I lived under his blood money my whole adolescence, never questioning what made our family so rich, so quickly. Within my childhood, our status changed with every passing season. I was proud of our name on ships around the world. I pictured thankful fisherfolk and travelers.
What’s happening to the business now in the absence of any heir? We were a small family. My father’s siblings died in their infancies, and the far-flung cousins on my mother’s side in the Old World were never present. But the shipyards won’t sit barren. Not with so much money to be captured. Given his mention on the poster, Thomas Seymour may be managing the business until Liney and I are found. His claim to the business would be in question, given no marriage took place. So he flames public interest in my parents’ murders. But why not go after an easier target? Perhaps he has. Another young woman, another opportunity wrapped in chiffon.
I toss half the newspaper into the fireplace when I finally rise. The fire crackles, as though the weight of the words gives the pages the substance of a whole log.
It’s well into the evening now. The few remaining guests are either drunk or have arrived from out of town, road-weary. No one notices me stealing a handful of salt from the nearest shaker.
I head upstairs for my final task. It’s been a successful trip so far. I might return home early.
I should be nervous. Instead, though my arms and back ache, I stand at the threshold of my room at my full height, spread a circle of salt around me, and knock on my own guest room door.
“Come in.”
26Elle
To Demand
I step into the same room as when we closed my first contract. The edges drip eternally. Stalactites of red wax drip into stalagmites below, yet they don’t lose their original length. Hundreds of small flames flicker on every wall. Despite their light, the room’s gloom covers Mr. Pratterman in dark crimson. Only his pale eyes are untouched by the red.
He sits at a writer’s desk made of cherrywood. It’s lacquered so smoothly that my figure reflects in it as I approach. Scrolls, ledgers, and inkpots litter the surface.
The first time I called on the Devil, he made this room a welcoming place of hibiscus tea and pleasantries. A trap of good manners for a desperate young woman. Now there’s only the cursed business of sacrifice between us in this forever-melting room beyond the world.
“Good evening, Elle. Or perhapsIlis more appropriate, given the attire?” His tone is dry as bone. He doesn’t look up from a large book. He scratches his chin with one long, dark fingernail. A fire crackles in a fireplace beside him. Why a fireplace when the whole room is burning?
He wanted ferocity last we met. I stride forward and stand behind the chair opposite him. I start with the boldest ask. What I don’t think possible to request, if only to know I tried to stop an innocent death.
“Pick anyone else.”
He taps his chin three times. The book isn’t a bound tome. It’s a piled collection of torn paper, black and curling at the edges. “Is something wrong with Miss Coleman?” False innocence coats his words.
“Look at me.” My voice pierces through the blood-tinged fog around us.
“When you’ve done something interesting, then I’ll—”
He wants a strong will, fine. I can’t threaten him physically. So how? He came searching for me today, before I reached for him. He needs me. I can use that. I’ve learned how to withhold.
“Choose me instead.” What could be worse? More personal? “Or I’ll end it myself. Plenty of knives in the kitchen downstairs.”
He doesn’t look up, but that won’t dissuade me. Terror doesn’t require cruelty, only conviction. I turn on my heel and stride back to the hall, a curtain between the dark dream and the earthly doorway. I don’t pause. My foot is already halfway through the threshold when his clawlike hand grasps my arm and tugs me back.
I stumble, his chest against my back and his arms around me. His scent surrounds me. Memories of taste, of tongue.
“Icould,” he says, soft and slithering at my ear. “But why would I? I already have you.”
He doesn’t let go. I grasp his arms, gripping them tight.
“Did you cheat?” I ask. “Did you send her?” One wrong word is the strand in our dark tapestry that may fray into chaos should I not catch it in time. We stand in this impasse, squeezing each other like a pair of snakes. Does this endless creature of darkness feel some form of closeness to me? His breath is hot on my neck, nearly burning—but not quite. My body has learned how to survive greater blazes.
“I’ve never lied to you,” he says slowly. “I didn’t cause Miss Coleman’s survival.”
I turn in his grasp. His hands spread across my back. We’re inches apart. Him, biblically damned. Me, lost sinner in need of more damnation.
“Then why stick with her?” I ask, my voice edged with fear. “She’s a stranger to me. Wouldn’t my death be more devastating? Isn’t that what you’re looking for? The most pain, the most efficiently? Or am I too tempting for you to lose?”
His eyes burn moonlight. There’s no smirk on his face. Instead, a sneering scowl has spread across his gaunt features. I know that feeling, that defense to cover the burden of fear. I mirror him, but can he see it in me? Fire and desperation fight in my veins to control me. I don’t want to die. Not only because of what surely awaits me on the other side of the knife. To see Liney again, to hear her laugh, to cook for her again? Those mundane moments are diamonds to me now. Tears might’ve betrayed me if they didn’t sizzle in my ducts.
“There is no mortal who cannot become mine to claim, Eleanor. You are useful. Do not misunderstand that to mean necessary.”
