Chapter 3 - Reap and Sow

“We’ll lie low.” Ben was pacing. Boots still muddy from the day’s work, he didn’t seem to care that he was treading dirt onto the rugs. “There’s nothing else to be done. Lawrie and I will stop searching for dealies until this bishop grows bored and things cool down.”

“Didn’t seem the type to grow bored, Ben,” Lawrie said, brooding on the stairs. “He’s been petitioned by the Patriarch himself to sort out Blackbridge’s little demon problem. He means business.”

Eda rubbed her temple. It was early in the evening, but she felt weary enough for bed already. Green light flooded the shop, tinted by the windows. Cluttering the casements were some of their most visually interesting stock: a huge brass globe, a Forisian dining service, a taxidermy peafowl complete with a train of shimmering tail feathers. Ben nearly knocked the thing over with his pacing, and she couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “Lawrie is right. Gateways, Pacts, soul brokers like us—Florian Fane isn’t going to stop hunting them down after a few weeks, Ben. I saw his face. He’s committed.”

“This Conclave business has gotten the Faithhood riled up, is all. It isn’t the first time the Blades have declared crackdowns, and the investigations always pass. You think someone like Severin Lich lasted this long without knowing when to pause trade?”

Severin Lich had fingers in many nefarious pies. Illegal bookmaking, racketeering, exports. But the man was whispered of throughout the same dens and taverns Ben and Lawrie haunted for one particular reason.

He had a Gateway.

Lich had been running a soul brokerage business longer than the Shaws ever had, and far more successfully. His influence was strongest in the upper city, where the more underhanded nobles of Blackbridge flocked to him for Pacts. Lich had obviously learned of the Shaws and their Gateway—their elusive mustachioed voyeur proved as much—but they’d never poached his clientele. That alone might have spared them his ire.

“Lich is a businessman, not indentured like us. He takes coin, and a lot of it. He can afford to pause his operation for a time.”

“We can’t afford to get caught, Eda.” Ben scrubbed a hand over his face. “Not now.”

His weariness roused her sympathy. She remembered when he used to play on the street outside with a wooden sword, stern little face taut with concentration. He’d wanted to be a Blade. Eda suspected he still did, though he never said so. The Order of the Blade represented everything Ben was not permitted to be—noble, honest, free of shame. A champion of the commonfolk. Thanks to Oswin’s Pact, he was instead forced to act the shadow dogging their steps, preying upon their weaknesses like a starved wolf. He hated demons all the more for having to work for one.

Ben had the heart of a knight. It was a special sort of cruelty, Eda thought, to be twisted into the monster you were born to slay.

When Oswin died, Ben took whatever work he could find to keep his siblings fed. His current role as Head Stablehand for the Blades was as close as he might ever get. He liked horses, and the pay was fair, but he was surely only punishing himself. To watch those men and women in their shining armor pass him by, day after day, while he cleaned up their steeds’ muck…

Still. The position brought in coin, and being employed by the Blades meant Ben was mostly beneath suspicion. No simple stablehand would moonlight as a soul broker right under their noses. Or so they thought.

Eda slid from her perch on the countertop. “This bishop doesn’t seem like any we’ve had before. The Faithhood has always denounced Blackbridge as the most depraved city in Wesland—now they’re finally trying to clean it up. We can’t wait around and hope they’ll ease off. We don’t even know when this Conclave will be held, and autumn harvest is just three weeks away.”

“You suggest we carry on as normal? It’s only a matter of time before we’re caught. We can’t go around telling folk where to go for Pacts with the Blades pushing so hard for information. They’ll increase the reward money, and the bishop is already whipping up religious fervor—”

“There’s a reason you choose marks so carefully. Those people want a Pact far more than whatever petty sum the Blades might offer for information. We only need one more, maybe two.”

“I’m not arguing with you.”

She clenched her fists. “Well, I’m arguing with you. Lawrie?”

Lawrie was silent, but she knew he would be. This was an old tableau: Ben would snarl, Eda would snap, and Lawrie would hover at the fringes of the skirmish calling for peace. It wouldn’t bother her, except that Lawrie’s idea of mediation invariably meant taking Ben’s side. Easier to pacify Eda than challenge the elder brother he so admired.

