Sliass…"

The demon rolled her eyes. "I don't want to listen to you butcher it with your English tongue, so please don't even try. Very briefly translated, it means 'Slip-Slick-With-Blood' or 'Unsteady-Footing-on-Bloody-Ground.' Though neither of those really capture the proper sense of dignity. Happy?"

"Slip-Slick-With-Blood…" Their eyes met for a moment. The demon's expression was unreadable. Slip.

Conversation leaked into the nave from outside. "Shit," Slip cursed, "here comes the peanut gallery. Shoo, get your ass into the vestry. Don't you know it's bad luck for me to see you?"

Rosalind lifted her skirts and hustled away. She spared a glance back as she left the nave just in time to see her demon spit something into her hand and slip it into her pocket.

* * *

Rosalind couldn't track what Anna was saying, head in a whirl. Surely her demon—surely Slip must be lying. It couldn't be that Rosalind would see her as she was and others would see Cyril. But no hue and cry had been raised so far, and the demon was sauntering about as if she owned the place. Rosalind didn't know if she was sick with fear or with relief, but the ham sandwich sat like lead in her belly.

Fortunately, it didn't seem to matter much. Rosalind quickly realized that she was, if anything, just one of the more important set pieces for the day, and she didn't really have to do anything other than stand where she was told and keep a generally biddable and pleasant expression on her face. She let herself be tucked away in a side room off of the sanctuary and plied with tea. There wasn't any sudden outbreak of screaming, so presumably no one had discovered the demon in their midst.

So…what would happen after the wedding? Slip had said she'd leave, and Rosalind wouldn't ever have to see her again. If that's what I want. What do I want? Unbidden, the tactile memory of a hot, hard length pressed against her belly flooded her mind. Her corset suddenly felt entirely too tight, and the room entirely too warm.

"Lady Kerr?" The vicar's voice was low and gentle, but Rosalind gave a guilty start, sure that he could see the sin in her heart. And in other places. "We're about to begin, if you and your ladies—" He stopped short, realizing she had no ladies. "Ah, let's get you in position, dear. So kind of Mr. Hurst senior to give you away, since your father couldn't be here."

"Ah, yes, Father, thank you." The rector gave her a reassuring smile and offered a hand up. Rosalind gathered her skirts enough that she could move without trailing them all over.

"Let your heart be calm, child. After all, this is a joyous day of celebration! The Lord smiles upon this union." A sudden cloud of dismay crossed the rector's plump face, followed by a blush like sunset. "Ah. Has your mother offered you the sort of…education…a young woman requires before her wedding night?"

Rosalind found herself turning a shade of red to match the vicar. "Ah, yes, Father." Though not strictly true, Rosalind had pieced together some information from various sources. I'm sure Slip would be all too happy to…instruct me, she couldn't quite stop herself from thinking.

"Good, good!" The vicar looked unfathomably relieved that he wouldn't have to provide instruction. Though he was married with three children of his own, Rosalind supposed that explaining such facts to blushing brides was not his favorite priestly duty. "I believe all is in readiness. Let's get you over to Mr. Hurst senior."

Rosalind had not previously had the pleasure of an introduction to her father-in-law-to-be, and she found that he was a tall, thin man with extravagant eyebrows. There was a quiet extravagance to the cut of his suit and the emerald pin winking out from his cravat, and he greeted her with a very grave, old-fashioned bow.

"So, you are to be my daughter." His gaze was baldly appraising.

"I regret to have not made your acquaintance sooner, Mr. Hurst." Rosalind offered a curtsy, almost lost in the sheer mass of her dress.

"Please, we're to be family. You may call me Amos. We'll see how you and that young pup get on, then, won't we?" There was a strange glint in his eye, and Rosalind remembered with a fresh wave of nausea that Mr. Hurst senior (she could hardly bear to think of him as Amos) was purportedly a sorcerer; had taught Cyril the craft.

The music from the nave shifted to the processional. There was no time! She found herself tucked firmly into Mr. Hurst's arm. Anna shoved her bouquet of white roses and orange blossoms into her free hand and gave a last twitch of adjustment to her veil. Then they were off, her feet tripping forward and Mr. Hurst inexorable on his path.

The vestibule and narthex had been quite dim, but the nave was dazzlingly bright and hot. Most of the village, or at least the better set of the village, had been invited, eager to see the match between the extremely eligible Cyril Hurst and his mysterious bride. The prospect of the champagne toasts at the wedding breakfast certainly wouldn't be discouraging, of course.

