Chapter 8 - Reap and Sow

“Is that it?”

At her shoulder, Hillock grunted. “That’s the place.”

Eda observed the line of tenements across the street warily. The entire row was made of stone, slate on every roof and latticed glass in every window. They were resplendent among the tired stucco and warped timber throughout the streets beyond.

Cannington was one of the wealthiest boroughs in Blackbridge. Here on Harecourt Road, the thoroughfares were wide and cobbled, with paths to stay clear of trundling carts. The tenements faced onto such a street. Young hornbeam trees lined the riverbank on the other side. The Saint’s Waterway still stank, but it seemed somehow less egregious in such neat surrounds.

Eda was a far cry from Crowgate now.

She rarely came this far into the upper city, though not for lack of wanting. As a girl she’d fantasized about losing herself among the collared dresses and expensive masonry, if only to imagine she belonged, living another life entirely. The reality was no less elegant. And yet, now that Eda was here, she felt no awe—only a dim sense of indignation. So many years spent dreaming of new places, and the first time she ventured forth in earnest, it was to sell her proverbial soul.

The entire street could burn for all she cared.

“I can’t believe a demon would actually live here, right under the noses of the most powerful people in Blackbridge,” she said. “It’s too…obvious.”

Hillock huffed. “Could be that’s the point, miss.”

It was drizzling, a persistent rain that fell more like mist than water. Eda might’ve taken her hood down, sheltered as she was beneath the hornbeam’s golden branches, but she didn’t dare. She felt exposed enough being out of doors, as though her clothes were sheer as gossamer. The Blades would still be searching for her. If she possessed more self-preservation, she would already be on a boat leaving Blackbridge.

But it wasn’t her own skin she was here to save.

There are rumors, Severin Lich told her that morning after he’d permitted her a few restless hours of sleep in his office, surroundin’ High Governor Wolfram himself. Many still speculate how he won the vote against far bigger players. Almost twenty years, he’s been this city’s representative. Longer than any to come before. Some like to joke that he sought out a demon’s aid to maintain his position.

Lich did not personally know the demon Mr. Night sought, but he had eyes and ears all over the city. Information, after all, was worth its weight in gold. A residence in Cannington had been purchased by the High Governor twenty years ago, around the same time he’d come into power. Lich had hoped to unearth some sort of illicit leverage. A secret paramour kept in luxury, perhaps. But Governor Wolfram hadn’t visited the place once.

The crime lord suspected a far more diabolical connection.

Eda bit the inside of her cheek as she studied the central tenement, three large windows spanning the top floor. Regardless of why the governor had bought this apartment on Harecourt Road, the place wasn’t empty. Lich’s men had observed lights in the windows. Conversations with local residents revealed that a young man had been seen coming and going over the years. Perhaps he was indeed a lover or even a bastard son kept from public view.

Lich had long speculated on the matter, but would only risk sticking his nose so far into Wolfram’s business, let alone a demon’s. It was impressive enough that he’d learned about the apartment at all.

He was keen to let Eda stick her nose in, instead.

“We doin’ this?”

She shot Hillock a dirty look, adjusted her hood, and strode across the street. He dogged her steps.

Eda was accustomed to keeping distance between herself and others. This was different. Walking among the Blackbridge elite was daunting enough for any Crowgate-born girl, but now…

Hillock overtook her and advanced down the path. Eda hung back as planned. Harecourt Road wasn’t so busy as it might’ve been on a fine day, but the rain couldn’t stop foot traffic altogether. Water carriers, ladies in fitted gowns, vendors with tinkling bells—it made for enough bustle to afford them some anonymity.

An austere doorman guarded the building. He was dressed in puffy breeches, standing vigil atop steps leading to lacquered double doors. He glowered at passersby.

Eda stopped and pretended to fuss with her cloak. Be ready.

“Ah! You there, good sir!” Hillock adopted a ludicrous accent reminiscent of the upper-city denizens, each syllable carefully drawn out. With his stylish tunic and fine leather boots, he didn’t look lowborn. “I know you shall be able to help me. I’m trying to get to Bellmoor Heath.”