She was not pacified now. “You know the terms. If we don’t bring Mr. Night his fifty years by autumn harvest…” Her voice shook. “He will kill us, Ben.”

The silence was stifling.

“Perhaps—” Lawrie cleared his throat. “Perhaps we could finish it ourselves. If we had to. Ten years between the three of us…That’s not so bad, is it?”

It took Eda a moment to grasp his meaning. She laughed shrilly. “Be serious.”

“He’s right, Eda.” Ben stared at the floor, jaw tense. “It would be a last resort, but it’s an option.”

“Option?” She looked between them, increasingly tempted to lob that bloody peafowl at their thick heads. “What sort of option is that? We’ve already given Mr. Night countless years of service, thanks to Oswin, and now you want to give him even more—”

“Don’t bring Father into this,” Ben snapped. “I wouldn’t ask it of you, anyhow. Lawrie and I would do it.”

He said it as though it were already decided. Eda nearly choked on her rage. “You—what? Have you lost your mind? I won’t let you take my share of that burden. Not ever. It’s a ridiculous idea, besides. We are not dealies.”

“Enough!” Ben’s eyes flashed in warning. “We lie low, and that’s final. I’m doing this to protect you.”

“You’re doing this because you have to be in control of everything,” she cried, jabbing her finger at him. Indignation roared like wildfire. “If you’d only allow me to help more, we could have cleared our debt years ago!”

“You really think Mr. Night will let us go, even if he gets his precious years? You forget, Eda—there’s always a loophole. We still have that mirror in our cellar. His doorway to our world. You think he’ll just let us get rid of it?”

“He’s not interested in making us his prisoners—”

“He’s a demon!” Ben roared. “Are you really such a fucking imbecile?”

Lawrie inhaled sharply. Cold shock fell over her like rainwater.

Ben never talked to her like that.

They stared at one another. After a strained silence, Eda found her voice. “I’m clever enough to know that there’s nothing good left in this city. You won’t have to bother yourself over me for long, Ben. When our Pact is done, I’m leaving.”

She stormed upstairs. Lawrie called her name. Eda ignored him. She despised the juvenile stinging of her eyes, the pain lancing her throat. She kept the tears from falling until her bedroom door slammed shut behind her.

* * *

Eda was a restless sleeper. Most nights she crept along their hallway to draw herself a cup of water in the early hours.

Perhaps that was why he knew to wait for her.

The Shaws resided above the shop. Their little kitchenette connected to a cramped, cluttered living space that seemed a mere extension of the chaos downstairs. Eda usually ended up tripping over some book or trinket Lawrie left lying about.

This time, she only tripped because Mr. Night was sitting in front of their fire.

“Good evening, Eda.” He inclined his head. “Or, perhaps, good morning.”

Flames crackled merrily, rekindled from dying embers. Mr. Night sat on the padded bench they used as seating; he gestured for her to join him. Her mouth ran dry. She could count on one hand the number of times he appeared without first being called.

The night of her father’s burial—she remembered that well. Mr. Night had never agreed to protect Oswin from natural illness, and it had taken her father swiftly. After he was put in the ground, the demon came calling.

Perhaps she’d been too young to understand the danger, or the weight of the day had sapped her of all common sense. But Eda had watched Mr. Night sit on the end of her bed with only fleeting unease. Said hoarsely, “I’m just crying because I don’t know what we’ll do. I’m not sad he’s dead. I should be sad, but I’m not.”

The demon merely smiled, reaching out to wipe at the tear rolling down her cheek. “You are wise to save your grief for one more deserving, sweet Eda. Now sleep. All will be well.”

Eda, seven years old and weeping and desperate for a father she did not have, clutched her blanket and whispered, “You promise?”

“I know it.”

Now I’m a woman grown, and he looks just the same.

She sat beside him—at a healthy distance. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”

“Indeed. I mislike your mortal world. So full of noise and mess. But I enjoy speaking with you, dear one.” He sat angled toward her with hands clasped neatly in his lap. There was artifice in it, as one might sit for a portrait. He smelled like something wintry and ancient.

She chose her words carefully. “What would you like to speak about?”

“Our Pact, of course. I meant what I said. You should be happy with your freedom so close at hand. But dear Benjamin is ever dour. He mistrusts me, though I’ve never acted false.” Silver eyes narrowed. “Do you mistrust me?”

