Chapter Text
Arody gave birth to his daughter at midnight, in the middle of a lashing, vicious storm.
Tante Cattie said that, for a devil child, this was a very good omen.
She had come up to help him birth. So had her seven perfect devil-daughters, prepared to keep the witches at bay. Anxious Bright, and pacing Adam. Barnabas and May, desperately muttering out spells of protection for him.
It’s alright, Arody wanted to tell them. I’ve done this before.
But all he could do was scream.
He would have thought that pushing out a little baby would be no harder than birthing an enormous calf, or an oversized pony.
It was worse. Not for any physical reason. His cunt was trained for this by now. This was his fifth. But the child’s soul had begun to grow in, these past few months. She was a clear, striking blue-green, like the sea that enveloped Veromenica, and her smooth saltwater taste had wrapped itself up in Arody’s soul. Drawing from him, growing. Coming into being. Now that she pushed away, eager to be born, it felt like his own soul would rip into shreds for losing her. He howled and howled, inconsolable. Irrational. The cramps in his belly were nothing to feeling another devil — his — abandoning him for the world.
“Shhh,” Jack said, over and over, pressing kisses to his hair. “Shhh.”
Jack had been the only one deemed useful, of the witches. He held Arody in place, firm, as Tante Cattie prodded at the dilating cunt and whispered spells to keep the mad little devil from trying to halt the birth. Devour the soul. Make her his again, his little girl, keep her safe tucked inside him forever.
Whippoorwill had been banished from the room several times, but had insisted on returning, floating in through the windows or seeping up like a black oil through the floorboards. He was much less useful than Jack. He paced and hissed out worried curses, tail lashing, eyes darting to Arody. Distantly, Arody kept seeing him make aborted gestures towards him, as if wanting to lend him strength, but Tante Cattie kept using her own magic to fling him back against the wall. Or out of the room entirely.
“He’s mad! He’ll only use your power to try and keep her!”
“Why shouldn’t he?” Whippoorwill would shriek, as he flew through the air, cradling his own belly. “He made her!”
But no. No, a part of Arody knew Tante Cattie was right. It would kill the child to stay in him. No matter how much it hurt, thinking of his little baby exposed to such a cruel world.
She came out screaming in triumph, and Arody sagged in Jack’s arms and cried softly as the cord was cut. Tante Cattie fed him the afterbirth — almond and ocean power crackling on his tongue — as one of her daughters cleaned the babe.
She was so small, and so odd. Her tail was like Whippoorwill’s, and her dark skin too. Her pretty nose was Barnabas’, and the mouth was unmistakably Adam’s. Her eyebrows were May’s, and her stubborn chin was Jack’s.
Arody had taken them all in, all of his coven, and in his womb he had brewed up a new devil, a strong, power-drenched little one. She had parts of all of them.
When she latched onto his tit, he wept a bit, but not sadly. Jack stroked his hair and whispered kind things to him — how wonderful, my devil-puss! How beautiful she is! as Tante Cattie bustled about, cleaning up.
Whippoorwill came down the chimney as a puff of black smoke, and coalesced into being before them. His face was very intent, his tongue sticking out. He let it taste the air above the child. Arody watched this, blinking, still a bit dazed.
“She’s strong,” Whippoorwill concluded, sounding admiring for once. His dark, skinny arms steadied the child in Arody’s weaker ones, as if he could tell that the younger devil was tired and drained.
“Strong as her mother,” called out Tante Cattie then, belying the way Arody actually felt.
“What’s her name, puss?” Jack said, still petting Arody. “If you want to tell us.” His touch was firm and kind, and Arody felt himself drooping even more, exhausted. But comfortable and safe, ready to drop into much-needed rest despite the birth-soreness in his cunt.
He knew the name. At least, the name she would have until she settled on her true one. He supposed that, until then, his name for her would be what called up her power. He supposed he should therefore keep it close, for her sake. He wanted to protect her so much it was like a coal in his gullet, and that was saying something, for he unfortunately knew precisely what it was to swallow coals.
But he trusted his witches. He blinked drowsily, letting himself press a kiss to the child, as he reflected on this fact.
He trusted them. They were his. They did not beat him or hurt him. They taught him, held him, sang to him. Gave him his own bed, gave him care of his children. Treated him as their own, and not as a slave or a beast.
“I’ll tell you when the others are here,” he decided. “Tell you all together.”
Then, warm and calm and protected, he promptly fell asleep.
