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Prologue
“Please, I’ll do anything.”
My hand tightens into a fist as a quiet sob escapes from the human groveling in front of me.
They always come to me like this—no one summons Ruskin Blackcoat unless they can see no other option. When every alternative has run dry, that’s when my name becomes a prayer rather than a curse. For a while, at least. As long as they cling to a sliver of hope as I hand them the thing their heart desires most.
“But will you give anything?” I ask. He should be more careful with his promises, but he reeks of desperation. It’s a heady smell, and it acts on his kind like a drug, setting them up for bad decisions. Which is all the better for me.
His eyes widen at my smile, meaning it has had the intended effect. He’s starting to understand the danger of the game he’s playing.
“Wh-what do you want?” he stammers.
I examine my claws, recently sharpened for the occasion. Every now and again a human will seek me out for greedier reasons than hopelessness. Just a few weeks ago a fool and his friends summoned me thinking they could trap me—cage me—and force me to shower them with riches. But I have dealt with worms like them many times before. They are a recurring pest that springs up every few years—a nuisance but not a problem.
I left their flesh in ribbons and their entrails decorating the walls. And just in case the fools’ friends and neighbors didn’t get the message, I’ve adapted my form to spell it out, with fang and claw on display so it’s utterly clear: I’m not safe. You’re not safe when you deal with me.
And if you choose to make a deal anyway…the consequences are on you.
“That depends. What do you have of value?” I study him next. He’s probably too old to take what I really want, but that’s why I’m so good at being adaptable. “You’ve lived a lot of life, sir,” I say. “You have a lot of memories.”
Fear. The expression that shines back at me most often when people see me. How easy it is to ignite it within them. I barely even need to try.
“My memories?” His voice wavers.
“Yes. I’ll relieve you of those pesky recollections from before…let’s say the age of twenty? And in return, I’ll fix that troublesome heart of yours.”
His eyes well as he realizes just how much he must give up.
“Twenty? But…I met my wife then. That’s when my father died. I…I won’t remember any of that?”
I want to snap that we all have to make sacrifices. But I manage to rein in my impatience. This is still a delicate negotiation.
“Come now. Half of that is a childhood I’m sure you barely recall anyway—and isn’t that a worthy exchange for living long enough to see your grandchildren?” It’s always useful to remind them of their mortality—their fragile hold on this life and how easily it can be snatched away.
He swallows, then straightens his back, summoning up the courage for what he’s about to sign away.
“All right, I agree to your terms.”
“Excellent.” I rest a hand on his head and the other on his heart. I ignore the way he flinches under my touch, focusing on searching out the magic that will exchange one type of life force for another—channeling the leftover amount where I really need it.
His memories unpeel themselves from his mind like layers from an onion—brighter and more vivid than I’d dared to hope. He has good recall for a man his age. Meanwhile, I burrow into the recesses of his heart, finding the weak valve that’s caused him one heart attack already.
It’s when I’m on my way out, pulling loose my magic’s hold on him, that I see it: the growth in his lungs, white and tentacled among the pink of his flesh, an unwelcome passenger.
He’s asked me to fix his heart, but even with that repair, I doubt this man will live much past his next birthday.
But that’s none of my concern. A deal’s a deal.
I release him as he gasps, his eyes blank for a moment as he tries to adjust to a world without his childhood in it. He massages his chest, perhaps sensing the renewed strength there.
“Thank you,” he says, disoriented, but grateful.
“Don’t thank me,” I reply, straightening my cuffs. I haven’t done this man any favors, but I have given him what he asked for. Humans can rarely tell the difference before it’s too late. “It’s just business.”
Chapter 1
“Exquisite lockets! Magnificent bracelets! Beautiful ornaments made with human hands!” My sales pitch merges with the hubbub of the market as I navigate the narrow aisles between stalls. I raise my voice a few decibels, hoping that it will find its way into the pointed ears of my potential customers.