Eda recalled the tears he’d wiped away when she was seven. The constant presence he’d posed throughout her life, seen and unseen. He was frightening. He was dangerous. He held her life in the palm of his cruel, pale hand.

Besides her brothers and this shop, he was the only constant she’d ever known. “Perhaps I should.” She watched the flames dance in the hearth. “Ben thinks you intend to trick us.”

“Benjamin is foolish. You are not.” The praise warmed her. “You see the greed and the selfishness of man as I do, Eda Shaw. Your brothers and all the rest despise my kind, yet they yearn for our gifts—our power. Hypocrisy is in your nature. As an attraction to precious things is mine.” He looked abstract in the nebulous orange light. “And nothing is so precious as time itself.”

This was why he never seemed to age. Demons siphoned years off a mortal life to extend their own. And once our Pact is done, Mr. Night won’t have anyone to bring him his years like grapes on a platter. He hadn’t needed to lift a finger in two decades; would he so easily give that up?

“What will happen once our debt is paid? The Gateway is still here. Do you…expect us to continue looking after it?” The words came thick as treacle, reluctant as she was to give them voice.

“I’ve no expectations beyond the fulfillment of your father’s Pact. Bring me those ten years, and your life shall be your own.”

Eda chewed her lip. Logically, there was no way to trust Mr. Night, though he’d never done anything to earn that distrust beyond being what he was. Why should she resent him when it was her father who’d placed them in Mr. Night’s thrall? For all his terrible power, all the years he’d stolen, Eda could rely on his selfish nature. To demand what he was owed and nothing more.

Humans, she found, were rarely so straightforward.

“A new cleric has come to the city looking for people like us. Ben and Lawrie don’t want to carry on hunting marks. They think it’ll pass before autumn harvest, but…” She could not say it. But if it doesn’t, you’ll kill us.

She wanted him to tell her that he would never do it, no matter their agreement. But it was easy to imagine him looking at her with those cutting eyes, saying, A deal is a deal, as if her life meant nothing. Perhaps it didn’t. To him, these twenty years must have passed like twenty minutes. What care could he have, for such a fleeting acquaintance?

Eda wanted him to care. She was mad, probably—something deeply askew in her gray matter—but couldn’t help it. Her brothers had ever been terrified and hateful of him, and so Mr. Night did not come to them of his own volition. But in Eda, he’d found a willing ear. A girl both unnerved and fascinated by the creature from another world. He’d watched her grow up, and she had watched him back, this strange shadow of a man. Mr. Night showed her grace where Ben criticized, encouraged her where Lawrie doubted. He listened to her. He knew her, sometimes better than her own brothers did. Certainly better than Oswin ever had.

Mr. Night was not her family. Eda wondered what it said about her, that she craved his favor as though he were.

“I don’t want to wait for my brothers,” she confessed. “Ben’s hesitation could damn us all. I could find us one final Pact, I know I could.”

Mr. Night leaned forward. Eda held her breath as he brushed her hair over her shoulder. “Do this thing, sweet Eda, and you will be free of fear. You are more than capable. I have never doubted your ability.” His voice softened. “I have never doubted you.”

She considered him. Eda’s most scathing inner thoughts often echoed Mr. Night’s voice—perhaps because he dispensed his disparagement so freely, and she dreaded it ever turning on her. But that made his approval all the headier. He was right: Eda was as much affected by her father’s deal as Ben and Lawrie. She had a right to act. Lying low to avoid the hangman’s noose was well and good, but what use would it be if Mr. Night executed them just the same?

Better the devil you know…

Eda searched his eyes. “You’re so certain.”

He smiled, wolfish. “I know it.”

* * *

Two days passed before she gathered the courage to act.

Finding potential dealies had always been Ben and Lawrie’s task, but Eda wasn’t ignorant of their routine. She knew the way of things.

First and most important—keeping identities hidden.

She frowned at herself in the mirror. Having an attic room meant that the wall sloped sharply, leaving little space to stand back and evaluate her outfit, but she managed. She’d borrowed a pair of Lawrie’s dirty trousers from the washing basket, since he wouldn’t notice them missing, rolled up thrice at the ankles. Eda wore one of Ben’s old jerkins that he’d given her years ago; not the most flattering cut, she thought, but warm. Last was her wool cloak. It was a dreary brown affair, boasting a long hem and a deep hood. She pulled it up to assess the overall effect.

