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A DEVIL’S DUE
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AFTER ANOTHER GRUESOME day of training, Savara found herself back in the comfort of her tent. The full moon had risen high into the sky outside. A hot shower had removed all the dirt from her hair and skin, but the bruises on her arms and thighs remained fresh and rosy. She dug into the chest of clothes for something warmer, as the autumn nights were slowly fading into winter ones.
A rush of energy surged through her palms as her fingers brushed something deep down in the chest. She jumped, momentarily startled by the sensation, and dug into the chest again in search of the perpetrator. Oh, the package, she thought as she pulled it from beneath the pile of clothes. It buzzed in her palms, the lettering still shimmering silver, the twine still intact. She rested it on the bed beside her and stared at it, wondering if now was the time to open it, but still unable to bring herself to do it.
“What are you?” she asked the strange little box.
“You make a habit of talking to inanimate objects?” asked a raspy voice from behind.
Savara jumped. She hadn’t realised she was no longer alone. She’d smelled the ash and initially imagined it was a waft from the bonfire, but the scent of cheap cologne that curled the hairs in her nose was unmistakable. She turned to find him leaning casually against one of the support beams of the tent, apathetic, but patiently so. Strands of straight blond hair hung like curtains in front of his face, parting at the middle to allow access to the cigarette in his hand. He didn’t bother to look at her, not even as he spoke.
Savara leapt to her feet, grabbing the lamp at her bedside, and raising it to throw. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my room?”
“Testy,” he sighed. “And futile.” He put the cigarette to his lips once more and sparked a flame between his fingers.
Argia, she realised. Suddenly the lamp didn’t seem like such a great idea. The gasoline in it would only give him fuel. She rested it back down and steadied herself on the bed. “All I have to do is scream, and someone will come running,” she hissed.
He took another long puff of his cigarette and contemplated her. “I know,” he replied with the casual elegance of kings. “I wouldn’t, though, if I were you.”
“And why is that?” she growled back.
“Not tired of the face jewellery then?” He bobbed and lifted his head, pushing the hair away from his face and exposing two piercing citrine-coloured eyes.
Savara touched her fingers gently to the protruding red rubies in her cheeks. She’d almost forgotten they were there. “Big Tog sent you...”
“Took your time, but we got there in the end.” He smirked. “I got a lot of shit to do before the night is out, and I’d rather not be stuck playing courier. You’re coming whether you want to or not, so decide now whether it’s in chains or on your own two feet.” He flipped his wrist and stared at a sparkling gold watch. “And I’d hurry if I were you. Big Tog doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
She’d given her word—no, her soul—despite what Griffin had told her, and now, the time had come to make good on it, but something told her that she was making good on a very bad thing. She pushed off the bed and made for the door, tossing the strange package back into the chest and slamming it shut.
His sinister lips curled up into a smile. “Atta girl,” he said, flicking the cigarette to the floor before escorting her out.
“How are we getting there?” But the answer jumped out at her before she got out the last word.
Stallions. Two blinding stallions with manes of glittering flames. They sparkled like orange stars and moved like gasoline on water. As they shook their heads, the scent of smouldering cinnamon and warm ash surrounded them. Savara stepped up to them cautiously. She had never seen two more beautiful creatures in her life. As she neared, they bowed to her, and she bowed back, thinking it rude not to. The man helped her up onto one and hoisted himself onto the other. With a whistle and a click, they rode off into the night, galloping as fast as the wind, unaware of the smoking trail they’d left behind. The thick green of the forest sheltered them from wandering eyes throughout the journey. The mares’ manes lit up enough of the ground in front of them to see the trail but not so far as to see their surroundings. It didn’t matter though. There was no time for sightseeing.
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BIG TOG’S HOUSE WAS much simpler than what she’d imagined a mafia boss’ house would be. A simple white blockish structure with the occasional wooden pagoda on each of the three levels of the house, surrounded by a beautiful garden of lilies. The man warned her not to touch any of them, nor even to get so close as to sniff one, going so far as to drag an insinuating finger across his throat. They were Big Tog’s prized possessions. Savara shuddered at the thought of the man killing over something so inconsequential, wondering whether he considered human lives as expendable as flowers. The man sparked up another cigarette and rang a hanging bell.
“Those will kill you,” Savara said, brushing away the clouds of smoke.
“I’d be surprised, I’m counting on my job killing me first,” he laughed.