The doorman seemed nonplussed by the pompous pageantry. “I’m afraid you’ve a ways to walk yet, sir. Bellmoor Heath is the next borough over, westward.”

“That’s what someone else told me, but I’ve no head for directions. Which way from here?”

“I’m currently indisposed, sir.”

“Just a moment of charity, I beg you. I’m from the capital, you see, and quite lost. Is it farther down this way?” Hillock stepped into the street, squinting. “Which direction once I get to the end of this thoroughfare?”

The doorman sighed and stepped away from his post. Eda’s heart lurched. “The other way, sir.”

Hillock spun on his heel. “Down there? There’s a fork in the road. Which path?”

“That central street will carry you directly to—”

“Which one?”

“That one.”

She inched closer.

“Oh, wouldn’t you point it out? My blasted eyes are no use at this distance.”

Visibly irritated, the doorman finally stepped into the street at Hillock’s shoulder. “There.”

“Where?”

His back was turned. Now. Eda scurried up to the doors and eased one open. Hillock must have seen her from the corner of his eye because he threw an arm around the doorman’s neck and pulled him close. “Truly, what are you seeing? I must be blind.”

“Are you mad? Get off me!”

Eda held her breath as she slipped inside and eased the door closed behind her. She stopped dead, momentarily stunned.

The foyer was wide and glazed. A central switchback staircase took pride of place, glossy with varnish and boasting a lush crimson runner. Above, a three-tiered iron chandelier was full of fresh candles, not a speck of dust in sight. Eda had never felt so out of place.

She scurried up the stairs. On the first floor she paused long enough to look out the window—Hillock was being shooed off by the doorman. His eyes flicked up to the window. He smirked at her before turning away.

Lich had done his part. The rest was up to her.

Lordfather, how did it come to this? Eda couldn’t decide if she dreaded finding a demon here or finding nothing at all. Perhaps both. But this was for Ben and Lawrie, she reminded herself, not an act of selfish greed or vain desire. This was for her family. She was not her father. And she would not turn back now.

There were two main doors on each floor, private dwellings with filigreed black knockers on each. Eda ignored them and continued her ascent. She thought she’d gotten away with her intrusion until she reached the third floor, when one of the apartment doors swung open.

An old woman dressed in satin stepped out and froze. Eda froze in turn.

They stared at one another.

“Who are you?”

The lady was obviously monied: Her green whalebone bodice was sewn with silver thread, the white ruff about her neck crisp and white. Eda was excruciatingly aware of her poorly rebraided hair and rumpled cloak. There was no denying she wore the trappings of a commoner. But she’d prepared for that. “Apologies for startling you, madam. I’m here interviewing for a maid’s position upstairs—I’ll be leaving shortly.” It was usual for commonfolk to apologize for simply existing in the same space as people like this.

The lady narrowed her eyes. “Upstairs? There’s only Mr. Kit that lives up there, and he’s never employed any help before now.”

Mr. Kit. Was that the demon? There was only one penthouse dwelling on the top floor.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about the master. Was just told to report to this address.”

The old woman huffed. “You shall get little insight from me, girl. I hardly ever see the man. I’m more acquainted with his cat, if you can believe it!”

With that, she closed her door and marched down the stairs. The train of her dress dragged behind her in a sumptuous river of satin. She spared Eda one last mistrustful glance before disappearing from view.

Eda hesitantly carried on. A cat. She tried to imagine Mr. Night making a pet out of some stray tabby and nearly snorted aloud. The prospect of finding an actual demon here seemed more unlikely by the second.

Upstairs, there was only one door. It looked identical to all the others. Eda wasn’t sure what she’d hoped for—something, anything, to indicate that a creature from another world roamed these halls. But it seemed she’d never know for sure without speaking to him. Like a visitor dropping by for tea.

Somehow, she found the courage to knock.

Eda waited. Nothing.

She bit her lip. Knocked again, harder.

