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“You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute,
And now and then stab, when occasion serves.”
– Christopher Marlowe
For a moment, Chikage is stunned that the ritual even worked. He is a man who plants his feet firmly into the dirt of rational, tangible things. But in the face of August’s death, December’s betrayal, and dead ends to the explanation behind it all, Chikage’s realm shrinks to a mere arms’ width as the organization casts those troubles aside for more pressing matters.
He is not a man who casts his lot with fickle superstitions—but he is a man desperate for answers and even more desperate for vengeance.
What lies within the summoning circle looks like an angel: delicate skin crafted from peach blossoms, wheat fields touched by sunlight for hair, a gentle curve of the body and lips, jeweled eyes that begin to spark with the flames of recognition. If not for the creature’s form-fitting black clothes and the energy filling the room like molten syrup—sweet and thick and dangerous—Chikage might have believed he failed so badly that the divine had to intervene themselves.
“You’re joking,” the demon says flatly, their silken voice mismatching their appearance and words.
What.
“Ghosts, I can understand. But who the hell summons a demon these days?” They continue upon seeing Chikage’s furrowed brow. With slim legs, the demon crosses the room and gracelessly drops themselves onto the sofa, slouching against the cushions like a vintage pinup model. “Even if you had to summon a demon, you couldn’t go for the bigwigs? They’ve been written about in your literature for reasons, you know. Way more powerful than I am.”
This is ridiculous, Chikage thinks. “You’re supposed to be helping me.”
“I’m not technically working for you, so I don’t have to do anything.”
“I summoned you!”
The demon gives him a quick once-over and remains unimpressed. “You masquerade as a salaryman, don’t you? Then you can understand this. You’ve called me back after the preliminary interviews to tell me I have the open position, but unless I actually say yes, I’m not on your payroll.”
He’s ready to exorcise the mouthy creature himself when the subtlety of their words reaches him. “You know who I am?”
“I know enough.” With a great stretch of those long limbs, the demon sits up proper and recounts the details. “Chikage Utsuki, twenty-six, spy. You think one of your comrades killed the other and you’re angry about it enough to summon a low-level minion whose power doesn’t even amount to very much.”
Every synapse in Chikage’s brain fires off at once. Hearing it put so bluntly reminds him of how foolish this endeavor really is—how stupid and futile relying on such fickle superstitions rather than the certainty of his own hands truly is. Yet the blood that rushes through his body continues to blind his eyes to the reality of the situation, makes him default to his habits in the organization.
Persuasion and brute force are such lovely partners.
“Tell me who did it,” Chikage demands, pinning the demon down against the sofa. For their part, the demon seems unperturbed that Chikage has a fistful of their hair, holding their head back to reveal the enticing line of their throat.
“You don’t listen well, huh?” The demon says, curtaining their eyes with spider-lily lashes. Their hand comes up to tuck stray locks of Chikage’s fringe behind his ear. The action is so intimate that Chikage actually loosens his hold, though only briefly. “I can’t do anything unless I’m contracted to someone.”
He grips harder.
“Then, do it.”
Chikage has already discarded his moral self, his pride, his reason. He’s made it this far. A deal with a devil, like the old doctor hidden within the pages of a fraying book, is nothing.
What else could he possibly have to lose, now that he’s lost August?
“You want to make a contract?”
The demon rocks up with an inhuman amount of force for someone their stature before Chikage even realizes it—their hand splays across the middle of his chest, pinning him firmly against the sofa as they straddle his hips with a gentle roll that sends a jolt up Chikage’s spine. That syrupy energy coats the room proper, filling his lungs like damning smoke and filling his loins with desire.
For once, the demon looks amused: the curl of their mouth an enticing bow, pulled taut and ready to shoot its mark.
“Fine. Give yourself to me.”
The kiss that presses hard against his lips burns like a brand.