Magic did exist.
Dee felt it in that basement. It hung around those two strange boys, around that smudge on the ceiling, clinging to the otherness that was the demon.
Real magic, Dee thought, and wished she could tell her eight-year-old self. But it wasn’t princesses and fairies, knights and vows. It was that darker flavor of magic, spools of stolen gold and promised firstborn children. It was the huntsman cutting out Snow White’s—
“Heart,” she said.
It took a moment to register. And then her heart was racing, thumping so hard it felt like the demon was already trying to take it from her. She pressed a fist to her breastbone.
This hadn’t been on any of the websites—they said it was always a limb, not a vital organ. Or in this case, the most vital of vital organs.
“But I—” she started to say, and then stopped. “I’ll die.”
It sighed and held up a pale hand. “You’ll live. A twenty-four-month lease is my usual price. I take your heart for two years, and during that time you do my bidding.”
A laugh snaked up her throat. “You want to lease my heart?”
“Yes,” said the demon, inclining his head. Because it was a he, no matter how much Dee tried to think of it as alien. It was a beautiful, courteous, absolutely terrifying he.
“How will I live without my heart?” she asked.
“Your body will be in a sort of stasis. You won’t age or change physically. You will simply… be.”
“Be what?” said Dee.
He smiled, and the expression was cool and impenetrable. “That’s entirely up to you.”
She suddenly felt keenly aware of her own heartbeat, her pulse in her throat, in her wrists, even in her fingertips. Dee glanced over her shoulder, taking in that smudge on the ceiling, the smell of dust, and the rats skirting the room’s edges. And the two boys, just out of earshot, conversing quietly.
Something in the room shifted.
It was the air pressure—similar to the sensation of someone opening a window, of fresh air spilling into a room. Dee inhaled, smelled hot metal and sand.
“We need to do this now,” said Cal, his voice rising in pitch.
Dee forced herself to breathe through her mouth. “What they’re doing—is it dangerous?”
The look the demon gave her was almost approving. “Yes.”
“Could I die?”
That approval warmed further. “It’s a possibility.”
She wasn’t stupid.
She knew how this would likely end—some cruel twist of fate, a wish turned against the maker.
And then she thought of home.
She imagined that house, the faded carpet and the brown bottles, the sharpness of her mother’s collarbone when she hugged Dee, the scent that clung to her father—sweat and something sour and stale. She imagined what it would be like to sleep there, night after night, just waiting for the next blowup. For the shouting that reverberated through the walls and permeated her chest. She remembered when she had been small enough to wedge herself between the wall and her bed, humming quietly to block out the noise, hoping they’d forget she was there.
She wouldn’t fit in that spot anymore. She’d have to find a new place to hide.
She would rather die.
That last thought settled into place, and she felt stronger because of it. There was some comfort in knowing that if her life were destroyed, it would be her own decision and no one else’s. She met the demon’s eyes.
“I am the Agathodaemon,” he said.
Dee knew the correct words; the vow had been the first thing to show up in all the search engines.
“I’m Deirdre Moreno and I agree to the covenant,” she said, then added, “Agathodaemon.”
He didn’t move, and the moment dragged by. Dee wiped sweaty hands on her jeans. “So… now what?” she said, when the silence was too much. “Do we sign something or…?”
“No,” the Agathodaemon said, and then he was in front of her. “But you might feel a slight pinch.” The blue in his eyes seemed to swallow her—she couldn’t look away, not even when she felt his hand on the neckline of her shirt, gentle and quick as a thief, and then—
—agony.