Still nothing. Where on earth would a demon go in the middle of the day like this? A spot of shopping? A leisurely walk by the riverside? Mr. Night had little regard for such trivial human things, but this demon was hiding here by choice. Maybe they aren’t all alike.

Eda had convinced herself that exposure to Mr. Night meant she’d be prepared to meet another demon. Now she didn’t feel prepared at all. If Severin Lich was right, and the Otherworld was as tangible and complex as their own, mightn’t demons be just as varied as people? Just as unpredictable?

“Mr. Kit?” Her voice came thin with unease. Perhaps he can’t hear me. Eda gripped the doorknob and gave it a twist, fully expecting resistance—until it clicked open.

The door swung wide. “Hello?”

Within waited a short, dark hallway. Eda stiffly crossed the threshold and followed it into a sumptuously furnished parlor.

The drapes were half-drawn, milky daylight spilling across an intricately woven rug in slats. Dust motes danced over the back of a large velvet lounger strewn with feather cushions. Every timber wall was covered in paintings, empty goblets scattered here and there. In one corner, a marble statue of a scantily clad woman held dead flowers in her outstretched hand, as though someone found it amusing to stuff them there.

The place rivaled even the fullest corners of Shaws’ Antiques. But it was clearly lived in.

No one’s home. Chagrined, Eda turned to leave.

The door slammed shut.

She jumped. Her heart spurred into a gallop. She ran to the door, tried the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge.

Alarm spiraled into full-blown panic. Saints, what is this? “Let me out,” Eda snapped, sternly at first, then with increasing desperation. “I said let me out! Let me—” She froze. The hairs on her neck stood upright.

Someone was behind her.

Every instinct urged her to turn around. She strained for the sounds of footsteps, for breathing…but there was only the patter of light rain against the windows.

Courage, Eda.

She turned.

Sat in the center of the parlor was a black cat. It regarded her with vibrant orange eyes, tail curled about its paws.

Eda actually laughed aloud in relief. “Hello, kitty.” She gripped her chest. “You scared me.”

The cat continued to stare, motionless. Unease rippled down Eda’s spine. She liked cats. Had always wanted to keep one, but they irritated Lawrie’s eyes. Eda satisfied her longing by petting the local strays where she could. She had come to know how they moved, how they stretched and sauntered and flicked their tails. She’d never seen one so uncannily still as this.

“You didn’t lock the door, did you?” She said it in nervous jest, even as a cold wave of realization mounted. What had Mr. Night told the bishop, regarding the other demon?

He is a skilled shape-shifter.

She thought of the old lady on the landing.

I’m more acquainted with his cat.

Eda pressed herself against the door as though she could melt through it. She was locked in. Locked in with a…

She flexed her fingers. The cat did not look away.

Words came dry as parchment. “Demon. Show yourself.”

A twitch of a tail. Was she mistaken? Had the turmoil of the last twelve hours given her some sort of nervous disposition, sent her loopy at last?

But then the cat was no longer a cat.

It happened so quickly she hardly understood it. The creature’s glossy black fur rippled—a distortion underwater—then fell apart like smoke. Dark tendrils twisted up, up into the shape of a man. All over in three heartbeats.

The demon stood tall and still at the end of the corridor. “You’ve a good pair of eyes,” he said in a smooth, lilting tenor. “Tell me why you’re here, before I pluck them out.”

Eda swallowed. Couldn’t help but drink him in, rigid with fear and fascination both.

His hair was black and silken, falling nearly to his shoulders. A broad chest tapered to a narrow waist, lending him a slender frame that seemed ironically feline. Beneath his black hose he was barefoot, Eda noted with surprise. A burgundy undershirt hung loose at his throat, exposing rather more of his sandy-gold chest than could be considered proper. It was impossible not to compare him with Mr. Night, who was deathly pale and all angles: high cheekbones and a sharp, pointed chin. This face, while slender, seemed more gentle in its slopes and valleys—rolling hills rather than jagged mountains.

Those are his true eyes, Eda realized as they narrowed at her. That fiery orange…Mr. Night always kept his hidden. To make himself seem less threatening to the Shaws and those they brought before him, she assumed.