Rosalind stumbled as Mr. Hurst suddenly stopped, his eyes diamond focused on Slip's waiting figure. Oh, God, could he see through her disguise? He glanced down at her, eyes fierce under his hooded brow.

"Well, haven't you gotten yourself into an interesting situation, my dear," he muttered, then offered a thin grin. "Let's get you to your groom."

Breathless and dizzy, Rosalind was plunging forward again toward the front of the church. Odd to come to this point and see only strange faces waiting for her. She didn't recognize any of her bridesmaids, an assortment of local daughters from better families, and of course, Slip's grinning face and black crown of horns could hardly fit into the same thought as "her bridegroom." Dreamlike, she handed her flowers to the waiting maid of honor and took her place in the tableau.

"Dearly beloved," the vicar began, "we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…" Rosalind tried to focus, but her thoughts kept drifting. Just go through the motions, she told herself, then once this is over, Slip will go back to where she came from. We can…fake Cyril's real death, and I'll inherit. She had no idea what Slip had in mind, but the demon would still be bound to follow her orders. Together they'd be able to come up with a convincing demise that didn't implicate her.

"I will," said Slip, and Rosalind snapped back to attention.

The vicar turned to her. "Miss Rosalind Kerr. Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both shall live?"

Rosalind hesitated. She was put strangely off-balance hearing the woman standing next to her referred to as this man. "Last chance," she heard Mr. Hurst's voice in her ear.

"I…I will," she said.

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

"I do," said Mr. Hurst, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to be giving away his future daughter-in-law, and stepped back. The vicar took their hands and placed Rosalind's hand in Slip's. Her hand was hot, her grip too tight.

"I, Cyril Hurst," Slip recited with a practiced tone, "take thee, Rosalind Kerr, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance;"—the demon squeezed her hand—"and thereto I plight thee my troth."

Slip let go and Rosalind pulled her hand away too fast. The vicar took their hands again, this time placing Slip's hand in Rosalind's. She could barely stand to grip it.

"I, Rosalind Kerr, take thee, Sli—" Her tongue stumbled. "Cyril Hurst, to be my wedded husband." Her mouth was dry, but she'd memorized the vows well enough. "To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth."

Rosalind dropped Slip's hand, and she motioned to Mr. Bailey, who fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out the ring with a theatrical flourish and immediately fumbled it. Slip's hand shot out like a viper and caught it before it could hit the ground.

Daniel gave Slip a look. "You're supposed to drop it, Cy," he whispered. "It's tradition."

"There's nothing traditional about me," Slip whispered back. She also did not, Rosalind noticed, set the ring on the bible like she was supposed to. Instead, she ignored the vicar and immediately took Rosalind's hand in hers.

The ring, like the wedding dress, was fashionably modeled after the Queen's: a golden serpent with tiny ruby eyes and an amethyst embedded in its head. The snake was meant to symbolize eternal love but seeing it in the hand of a demon gave it a more sinister meaning. The way the light glinted over the rubies made it almost seem alive. As Slip moved the ring toward her hand, Rosalind instinctively tried to jerk her hand away, but Slip's grip stiffened like an iron band and held her fast.

The demon slipped the ring onto her finger. "With this ring I thee wed." Rosalind looked back up at Slip and their eyes met for a moment before she looked away again, disconcerted at the intensity of the demon's gaze. "With my body I thee worship." Rosalind felt cheeks grow hot at the implications that Slip squeezed into those words, but no one else seemed to react.

"And with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the—" Slip made a choking sound. Rosalind looked back at her and saw that her grin had become fixed; she felt a sudden anxiety that the demon would be unable to invoke the trinity; unable to complete the vows. "Of the Father." She was straining. Could no one else see it? "And of the. Son." A vein throbbed on her forehead. "And of the…Holy. Ghost. Amen." Slip forced the last three words out between her teeth.

A quick sensation of movement on her finger. A slither. Rosalind's eyes darted to look at it, but it was still. Her imagination? She'd believe that for now, then take it off and throw it away as soon as she could.

"Let us pray," the priest continued, but Rosalind could hardly hear him. She found her gaze drawn back to Slip's; the intensity almost hypnotic. The demon was breathing hard and there was a strange tension in the air. Rosalind started feeling hot; if she could feel the demon's heat surely the vicar could, too. There was a sudden smell of brimstone and the room darkened.

