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In the dusty bullseye of the crossroads, Lark dug up the beginnings of a hole with the metal toe of his boot, and when the dirt would no longer give, finished it off with his bare hands.
He tore greedily through everything, these days. Like something clawed.
Lark stood and brushed the dirt on the front of his jeans. For all he could see, he was alone; and he could see for miles in every direction. The dirt-packed roads went on and on deliriously, making a mirage of the mountains beyond, and though the sun had set the world was veiled in that strange blue in-between. Whatever lurked in the darkness could cross over at dusk, he reckoned. And hoped.
A brisk wind chilled him through his layers of flannel. Lark shivered as the whistle grew in pitch, as if Mother Nature could sense his intentions and tried to shake his arm in warning—
No. His father's superstitions would not be a part of this. His father wasn't part of this at all.
No mind to the throb of his joints, Lark pulled the cigar box from his Carhartt and flipped it open one final time, cataloged his offering: a sprig of thyme, a half-smoked joint, a family photo dipped in red wax, a string-tied bundle of bird bones, a lock of his own hair and a lock of Sparrow's, snipped from the base of his skull while he slept. Nothing missed.
Lark nestled the box into the hole and buried it with the upended dirt.
Though the box was well-hidden, nothing seemed to change; nothing in the air, no movement along the fields, not even a creak in the rusted metal truck idling on the side of the road. The cicada hum rose and fell. Lark stayed down, patient and crouched like an animal, until his faith began to wane.
His knees ached as he stood again with a growl. Lark had known since his youth to put no trust in gods; what a shame to find that devils were no different. Mythologizing themselves as important, as powerful, making grand promises they failed to—
"Ahem."
Lark spun around, the pearl-crested gun from his holster brandished and aimed.
Before him stood what looked to be a man, roughly his height, dark eyes comically wide and hands raised in surrender. The neck of a red guitar stalked over his shoulder, leather strap crossing his chest clad with faded denim and a tattered band tee. On the surface: a traveling musician, a doomed hitchhiker. Yet the grin on his face was a wild one, his teeth sharp and shining in the fading light.
"Woah, there," said the man, as if attempting to calm an unbroken horse. "I'd put that down if I were you. Wouldn't want to waste your bullets."
The spark in his eyes shone red, like an ember.
Lark lowered the gun. "I'd like to make a deal," he said to the devil.
"And I'd like to stick my tongue down your throat."
Lark raised the gun again.
The demon only laughed, sharp and melodic. “Hey, now, you’re the one who called me, remember? I’m just letting you in on the process.”
“And what’s that?”
The devil shrugged and moved his hands to his pockets. Lark flinched but did not shoot.
“We make a deal," he said as the world around them quieted, even the ubiquitous thrum of the surrounding plains, as though his very presence was a test of their loyalty. And so it was. To sing for one so otherworldly would be to sin against nature; yet Lark memorized the notes laid before him like one already damned: "Your wish, your soul, seal it with a kiss, and— I’ll be on my way.”
“My soul," Lark echoed. "You mean, when I die?”
“Whenever I want," the demon all but purred, that vicious smile widening in what looked like hunger.
Lark lowered the gun to tap it anxiously against the side of his thigh. “So you’ll kill me.”
“That’s not my go-to." He stepped closer. "Usually I just want… little things. A forgettable sacrifice, a bit of your blood. It depends.”
Another step. Lark stilled like a frightened rabbit, muscles rope-tense. But apprehension only seemed to please him: the demon's forked tongue peeked through his teeth as he grinned.
Everything about him was handsome; Lark could not evade that truth, not this close. Darkness folded around the demon like a cloak, black as his hair, but his skin radiated heat and soft, glowing light, his body a lantern.
“How’s that work for you, cowboy?”
Lark took the final step between them, flooded with memories of moths fumbling against his family's porch light with their thin wings, slamming themselves fatally into the hot glass. There was only a breath between them now, one that fogged the night air. “I’d like to make a deal.”