This demon obviously didn’t share the inclination. His gaze was unblinking and openly malevolent.

Eda wet her lips. “I come to make a Pact.”

“How quaint.” His eyebrows, dark but fine, lowered. “Come here.”

She didn’t move.

“Come here,” he repeated slowly, “or I’ll drag you by your fucking throat.”

Her pulse thundered. That smooth, commanding tone was eerily familiar. If he wanted to kill you, he’d have done so already, she told herself. Then again. Cats do like to play with their food.

He moved back to allow her into the parlor. They stood face-to-face, a shaft of light cutting across his cheek.

He was handsome. Eda expected that. Not the ethereal, fae-like beauty of Mr. Night but more akin to a figure from an oil painting. A certain haughtiness that made her think of princes and lords lying disheveled about beautiful castles.

His soft voice raised the hair on her arms: “How did you know to come here?”

“I—I didn’t. Not for certain. There’s a powerful man…a crime lord. He suspects the High Governor of making a Pact. Had enough information to send me here. He means to blackmail the governor, I think. If he can.”

“You work for him?” He began to circle her. This, too, was a familiar dance. Mr. Night always sized up his prey.

“No. His name is Lich. I went to him for help. I needed to find a demon I could make a Pact with, and he saw a chance to let me investigate on his behalf while I did it.”

Her honesty seemed to give the demon pause. She itched to look over her shoulder, to keep him in her eyeline. Not knowing what he meant to do was unbearable.

“And what proof do you intend to give this crime lord? Or is your word alone adequate to implicate the governor?”

So it was true.

“Of course not. He wanted something else in return for helping me.” The silence was ominous enough to speed her on: “There’s a mirror. A Gateway. It’s being held by the Faithhood, and I swore to get it for him.”

“How will you do that, darling?”

Darling. He wielded the term as mockery. “I’ll…need help. A demon’s help.”

“Hn.”

The noise was so distant that Eda couldn’t help but turn to look—and yelped in shock.

He was on the ceiling.

“You—!”

He stared down at her, one hand on his hip. His feet were planted firmly on the timber boards. Neither his clothes nor his hair seemed much affected by the concept of gravity, for they did not strain toward the floor. It was as if he stood in his own little bubble, where down was up and up was down. He started pacing around the chandelier. Eda was gobsmacked.

He’s nothing like Mr. Night. Not merely owing to his casual display of power—she was sure Mr. Night simply chose not to reveal the extent of his own—but in how free he was. His languid mannerisms, his debauched clothes and informal speech. While Mr. Night was not unfamiliar with the human world, he could never truly pass for one of them. His stiff gestures and unnerving stillness were too obviously other. But this demon…

He was alarmingly convincing.

Except for the part where he walked on ceilings, obviously.

“Tell me. Why do you seek to make a Pact?”

She swallowed. “My brothers were arrested by the Order of the Blade. When I rescue them, I retrieve the mirror, too. That’s my deal with Lich. But I’ve no hope of doing it alone.”

“My, my. What exactly did your dear brothers do, to get caught by the Order?”

“Does that matter?”

“Since the alternative to answering my questions is having your neck broken, I’d say so. Or would you prefer I rip out your heart?”

Eda dug her nails into her palms. She had to be careful about this. If he learned of her connection to Mr. Night, he’d likely refuse her outright. Or kill her. Mr. Night was actively searching for him and wanted him dead: This demon surely wouldn’t agree to anything that might pull him back into his enemy’s path.

But if Eda had learned anything from brokering Pacts, it was that many agreements had loopholes. Lying by omission was one of them. “We own an antiques shop, and a Gateway found its way to us. The Blades discovered it. That’s what Lich is after.”

In the gloom of the timbers overhead, orange eyes burned like signal fires. It was nightmarish. “And did these brothers of yours use this Gateway? Consort with demons?” He grinned, a fraction too wide. “Did you?”

“I’m consorting with one now.”

This seemed to amuse him. He suddenly dropped from the ceiling—twisting midair and landing lightly into a crouch. He rose just as quickly. Eda reeled in shock.