Rosalind looked toward the nave. Instead of the church, she was in an open-air amphitheater carved of dark red stone. The congregation had been replaced by a raucous crowd of demons of all shapes and sizes. They were cheering and hollering, raising glasses of dark liquid and shanks of red meat. Some were, Rosalind was horrified to see, copulating in the aisles. In a flash the vision was gone, and she was back in the church.

"...upon these thy servants, that both this man may love his wife, according to thy Word…" the vicar continued droning. Rosalind looked back at Slip, eyes wide. Slip raised her eyebrows in silent acknowledgement.

Another flash, and again she found herself in pandemonium. The kindly plump vicar had been replaced by a towering figure in a mockery of a papist's robes and an extravagant hat. The demonic priest grinned down at her, his face painted with a grinning skull, his eyes mismatched in their dark sockets. He looked from Slip to Rosalind.

"Aren't multicultural weddings such a delight?" His voice was deep and gravelly.

"Papa, you can't imagine the joy I feel at this sacred union." Slip leered at Rosalind. "I've been wanting to do this since I saw you in that getup." She reached over, not dropping Rosalind's other hand, and unceremoniously popped one of her breasts out of the top of her dress, none too gentle with her black claws.

Rosalind couldn't help it: she squeaked and tried to cover herself with her free hand; Slip's grip on her right wasn't budging. Slip lazily batted away her left hand and pinched her nipple to the raucous cheers of the demonic audience.

"Fuck the bride!" yelled a creature with bone white skin and black eyes.

"Please, have some goddamn decorum!" Slip called back sarcastically as she lifted Rosalind's heavy breast by the nipple. The points of her black claws dug into Rosalind's flesh and the weight of her breast was a painful pull. Slip focused her crimson gaze back on Rosalind. "We're going to have such fun together."

"You said—" Rosalind choked out around the pain, and then found herself back in the bright chapel, the vicar still droning on his metaphor of well-tilled fields. She looked down frantically, but her breasts were still, thank God, contained in her dress.

As she was looking down, she couldn't help but notice the bulge in the front of Slip's ill-fitting suit. The demon noticed her noticing and flexed it at her. Her heartbeat throbbed, both in her poor abused breast, and at the apex of her thighs. Rosalind desperately wrenched her thoughts to the vicar and his wedding homily.

"And so, just as the true and honest laborer shall receive his pay at the end of the day, so also will the husband receive the natural rewards of domestic bliss…" Her eyes flickered unwillingly to Slip, who seemed to be struggling to contain her laughter. At the mention of domestic bliss, the demon flashed a fang-filled grin at her and winked.

"...And in his Epistle to the Colossians, Saint Paul giveth you this short lesson; Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as it is fit in the Lord." The vicar clapped his prayer book together. "My friends, it is with a glad heart that I permit you this: you may now kiss the bride."

Slip's hands were surprisingly delicate with the thin lace of Rosalind's veil as she lifted it over her head to hang down her back. Breathless, she found herself pulled forward and crushed against Slip's chest, her black lips bending to meet hers.

A flash away from the bright chapel to the dark reeking Pit, and those delicate claws bent to prick her arms through the fabric of her dress, bright points of pain as the fabric ripped and droplets of blood welled out of ten punctures, staining the white satin of her dress. Slip pulled away from the relatively chaste kiss, moved to her neck, and bit hungrily. Her blood flowed again, faster than seemed natural, like in the first summoning ceremony, and Slip drank to a cacophony of demonic laughter. Darkness swam in front of Rosalind's eyes, but Slip's arms were solid around her, holding her upright as she threatened to faint again.

"You're so good, darling," Slip murmured into her ear. "We'll get you back topside and fed and watered, little cow, before we milk too much of you. Tempting as you are…"

Incense replaced brimstone, and her neck and dress were again whole and unscathed, but she still felt as drained as she had in front of the hellish altar. As Slip pulled away, the organist began the recessional and the congregation let out a hearty applause. Rosalind was so dizzy she almost fell backward, but her demon—her husband—caught her by the hand and led her down the aisle amidst showers of thrown grain. For a moment she was unsure where she was, the cheers of the earthly crowd indistinguishable from the cheers of the infernal mob. Then they were out of the church. Slip led her to the waiting carriage—pulled by four white horses; no expenses spared—climbed in, and pulled her inside.

The door slammed shut, muting the applause of the crowd, and the newlyweds were, suddenly, alone.