Page 19 of Reap & Sow

Fane considered the mirror in silence. He wore the same ensemble as he had at the templehouse: a clean white cassock with amethyst paneling and gold trim. Only his matching cloak was absent.

After a moment, he approached the Gateway.

Bishop Florian pressed a hand to the mirror’s fathomless black surface. He wore a golden ring on his middle finger, molten in the firelight.

“Demon,” he whispered, “I summon you.”

Her cheeks ran cold. He’s summoning Mr. Night.

The surface of the mirror rippled, shining like oil. In the flickering shadows, the grinning imps and screaming horses around the border seemed to shift and breathe, as if alive. The bishop barely had time to step back before Mr. Night was striding through the mirror.

Eda had witnessed many small flickers of emotion cross the demon’s face over the years—irritation, scorn, amusement. But never had she seen him angry.

The sight was difficult to behold. Mr. Night’s eyes were no longer silver but a molten orange, like the volcanic lava from which his Gateway had been formed. The scowl slashing his face in two was outright malevolent. By his sides, his hands curled like claws.

Eda did a double take.

They were claws. Pale and slender as ever, Mr. Night’s fingers were now tipped with long white claws as sharp as a scalpel’s blade.

“Who,” the demon hissed, “are you?”

Fane took a moment to gather himself. “My name is Bishop Florian Fane. I am a cleric of the Faithhood, servant of the Lordfather. And I wish to make a bargain with you.”

Eda nearly slipped off the ladder. A Pact. A cleric of the Faith comes to make a Pact. It sounded like the start of an offensive joke.

Mr. Night was unmoved. “The Shaws guard this mirror, by my will. Their own Pact binds them to me. Where are they?”

“I have arrested them.” The sconces flickered in outrage. Mr. Night took a single ominous step forward, and Fane hurried to add, “They are yet unharmed. Your Pact with the Shaws—I assume they bring you years? Whatever they are bound to give, I can give far more. The years of Blackbridge itself.” His tone swelled with hubris. “I can give you a city’s worth of souls.”

Eda froze. Her heart sat like a rock in her chest.

Mr. Night’s scowl eased into something bordering on intrigue. His eyes shifted back to gray. “I cannot make a Pact that will interfere with another. No matter how…audacious the offering.”

“Audacious it may seem, but entirely plausible. As for the Shaws, their arrest was necessary to avoid suspicion, if I wished to call upon you like this.” Fane cocked his head, growing confident under Mr. Night’s consideration. “This Gateway has been with the family for some time, no? How close are they to fulfilling their Pact?”

For a moment, Eda wasn’t sure the demon would answer. He eyed Fane like a curious bird of prey. “They owe ten years.”

“And how much time do they have left, to bring you those years? I have read much on the subject. Pacts do not come without stipulations.”

Mr. Night began to circle Fane, just as he’d done to Bartholomew. If he was wary of the colloidal silver hanging about the bishop’s neck, he did not show it. “Fifty years by each autumn harvest. That is our deal.”

Fane kept very still. “Then they are almost out of time. What manner of punishment awaits them if they miss their quota?”

“I will kill them.”

Eda felt faint. They were discussing her life—her brothers’ lives—as if discussing the weather. You can’t actually be entertaining this, she thought furiously at the demon. She recalled a finger upon a tearstained cheek. A lifetime of indulgent smiles and patient words, his quiet confidence in her. You can’t.

“Then let me be frank. You will not tolerate the Shaws’ deaths while their Pact still stands—this I understand and honor. They shall live. But whether they fail to fulfill their contract by autumn harvest, for whatever reason, is not for you to influence. Correct?” Fane seemed to interpret Mr. Night’s silence as confirmation. “The Shaws will remain in custody of the Blades until autumn harvest, and they will fail to bring you your last ten years. But I can ease such a small hurt. I can give you thousands in the same time.”

Eda stared at the back of his head. Thousands of years…

“How many? Be precise.”

“Two thousand.”

“Five.”

Fane’s eyes narrowed. “Three.”