Eda looked nondescript and nearly shapeless. She doubted even nosy Ferelith Dunn across the street would recognize her.

Good as it’s going to get.

The disguise was only a precaution. The chances of anyone knowing her beyond Crowgate’s borough limits were slim. But Ben and Lawrie never took chances. Neither would she.

Eda stepped into the hallway. She listened for noise beyond her brothers’ bedroom door. They were used to the sound of creaking floorboards in the night—her ritual visits to the kitchenette or the washroom made sure of it—but she stepped as lightly as she could. Ben had the ears of a bat and seemed especially attuned to her whereabouts or any perceived wrongdoing. Imagine his face when she told him their debt was paid! He’d have to concede that she’d been in the right. Eventually.

In the shop, only moonlight reflecting off puddles outside illuminated her way. She rummaged for the keys behind the counter and unlocked the front door.

Click.

Eda froze, but when no one came investigating, she grabbed a nearby footstool. Standing upon it, she carefully stuffed her kerchief inside the little brass doorbell, tying it around the clapper inside. This had better work.

She stepped down and slowly, slowly, turned the handle.

The door cracked open. The pulley sent the bell rocking, but only a dull thump sounded. She exhaled. Pulled up her hood and slipped outside, locking the door behind her.

Now came the next step—scour a viable haunt.

There were many such places across Blackbridge. Shady taverns, underground dens—anywhere that the hopeless and desperate might flock to like rats. Ben and Lawrie knew most of them. Eda recalled mention of one in particular, south of the river on the border between Crowgate and the neighboring borough of Gaffham. If Crowgate had its rough with its smooth, then Gaffham was abrasive as sharkskin. Wherever her brothers had found Bartholomew, it surely hadn’t been there. Bored noble types often crossed the Shaws’ threshold, drawn by eclectic curiosities that might offer a brief diversion, but most of their dealies were poor.

For the penniless in Blackbridge, there were only two choices: sell the body or sell the soul. Years were easy to give up when you weren’t sure how many you had left anyway—or what they were worth.

Eda passed through a narrow alley beneath an old overstreet bridge. She spied pigeons in the moonlight, their dark shapes roosting beneath its finial-backed roof. The city boasted countless bridges, built as it was over flat wetlands liable to flooding. Scarcely a single building here wasn’t connected to the next by a little overstreet or rooftop walkway.

She pulled her cloak tight.

Eda almost never ventured out this late, and she felt the dissonance at once. Blackbridge came alive at night. Not in the way of vibrant daytime bustle but as a woodland teemed with secret, skulking creatures that only darkness could beckon forth. The buildings slumped against one another like drunks, timber jetties warped with age. Blackened gables merged seamlessly with the night sky, where needle-sharp spires speared the autumn moon. The city towered over everything like a dark cresting wave.

There was little chance of finding a dealie tonight. Ben and Lawrie came out most evenings and still struggled to find anything promising—sometimes for months on end. But she had to start somewhere.

Eda avoided eye contact with wandering vagrants and stepped over shit dumped from chamber pots. A dog shivered in a doorway. Someone bellowed in argument beyond. Nightwalkers gathered around greased windows and whistled at her, smelling of cloying rose and sour ale. A swaying man stood among them; he turned his face from a heaving bosom to leer at her. Eda walked faster.

Just a bit farther…

She knew she’d reached Gaffham when she crossed the arched bridge over Eastside Canal. Black water sloshed below. A mallard quacked somewhere unseen. A gaggle of men belted a rowdy song into the night, sending echoes bouncing over walls. Eda ventured down the main thoroughfare. A few windows were lit from within by candlelight, but most were dark as pitch. I know it’s around here somewhere, but where? Just off the main street, Lawrie had said in passing.

Her head swung left and right, until finally—

Ah.

Down a narrow side street between two storefronts, a broad plasterwork sign was lit from below by a hanging lamp. A spindly hand was painted palm up, reaching out in supplication. Eda wandered closer.

The Crooked Hand.

This was it.

Trepidation rolled down her spine. Don’t cower now, she told herself, or else what was all this for?

Eda took a deep breath.

Time to find one final Pact.