The door opened before she could speak. The thin man standing in the doorway with the devilishly curled ram horn hairdo brandished an eager smile.
“Welcome,” said Big Tog, wiping his hands on a tea towel. Savara caught glimpses of his blood rubies glinting from beneath the cloth. “You’re just in time for dessert. My wife makes the most delicious pavlova,” he added a little too loudly.
Savara looked at the table behind him, covered in food and surrounded by smiling faces, and frowned. “Can we make this quick? I don’t want anyone to realise I’m gone.”
“Hm...” was his only response, but he invited her in, nonetheless. He paused briefly to kiss the woman she imagined was his wife, excusing himself from the rest of the dinner party, and led her into the study. The room hadn’t changed since she was last here, but it did feel better to come without the bindings. Big Tog shut the door, locking out the noise and laughter in the other room, and smiled. “It’s a good thing you said no. My wife’s pavlova is shit. Too much egg, not enough sugar.”
Savara blinked awkwardly before deciding on a non-committal nod.
Big Tog seemed content as he leaned against his desk, which prompted a small sigh of relief from her, stifled as she noticed the veins bulging on the back of his hands tensely. She shuffled awkwardly over to one of the comfier chairs in the room, cautious to choose one without a hole in the armrest for possible bindings.
Savara had never been a guest of the mafia before. Last time, she had been a nuisance and hadn’t bothered to take in the room around her. This time, she was caught up in the simple elegance of the room, helped in part by the light of the many shifting sconces. It reminded her of the palace, and he seemed all too ready to be a king. Portraits in gilded frames lined the walls, an intricately woven but plush rug covered the floor, an eye-catching collection of large crystal figurines in the shapes of various animals sat on one end of his desk, and tall stacks of paper balanced out the other end. On top of the piles, being used as a sinister paperweight, Savara spied the same knife he had tried to use on Griffin last time, and successfully on me, she remembered.
A clock at the other end of the room sounded, marking the lateness of the hour.
“What are you?” Big Tog said finally, taking cue from the chimes that cut through the silence like a blunt kitchen knife through warm butter.
“Excuse me?”
Big Tog intensified his glare. “A witch? A curseling?” he prodded unrelentingly.
“A what?” Savara asked again.
“I had to be sure,” he said, relaxing his shoulders and lowering the veins on his hands. He folded his arms in front of him and pushed out his haughty chin. “So,” he began all too casually, “my boys tell me your fighting skills are... improving.”
“How did you know—”
“I have eyes and ears everywhere,” he said, waving a careless hand in the air. The way he studied her like an animal in a zoo made her shudder. “But they do not see you use your powers. Why?”
“What do you care?” She glared back, weary of the grin beginning to curl on his face. His hair under the low lighting, still tied in curling ram horns, brought out the devil in him.
Big Tog laughed with a timbre that raised the hairs on her arms. The laugh sounded as though it should’ve come from someone twice his size—the man he might have once been, judging by the portraits on the walls—but face to face with him now, gaunt and rigid, with shadows filling the hollows in his face, Savara found the overall effect even more sinister.
“Can it be? You fear your powers?” he asked, stalking around her as he did once before, only this time without the knife in hand. He contemplated the gemstones poking out from the skin of his palm with a curious fondness.
Savara touched a hand to the matching set on her cheek guiltily, afraid to give anything away that he could use over her. She had already bound her soul, wasn’t that enough? So what if I’m scared of them? Anyone in their right mind would be. At least now I can fight...
“You will suffer greatly if you choose not to use them,” Big Tog added, and from his mouth, it sounded awfully like a threat. He took hold of her jaw and ran his thumb gently over the gems in her cheek. “You do remember our deal?”
Savara’s lips formed a frown between his fingers. “How could I forget?”
He grinned his trademark toothy grin. The gold sparkled in his mouth, reflecting the light from the room. “I grow fond of that fire in you, my little duck.” He lifted her hair from her ears and added with a whisper, “In case you haven’t noticed, I like things that burn.”
She tugged her face lightly out of his grip, trying not to show fear, but the comment had already sent shivers down her spine. “What do you want from me?” Savara asked, though not so eager to hear the answer.
Another menacing grin swept across his face. “What are you offering?” The muscles in her body seized up at the thought of what he was insinuating, but he only laughed at her discomfort. “I kid,” he said with a laugh. “I will tell you in time, but first we get acquainted.” He called in one of his maids, a woman slender and fair with long golden trellises tied up in a strange, swan-shaped knot atop her head. She brought with her tea and sweet lemon tarts and a large decanter of something dark and viciously alcoholic. “Wife may have me on diet during the day, but she goes to bed too early to control me at night,” he winked as he took a seat in front of her.
