On the Courtship of Lamia

On the Courting of Lamia by the Foolhardy Charlatan in the West

Something Old

The desert sun baked the West in gold and dust. Lamia, ancient and elegant, tarried in the shadows of her crooked house, her secrets tucked neatly beneath the floorboards, her heart ticking politely, as though expecting a guest.

She kept his heart beneath the floor,
It ticked, politely, for years.
She’d nod to it when nights grew sore,
And hum to tender, fleeting tears.
Her hands were small, her hunger wide,
For lives too young to lace.
She’d sip their cries like honeyed wine,
And wear their fears like grace.

She once courted a nobleman,
Who thought her shy, demure.
She offered tea, he offered hand,
She found his heart mature.

So when a stranger wandered West,
With bottles, tongue, and guile,
She tenured an officious zest,
And lingered for a while.

The past whispered to the present, and the desert wind piqued the embers of her hunger anew.

Something New

He rolled in on a wagon of gleaming bottles, each corked with hope and stink. The desert sun danced off the glass like tiny, lying embers. His teeth were too white, his smile too wide, and he smelled of liniment and brimstone, a scent he swore charmed women and demons alike.

“I can show you riches,” he said, voice smooth as oiled leather. “My elixirs bring gold without blood, joy without the wail of babes. No need for… older tastes.” He gestured to a vial glowing red as sunset, his eyes catching hers, as if her gaze alone could make him whole.

Lamia tilted her head, her eyes old mirrors reflecting the torrid heat. She thought of sweeter feasts, minuscule lives, tender and brief, their cries a symphony no bottle could contain. “Gold?” she scoffed, curling a fingernail into her skirt. “Alchemical fodder. Cold. It tastes of nothing.”

He laughed, a frothy sound, and leaned closer. “Not like this,” he said. “This is life, eternal and exquisite as My Lady.”

She smelled his fear beneath the syrup, his audacity sharp as cactus spines. For a heartbeat, she wondered if his idiosyncrasies might amuse her before they broke. A faint clink of metal echoed from the dust, the clatter lost to the desert’s whim.

The novelty, however, is fleeting, and politeness follows, like a glove slipping onto a hand long empty.

Something Borrowed

He sent her gloves from Paris, soft as whispers, and a hat of blackest silk. She accepted them with a nod, her claws tracing their seams with curious tact. His heart quickened, spellbound by her gaze, as if she were the only prize worth his peddler’s dreams. He plagiarized phrases from poets, manners from the deceased, and a smile she almost wished she could extract as a keepsake.

They dined on borrowed sweets, candies sugared like lies, his eyes lingering on her, caught in the saccharin of her gaze. He bowed to the shadows that danced in her eyes, offering a kitten, pink and trembling, so polite. She acknowledged him, then let it flee loose into the night.

Each borrowed gesture, each polite little plea, she catalogued like bones in a tree. He leaned on borrowed courage, wore hope like fragile lace, and she let him try, so gently, before showing him his place.

Earnestness, even borrowed, cannot mask the blue of despair, nor sway a hunger that has devoured centuries.

Something Blue

“Oh, Lamia, my darlin’,” he said with a grin, his heart racing beneath her looking-glass gaze, as if she held the stars of the West in her eyes. “Think of the lives we could win! My potions bring laughter, a jar of delight, more potent than screams in the dead of the night!” He held up a vial, its glow a faint blue, promising dreams no mortal could brew.

She twirled a blue ribbon, her claws tapping a beat, humming a tune deceptively sweet. “The bottles you vend are but shadows of life,” she said with a wink, “and I’ve tasted men finer, their bones sweeter than your bottled lies.” Her eyes gleamed, recalling the tenderest cries, lives extinguished too quickly to know their own guise.

He stuttered, cheeks flushed, his bravado waning. “My heart! My unguents! Let’s build a life on this!”

She laughed, blue sparks flickering through the dew, her hunger unmoved. No potion, no promise, could sate her need, nor match the appetite centuries feed.

The penultimate act drew to a close, and the hollow allure of ducats and civility could not wage war against her ancient hunger.

A Sixpence in Her Shoe

He knelt on the dusted floor, polishing a sixpence with trembling hands, as if wealth could bargain with the fangs of ancient lands. His coat, once splendid, hung tired and thin, his bottles dim, mocking his sin.

“Marry me,” he whispered, voice uneased and frail as wind through chimneys. “A life of trade, coin, joy, finer than your feasts of old.” His eyes, caught in her licentious gaze, pleaded for a future no mortal could hold.

Lamia cocked her visage, her corseted grace a quiet storm. “Trade?” she purred. “Your ointment is but tampered hubris. My hunger covets the pulse of life.” With a polite nod, a gentle bite, she claimed him, his callow dreams tender enough to sate her for a night.

The sixpence fell, clinking against the floorboards, joining her heart’s polite tick. Lamia hummed, polishing her collection, hearts, hopes, and men, tidily shelved in the grandest, darkest drawing-room of the West. A faint glimmer of sorrow, half-buried in dust, caught the last light of the dying sun.