That fear of loss, the absolute understanding of doom for yourself and the most important person to you, has haunted me as closely as Douglas ever since. I was left retching while Mr. Pratterman soaked in the souls. I promised myself one thing.
I would never allow these sacrifices to go to waste.
I keep the connection between the bottom of the spiral and its tendrils taut. The ship will crash no matter what happens now, but I’m the mechanism that ensures their souls are captured properly.
The ship is entangled. Dark vines the width of city streets wrap it beyond hope of extrication.May these souls act as coals to the fires of the underground. May they find their place in the courts of hell. May they grant me freedom for their suffering.
The language of sacrifice isn’t ruled by grammar or tense. While I may hate Mr. Pratterman for his tricks, I understand this language more than English, more than love or loss or livelihood. Sacrifice has been in my veins since my birth. My future for my parents to extend the bloodline. My happiness to keep Thomas away from Liney. My parents for our escape.
Sacrifice is simple. One element is ended so that another can continue. Nature is made of sacrifice, and so is hell.
My eyes reflect in the pane of glass. Twin burning flames, like Mr. Pratterman’s in the dark dream. Douglas is right. I’m the monster as much as the Devil is. At least he has the excuse of it being in his nature.
The words I mumble devolve from coherent prayers to loose strings of words. Regretful, not powerful. The antithesis of sacrifice.
Souls of the fire in the coals of the damned and the freedom of the oil from the pits of the—
“You were doing sowell, Elle.”
There are now four flames glowing in the window. Mine red, his white.
“I’m doingdamnwell,” I fire back. His presence has rekindled my rage. His power tastes of ash, while mine tastes of smoke. A sizzling spark. A firework ready to shoot out. Still wild, unlike the tamed spiral.
I feel him through the lighthouse. Heavy footsteps on my stairs. The edge of his coat against the grain of wood. Wind ripples my trunk.
Part of me is here staring down my soul’s debt collector. Another is that hunger, gathering to consume each soul on board. Sliding over rain-slicked planks to clutch the ankles of young men, old men, men returning home. They’re meat and suffering and life, and—above all—fear.
Fear is the most sustaining state. Before the body is consumed, that fear will pulse from the tip of the spiral’s tendrils down to its core beneath the lighthouse. Strengthening it. Preparing it for the feast. As it closes around the ship, the panic of the sailors comes into focus.
—Worst I’ve ever seen. Where is Edmund? I must tell him—
—Where is it? Come on, come on, come on—
—Fucking rain and fucking gale—
—I can’t. Not here. We’re so close. What? No. God. No. No—
Confusion. Terror. Prayers. Always the same with sailors. Yet, like licorice sliding down the gullet, the bitter tinge overtakes the brief sweetness of the spiral’s satisfaction. Ashen.
I force a cough back down when the tendrils connect to their victims and tighten around my own throat. I must ensure Liney’s safety, as these men scramble through their final moments.
“Center yourself,” Mr. Pratterman says. His hot breath tickles the back of my neck. “This is the pivotal moment. Let it guide you.”
I want to redirect the tendrils back to land, up the stairs to this lightroom, and around his neck. But it’d be like splashing water on the ocean or adding fire to a burning pyre. The fire and darkness that flow through my body are his.
“Promise you’ll take me,” I counter. I pause my chants despite every muscle screaming not to. I turn around. We are nearly nose-to-nose. His face flickers in the light of my eyes. My red flames overpower his pale moonlight. We both know I won’t waste a ship, but this display of will might grant me some small leverage. It is the only time I’m between him and what he needs. “That was always the deal, in the true meaning. If you take Liney, I’ll be useless to you. Let’s keep this simple. Between us.”
The tendrils squeeze harder on my neck, but I don’t budge.
He tilts his head. Good. He’d laugh at me if he weren’t seriously considering. He’s calculating the unholy mathematics to garner the most suffering.
I don’t care. He can have an eternity of misery from me. And he knows it.
“This is the edge I wanted, Eleanor,” he whispers, a smile creeping over his thin lips. The world is still, save for us. “This is the woman I saved.”
His eyes fall to my lips, then back to my gaze. A new contract. How many can say they’ve made two deals with the Devil?
“One caveat.”