“Answer the question.”

“I’ve never made a Pact before. Nor my brothers.” Technically true. Eda stood firm as his gaze bore through her skull.

“You’re keeping secrets,” he mused. “I should kill you, if only for breaking into my home.”

“I’m telling the truth. I’ve no interest in tricking you. I need your help to save my family and get that mirror. That’s all I care about.”

“And what will you give me in return?”

She’d thought hard on what would make a fair offer. Asking a demon to risk his neck interfering with the Blades was no small feat.

Eda gritted her teeth. “Twenty years.”

He sneered. “Not interested.”

Eda was aghast. Not interested? Years were the one thing demons couldn’t resist, far more precious than coin or silks or jewels. Mr. Night had said as much. Lich all but confirmed it. Nothing is so desired as the chance to cross into the mortal realm and make Pacts that extend a demon’s life. “What are you interested in?”

“Nothing you can give.”

“Please,” she bit out. “I’ll—You can have thirty.”

Oh, what was she doing? Almost half her life!

But the thought of Ben and Lawrie being led to a hangman’s noose was so visceral, so nauseating, that she dared not take the offer back. What would those thirty years be worth if she had to live them knowing they were secured with her brothers’ deaths?

“I shan’t repeat myself, woman. You will—”

“Forty.” Her heart was pounding now. Eda could not consider what she offered. Not for a moment. She thought of her argument with Ben and Lawrie in the shop, enraged by their willingness to trade their years on her behalf. Thought of Bartholomew. Of all the other marks she’d so despised: pitiful, desperate, weak.

Now she was no better than any of them.

His pupils dilated. “No.”

Eda stepped forward, emboldened. He’s tempted. “I’m begging you. Help me, and I’ll…” She closed her eyes. “Fifty. I’ll give you fifty years.”

Shit. Did she even have that much? If not, her offer would be meaningless, and this demon would surely turn her away.

But when she opened her eyes, he was staring at her with a hungry expression. His mouth moved; whether to berate her or accept, she wasn’t sure.

Then he paused. Cocked his head.

“What is it?”

“Quiet,” he snapped.

Eda was about to protest until she heard it, too. Footsteps on the landing outside. Multiple. Heavy. The grating clank of armor.

Her blood turned to ice.

“Vhesak,” the demon hissed—a word she’d never heard before. “You’ve led them right to my door.”

“No! No one followed me, I swear it.” She faltered. Paled. “Wait. That lady on the floor below. She must have spoken with the doorman, realized I wasn’t…”

He turned to face the corridor, coiled like a serpent. “If I’m to fight my way out of here, it might as well be worth my while.” He flicked his wrist. A long piece of parchment spooled from his hand. The heading gleamed at her in fresh scarlet print. It looked wet to touch.

Binding Pact of Mortal Trade.

Eda’s blood roared so fiercely she could barely think straight.

“Fifty years,” he said, eyes fixed upon the door.

She extended a shaking hand. “I need a knife.”

There was no warning. He raked a nail—a claw—down her palm. She gasped and snatched her hand back, but he was quicker. He grabbed her wrist. “What is your name?”

“E-Eda Shaw.”

Without, a voice called, “Open this door at once! By command of the Order of the Blade!”

The demon’s stare penetrated her with such intensity Eda could hardly stand it. “Do you agree to the terms?”

“Yes.”

He pressed her wound to the bottom of the parchment. He was rough, but she felt no pain. Perhaps she was beyond that.

He let her go. The parchment disappeared into thin air.

I’ve made a Pact.

Was that it? Eda didn’t feel much different. Didn’t feel as if her lifespan had just been slashed to nothing. But it had. They weren’t her years any longer—they were his, like a clutch of coins held ransom. And the moment he fulfilled his end of the bargain, they would be his forever.

Eda held her bleeding hand to her chest. I didn’t even read it properly.

The door shook.

“Get behind me.”

She did. “What’s your name?”

Eda sensed, rather than saw, his cold smile. “I am Kit’rath Ansellis. But given the circumstances, you may call me Kit.”

The door burst open.