“A healer?”
A soft laugh comes from under the hood. “No.”
My throat tightens, but I do not step back. “A demon.”
“One of consequence.”
The warehouse seems to lean closer.
“What does it cost?”
“Collateral.”
“I have coin.”
“Coin is for bread, boots, and men who think doors open because they knock. This requires living collateral.”
The parchment shifts. A line of text glows brighter than the rest.
I read quickly, too quickly, catching words like hooks: petition, cure, infernal party, binding audience, collateral surety. Then I see the line that matters most.
Lifespan pledge.
“How much?” I ask.
“That depends on what is required.”
“No. That is not an answer.”
“It is the only honest one. Your pledged years secure the petition. Should the infernal party agree to intervene, the final price will be negotiated directly.”
I look at the deeper script beneath the clause. The letters are smaller there, layered and barbed, written in a legal cadence that makes my eyes ache. Some of it shifts when I try to focus. I catch fragments: bond exposure, embodied surety, transferable obligation, appetite acknowledgment.
“What does this mean?”
“It means the contract recognizes you as collateral.”
“I gathered that.”
“Then you understand enough.”
“I understand plenty of people say that when they hope you won’t ask the next question.”
The broker’s hood angles toward me. “Ask, then.”
I think of Corin on the floor with blood on his mouth. I think of him on the stairs, trying to joke while his legs give out. I think of him whispering, You’re bargaining, as though love can be clean if it refuses to kneel.
The next question dies on my tongue.
“Will this get me to someone who can save him?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Then give me the pen.”
“No pen.”
A needle rises from the contract’s lower edge, thin as a thorn and wet with red light.