Savara smiled tentatively, all too aware that his infectious charm had its limits. He walked the thinnest of thin lines, like an experienced trapezist. In one moment, being pleasurable, easy to laugh with, and in the next, holding still-beating hearts. Savara found herself having to constantly remember that he was only so accommodating because she was his plaything, and the moment that changed, she could easily find herself on the other side of the line.
“Now, my little duck, about those precious powers of yours...”
She’d known the question was coming. Could she control them? Last time he’d scared her into using them, or rather, scared them out of her. That wasn’t control. Her powers seemed to be an entity all their own, and she merely a host who occasionally managed to halt their destruction. She explained to him as much, but he said that those were only excuses she’d made for herself to not have to take responsibility for her actions.
She let him believe he was right—for all she knew, he might well have been. But something also told her it would be prudent not to contradict a mafia boss.
“Give me your hand,” Big Tog said, extending his own to collect it. She raised an eyebrow but handed it to him all the same. He intertwined her fingers in his and kissed each one with care. Savara shivered uncomfortably at the brush of his lips against her skin. After he’d grazed the last finger with his lips, he closed the grip on her hand, squeezing tightly.
“Ouch,” she said, and then repeated more prominently when she realised he wasn’t stopping.
It took her a moment to distinguish pressure from heat, but eventually, the smell of burning hair was unmistakable. Savara tried to pry her hand from his—from the flames that enveloped them—but her strength was no match for his grip. Not even with the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her pupils dilated as she struggled against him. Boils grew on her charring skin. She shrieked. Tears fell in waterfalls from her eyes, but he regarded her with nothing more than apathy. When he figured he was reaching a limit, Big Tog let her go.
“You do not respond to pain,” he said simply, reaching over for a shot of the dark liquid.
“What was that for?” Savara whimpered, unable to stop her arm from shaking. It hurt to move her fingers. It hurt to touch them. Her fallen tears stung the curls of burned flesh.
“Piece it back together,” he replied indifferently, throwing back the shot and munching down on a tart.
“What?” she cried.
“The flesh. Piece it back together.”
“I can’t.”
“You have not tried.”
“I don’t know how to use my powers,” she bawled, the pain in her hand becoming too much to bear.
“You remember what it is to have an unburned hand,” he said stoically. “Imagine that. Piece it back together. Or don’t and let it get infected,” he said even more apathetically, licking the last of the tart from his fingers before reaching for another one. It was clear he would be of no help.
Savara stared down at the blackened remains of skin and the patches of visible bone. Her whole body shivered in pain. What does he mean, piece it back together? As the question popped into her mind, she sensed a low rush of power curling around the charred flaps of skin. It hovered around the wound, answering her call, waiting for her to want it—for her to ask it to heal her.
With tears in her eyes and a sudden cold in her body, she willed her skin closed. It stung like it was being burned all over again, but it worked. The fibres of skin began to stitch themselves back together, covering the white of her bones. Her blood began to follow the usual path through her hand.
It took her over two hours to set it all back together. In the meantime, Big Tog had taken to recounting various highlights of his past, how he’d worked his way up from street urchin to the most feared man in all Osiir, all as he gobbled down the rest of the lemon tarts. When the final fibre snapped back into place, her last tear had long since dried on her cheek. She gasped, holding her hand up to the light and studying the shadows cast by her fingers over her freshly restored skin.
Big Tog grinned as he downed a shot of liquor. “Not bad,” he added as he passed her a shot. “To take away the shivers.”
Take away was not the right word, she thought as she downed the pungent beverage. The liquid burned its way down her throat and into the pit of her stomach. A new wave of shivers rushed through her body, crashing into the old ones like clashing currents in a swelling ocean.
Part of her was proud to be using her powers—and for something other than strangling strange men in dark alleyways. After all, wasn’t this what she’d been searching for? This feeling of fulfilment, the desire to be useful. The other part knew that, however generous he was being, he would expect something in return.
Big Tog downed his glass after her with a casual sigh of pleasure. Little fires burned in his crystalline eyes as gazed upon her like a child with a new toy. “Now,” he said in a voice laced with charm and persuasion. “About our deal...”
