The Devil’s Deal

The devil sat relaxed in his red leather chair. A fire crackled in the black marble fireplace,  barely warding off the chill of the late night. The flickering light cast harsh shadows over his fine suit and stars glinting off his polished horns. A glass of dark wine sat in his loose grip that he occasionally sipped. In the shadows his diamond tipped tail flicked slowly, like a cat preparing to pounce on its prey.

He was the picture of cruel opportunity, titled "last hope for the truly desperate". And the figure sitting across from him was truly desperate.

She was in worn out clothes, tight auburn curls, and amber eyes near empty from exhaustion. She was young enough to be foolish, but old enough to know better. Though it wasn't foolishness that brought her here. It was love.

Old love, born of trust and history and blood. A love that warranted this kind of sacrifice.

Between them hung a glowing set of papers. A contract.

"Are you certain?" The devil asked, scanning the contract one last time.

"Yes," was her immediate reply.

He frowned. "Do you know what it will cost you?"

"No," she admitted softly. "But I know what it'll cost if I don't."

He scanned her face, trying to find something and failing. Without another world he offered her the paper, a quill pen, and a knife. She pressed her left wrist to the glinting blade, drawing blood. She collected it with the quill and, in her blood and by her hand, she signed the contract.

With the last stroke the contract began to glow. Itching started on her cut wrist and she looked to see the wound healed, a band of red in its place decorated with a sharp S.

Every line of tension melted from her body and she collapsed to the floor. Fainted.