-
He did not truly think they would force him. They never had. But it was still a surprise when they listened to his weak explanation that his cunt hurt. That he wanted to heal.
He was so used to being fucked right after birthing. So used to the pain. But now he was just trussed up in blankets and kissed (Bright), brought his meals in his bed while the child slumbered on his breast (Adam), carried down to see his other babes (Jack), stroked on tail and cock until he saw stars (Barney, Will), and relieved of even his most minor chores (May, practical May).
He was spoiled.
So, for once, he healed.
“Will?” he asked once night, when the baby had woken them both with her cries, and he had had to put her to his breast again.
Will, astonishingly, always bore this well. Even though, once woken, he always seemed incapable of sleeping again. He was leaning over a brazier by the fire, muttering things. Possibly he wanted to make it rain frogs again. It was terribly useful to have a rain of frogs. The devils always ate like princes for a week after that, and Arody was so tired and hungry after birthing that he needed to eat a terrible amount.
“What is it?” Will asked now.
“W—when will they need my power again? The others?”
Will snorted.
“When you are good and ready to give it,” he said, a bit carelessly. “They are our thralls, you know. Even if they can call on us for our magic. We’re the devils, not them. And you gave them all a daughter. They shall have to truly honor you for that, and be patient.”
“I don’t want them to grow weak,” Arody said, in a small voice.
He didn’t. And some of them — Adam, Bright — had given so much. Their souls were flimsy, sweet things. Things that needed bolstering and protecting, like the babe.
“They were born weak,” Whippoorwill said irritably. “All humans are.”
Arody blinked.
He thought perhaps everyone was. Him too. He had been such a pitiful, defenseless thing for so long.
Until he had loved. Been allowed to love. Now he was stronger. And when he wasn’t so strong, he could rest. He could clutch his daughter and let his eyes close, and fall asleep tasting the lovely spell that was being safe and cared for.
-
She spoke at nine weeks. Babbled, really. By then Whippoorwill had begun to show, his own belly rounded, and had decided he too had the maternal instinct. Will would cart the babe about the house and garden while Arody slumbered.
Birthing another devil left him fit to do nothing but eat and sleep and be tended to. He had never known such indulgence. He would wake, stick out his tongue and taste the baby’s giggles as she was bounced on Bright’s knee in the kitchen, or kissed and adored by May. Then he would sigh, happy, turn over, and sleep again. At least until his girl needed feeding.
More than two months had passed like this, and now she was babbling.
Lightning cracked across the sky. Devils, when they spoke, spoke spells. He could hear Adam cursing in the garden, rushing to get Wanton and Comeuppance safe into the stable before the storm began in earnest. Jack thundering up the stairs to get the upper windows papered up.
Already it sounded like the sky was breaking.
But Will was cooing encouragement at their little girl, somewhere in the great room.
Arody pushed himself up in his bed. Stumbled out. His legs felt ungainly. His body was thinner than before, but there was no soreness. Tongue, tail, cunt, and cock felt a-shiver, as his old hungers awoke with him. He pulled on a green dressing gown Barnabas had sewn him, and walked unsteadily to the landing, then down the stair.
By the time he had stumbled into the great room, they were all there. Attending to the new devil, such a tiny one, but growing fast. Much faster than normal children. She smacked a rag doll one of the witches must have made her against the floor, delighted by the storm outside. The one she had caused.
“Bang!” she shrieked, and for her efforts she had charmed five humans and a devil, who rushed to tell her how clever she was. “Bang! Tell Mama!”
“Nah, honey. He’s sleeping,” Barnabas said. He was kneeling by the girl, building something from blocks. Her forked tongue snuck out and knocked it over, and she erupted into giggles at the chaos.
“Bang! Want Mama!”
“I’m here,” Arody said.
They all looked to him, but he only had eyes for her. She stared back at him and broke into a smile. Her eyes were human eyes, though she was a devil. Large, black, long-lashed, and beautiful. He had thought they were Bright’s eyes, the first time he had seen them.
Power burst across the sky, and the coven’s power painted the world inside the house vivid and warm, herbal and tangy and too-sweet and smoky and more. Arody let the comfort wash over him, as he picked up his girl and held her close. She hugged him on instinct.
He put his nose to her unruly tangle of hair and inhaled nothing but good. And there was that taste again. The taste of a wide open future, free of pain.
“I’m here, Maria,” Arody said, and was happy.