The spark in the demon's eyes flared, turning his deep brown iris the color of rich, ferric soil. “Alright," he said and reached out his hand. His knuckles brushed against Lark's stomach. An elaborate tattoo of the letters S.N. curled around his wrist. "My name’s Nick.”
“Lark." He holstered the gun and took the hand pressed between them. "Garcia.”
“Lark," Nick said, drawing out the name as if to test it, to hold it in his mouth. And then, fast as a whip, Nick tightened his grip and pulled them chest to chest. "Tell me, Lark—" he whispered, aflame. "What is it you want?”
Lark closed his eyes.
He heard no sound beyond his own heartbeat, beyond his own quickening breaths, beyond the myriad of voices that congregated in his mind: his father's, of course, preaching to him about the cycles of nature, about inevitable change; his mother's, luring him into complacency, into hope; Sparrow's, taking him and burying him like a seed he doesn't know is dead; and his own, screaming that he can take it, whatever pain will come from this. He will take it.
“I want my brother to stay," he whispered. The words felt heavy, like a boulder rolling down a hill. "He’s— he’s leaving. For college. Some sort of ecological studies or nature something, I don’t fucking know. But— he can’t leave. I don’t want him hurt or nothing, so don’t— but I can’t live here, not just me, not with my father. I can't be here without him," Lark said, his voice breaking around the confession. "I can’t be alone.”
“You won’t be," Nick said softly and so close Lark could feel his breath tickle his lips.
He trembled as the wind returned and picked up speed. Nick smoothed his thumb over his knuckles in comforting circles, around and around.
It was said that the devil disguises himself as an angel of light; for all the men who have wanted after that light on hands and knees and have lain in bed with the devil— Lark could not blame them. When he lifted his eyes again to meet Nick's molten gaze, it was like waking to the face of a lover.
“Go ahead, songbird," Nick said, the endearment pouring from his mouth like honey. "Seal the deal.”
Lark surged forward. There was no sulfur, no needled bite, no blackening burn. There was nothing hellish about it; no, only the unholy wet heat of lips on his, kissing him back.
An embarrassing whine slipped from the back of his throat. Nick's hand— the one not grasping onto his— slid around him, pressed firmly against his jacket until each individual fingertip danced over the small of his back. Lark reached up to hold Nick's jaw in the palm of his hand, to comb his fingers through his hair until it tangled. Nick gasped at the pull; Lark followed in turn. With each passing second Lark felt more bound to him, more desperate to stay close, more content to die in the need to get closer.
When Nick leaned back, it was like a solar eclipse. The sudden cold, how the orchestra of night returned at once and in confusion.
“Damn," Nick sighed. "I knew you’d be good at that.”
Lark did not let him go yet. He couldn't.
“Is it done?” he rasped.
“It is.”
Lark went heavy as the cornered animal of his heart settled. He rested his lips against Nick's temple, not quite a kiss. “Thank you.”
Nick released his hand and backed away, one slow step at a time. Lark forced himself not to reach for him. Trapped the leftover warmth in a fist.
“You’d better get home," Nick said with a smile, softer than before. "These roads are dangerous at night.”
“You’d better, uh," Lark cleared his throat. "Uh, go to hell.”
Nick's eyes lit up like fireflies. “Ha! Hot and funny," he teased, then stepped backward into a shadow. "See you soon, Lark.”
And then, in an instant, he was gone.
Lark stood unmoving, a stupid pillar of salt in the dead center of the crossroads. He could feel the slight bump of the buried offering beneath his feet, the swollen tingle of his lips; nothing else to prove the devil had met him here, had given his name and taken his soul. The loss sat wrong with him. The center of his chest ached like an open wound.
The truck had turned itself off. Lark nearly panicked at the thought of getting stuck this far from the ranch, but the engine roared when he turned the key and the headlights flickered back on, strong and bright pillars stretching across the empty road.
He drove mindlessly until he reached Oak Vale. Moonlight poured through the windshield, onto the bared skin of his wrists. Onto the S.N. burned over the delicate veins like a brand.
Lark gripped the wheel until his sore knuckles turned white.