Page 12 of Unholy Night

“All of it!” She says in such charming exasperation I have to stop myself from doing something we both might regret.

“All of it is a big ask for someone who has existed for all of human history. Care to narrow it down?”

Her eyes widen cartoonishly and I want to suck my words back in. Of course, that information is going to unnerve a human. But… is she entirely human? That’s a really goodquestion.

And what I learned from her teardrop didn’t answer that for me. As much as it did fill me with a bouquet of other answers.

“This. You.” She says. “I just gave up my chance at being independently wealthy. Or famous. Or whatever. So I want answers instead. If you and Santa are real, there must be other things I thought were stories that are real too, right?”

Her words are measured. Almost too much so. She’s being very conscious of how she talks about this. About magic and the realm of the fantastical. But it’s there in her eyes. The wonder of it all. The hope. Not the kind made in childhood in the newness of first life, but a raw, beaten, bruised and bloodied hope. One that has been tested by the cruelty of life over and over and over again. A kind of hope a person earns through pain and trauma and a tenacious grit. That is the kind of hope I see in her eyes right now. That is why she chose to know the truth over financial security. The truth is, in the hierarchy of needs, Maslow got one thing wrong. There is one need that comes before that pyramid base of basic physiological needs. Before even your base survival needs of food and shelter. And that is hope. Hope for the fantastical. Hope for the brighter day. The lighter load. The magic of it all. Without that, humans would not have the will for the rest of it.

And humanity is losing its hope. It’s already lost most of its magic, and hope and magic are intrinsically connected at the root.

I’ve been trying to stop it. To find someone, anyone, who still has a spark.

And here she is.

So with a flick of my wrist I produce a parchment flowing with magic. It is already filled in with the terms of our understanding.

I roll up my sleeve and produce a quill pen, then use the razor-sharp edge to slice my arm. Lyla gasps as blood trickles down my skin. I use the pen to soak up enough to sign my name.

Then I hand it to her.

I half expect her to refuse it, to say she will not sign herself away to Satan on Christmas Eve. That the whole thing is ludicrous. I don’t know what I’ll do if she says that. I clench my jaw and wait.

She licks her lips, an action done in such an innocent way that it does not aid at all in my attempt at composure.

Finally, she takes the pen and the contract from my hands and begins to read.

I hold my breath, which is uncomfortable for me in this form even though I don’t strictly need to breathe.

“I only have tonight to ask my questions and find out the truth?” She asks, looking up.

I give one solemn bow of my head. “This is a limited time contract. Not the kind I am typically known for, but desperate times and all that. You can ask me anything tonight and I will do my best to answer.”

“And then we never see you again,” she says, flicking her lower lip with her tongue again. “At least I get to keep my soul.”

That last little bit is whispered under her breath, so I pretend to not hear it.

“That’s the idea,” I say. And why are those words so difficult to say?

She nods, then brings the pen to her arm. She pauses. “Um. I’m assuming you can’t pass on STDs or viruses? Given, you know, the pandemic and the… blood thing.”

“I assure you, my blood is the purest you will ever find.”

She nods again then doesn’t hesitate or flinch as she slices her arm.

The smell of her blood blooms in the air like a rare flower, nearly extinct. Exotic and fragrant and oh so delicious.

When she scrawls her name, I feel the magic of the contract bind us together.

My contracts aren’t usually so… intimate in a non-sexual way. I don’t typically sign up for spending time with others.

But this… this feels different. A sense of knowing settles on me and I shiver.

Tonight will change the course of both our lives.

One way or another.