Page 3 of Reap & Sow

“Eda.”

“Mr. Night.”

A silly name, but one that stuck. Eda was a babe in arms when he’d first walked through the mirror. Lawrie had been five. As Ben told it, the little boy had mustered a nervous “Good night, mister” every time the demon left them. The nickname soon followed.

For whatever reason, Mr. Night found it charming. They’d used it ever since.

“This man would like to make a Pact,” she said.

Bartholomew flinched.

Mr. Night’s eyes—an icy gray—slid toward him. Eda imagined what it must be like for Bartholomew, seeing a demon for the first time. Mr. Night’s skin was pale, his hair even more so. It fell halfway down his back in a luxurious snow-white spill. His clothes were just as fine: a black tunic and matching silver-trimmed jerkin, so soft they appeared more liquid than material. With his angular features and curved smiling mouth, Mr. Night was undeniably beautiful. There was nothing outwardly inhuman about him, yet something decidedly other in his manner. It made Eda’s hair stand on end.

The demon prowled toward Bartholomew. “You may leave us, Eda.”

His tone was smooth as syrup, but she knew an order when she heard one. Eda gave Bartholomew’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll wait upstairs.”

“Tell me, then,” Mr. Night crooned as she retreated up the stairwell. “What is it you desire?”

She was not supposed to eavesdrop. Better not to know, Ben would say. Their business is none of ours.

But Eda rarely denied herself the indulgence of morbid curiosity. Lawrie called her pathologically nosy. Perhaps, but Mr. Night didn’t mind, and he always knew when she’d been snooping. That was good enough for her.

Eda pulled the cellar door to—save a few inches—and squatted down to peek. The back of Bartholomew’s head was just visible through the stairwell. Clearer still was Mr. Night as he paced the room. He had an uncanny stillness about him even in motion, not a single iota of exertion spent without purpose, every step perfectly measured. His head sat preternaturally still upon his neck. No matter which way he turned, his stare never left Bartholomew. It reminded Eda of the way some portraits followed you with their eyes in dark haunted rooms.

Bartholomew said something in a thin voice. All she made out was the word justice. Her mind spun with fanciful ideas. Nothing so pedestrian as money, then. Revenge? She’d eavesdropped often enough to know both were common motivators. If only more dealies dared speak of their Pact, perhaps fewer would seek one out at all. Bargains such as these rarely ended well.

Once, Eda recalled, a poor man had come asking for gold—more than his children’s children could ever spend. Mr. Night turned stones into golden marks, which appeared overnight in the man’s crowded boarding house, piled so high they spilled from the windows into the street like rain. Neighbors swarmed the place, snatching what they could in a giddy fervor before the Order of the Blade arrived to seize the rest. Rightly accused of Pact-making, the man returned to Shaws’ Antiques, furious and desperate.

You failed to specify where and how you wanted your precious gold, Mr. Night told him. Now leave this place before I gut you where you stand. Unless you wish to strike another bargain?

The Blades caught and hanged the man within a fortnight.

Sometime later, a young woman came weeping over her faithless husband. I love him so, but his eyes wander. I fear I’ll lose him. Let him see only me. Mr. Night gave her an enchanted ring. By morning, her husband was blind. In his ruined sight, he saw her alone—her gleaming ring, hovering like a specter no matter which way he turned. He called it a curse. Strangled her in their front room. The broadsides reported on it for days.

Eda’s disgust warred with her intrigue as she considered Bartholomew. She thought little of anyone foolish enough to make deals with devils—resented that she must bring them to Mr. Night at all. But at least when they wished for riches or beauty or power, her dislike felt justified. Greed and vanity were easy to despise. But to come here begging for revenge? To ease the pain of a broken heart or right a terrible wrong?

She pitied them.

Mr. Night stopped pacing. “My price, then.” He rubbed a finger against his lip. “Twenty years.”

Eda hissed through her teeth. Twenty! It was not the highest sum he’d ever demanded, but it was close. Clerics of the Faithhood liked to talk about the perils of losing one’s soul to a demonic bargain, but if souls were real, demons had no interest in them. Human years, however…

“T-twenty? That’s absurd!” Bartholomew was no longer whispering. His voice rose in outrage.

“No.” Mr. Night’s eyes flashed. The sconces flickered. Shadows rose up the walls, bleeding across the ceiling like spilled ink. “It is exactly the right price. But if you are not prepared to pay it…”

“I…I just…”

“Listen how the lamb bleats!” he laughed. “I, I, I. That is why you come, isn’t it, you mortals? You want and you want so shamelessly. But no matter. I would never pass judgment.” Mr. Night slipped behind Bartholomew and touched him on the shoulder, as a friend might. “I can fulfill your most fervent wishes. You need only offer me a little time in return. And what is time, to you humans?” His tone gentled. “Your lives are so easily cut short regardless.”

With a flourish, crisp parchment appeared as if from nowhere in the demon’s hand. Eda recognized the familiar heading scrawled atop it in bold, swirling letters: Binding Pact of Mortal Trade. The details were lost on her save for that core stipulation common to all Pacts: Should a demon fail to fulfill their side of the bargain, the proposed number of years would be taken from their lifespan instead. So far as Eda knew, this was one of only two ways a dealie might see their years returned to them.

The contract’s ruddy penmanship shone in the firelight. Eda had never actually seen Mr. Night bleed and often wondered at the art of forging a Pact. Did he cut himself? Dip some fancy quill into an inkwell full of his precious blood and sit scribbling away at a writing desk?

The thought was so silly she might have laughed. But Mr. Night was leaning over Bartholomew’s shoulder, mouth to ear. “Sign here, sweet Bartholomew, and you will have your justice.”

The silence hung heavy. Flames crackled.