Page 5 of Reap & Sow

Then she saw his hand. His fingers ran with dark fresh blood.

He’d been cut.

It’s done.

Bartholomew took an unsteady step forward. He cupped his injured hand and looked at Eda, dazed. “I don’t…I don’t feel all that different. Shouldn’t I feel different?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know, sir.” She passed him her handkerchief. It was just sensible, she told herself, not to have the man draw undue attention with an injury like that. Refused to consider the act a kindness. Nothing about this work was kind.

Bartholomew took it and wiped his hand. When he didn’t seem prepared to say anything else, Lawrie silently pulled back the drapes and opened the door. Outside, rain pattered against black puddles. A dog was barking.

Bartholomew nodded, righted himself, and left the shop.

They gathered to watch his distorted figure stumble down the street. Bartholomew wouldn’t be able to speak of the Pact he’d made, either aloud or in writing. Such was Mr. Night’s way. Depending on the agreed details, dealies could not—or simply dared not—discuss their Pacts. Being in Mr. Night’s service meant Eda and her brothers were protected from tattletales, but the moment their debt was cleared…

Signee agrees to the expiration of all stipulations and amendments made upon completion of this contract.

Nothing would protect the Shaws from accusation then.

“Over there,” Lawrie hissed. “It’s that creepy bastard with the mustache again.”

Eda saw him—a tall, still figure cloaked in shadow across the street. He wore a feathered wool cap, the cherry glow of his cigarillo illuminating a thick mustache. The light didn’t quite reach his eyes as he watched Bartholomew wander away.

The fine hairs along her nape prickled in alarm.

“I told you Lich has people watching us,” Lawrie said.

The name cracked through the room like a static shock. “Let them watch,” Ben replied. “If Severin Lich wants to smoke us out, he’s taking his sweet time about it. Don’t let him spook you.”

“How, exactly, is one supposed to ignore a crime lord sniffing about our business, Ben? He obviously wants the Gateway!”

“He can have it,” Eda cut in. “Soon enough we’ll be done with it for good. Bartholomew gave twenty years, which means—”

“A most welcome addition to my ledger.”

Eda’s assurances withered in her throat.

Mr. Night stood in the middle of the foyer.

Gathered before him like this, they were little more than children awaiting judgment. His staggering presence chipped away the years like an ice pick.

“Though I must profess, young Shaws, this boon comes late in the making for my tastes. How long has it been since last you brought me a wanting soul?”

“The terms are clear,” Ben bit out stiffly. “We’re to bring you fifty years, every year. We’ve time still to make the quota.”

The demon smiled without teeth. “Perhaps. But autumn harvest looms. If sweet Eda had listened to you, Benjamin, then tonight you’d be twenty years poorer.”

Ben turned red.

He was right, of course. Rarely had they come so near to the season’s zenith with years still owed.

In the darkness of the room, Mr. Night was at one with the shadows. Only his pale smiling face remained distinct, hovering like a disembodied mask. “Your debt is nearly repaid in full. Just ten years left to find! A shame to falter now.”

Eda feared Mr. Night, but she did not hate him. Not the way that Ben and Lawrie hated him. A demon did what he did because it was in his nature. People made Pacts because they could. As their own father had.

Oswin Shaw sought out the mirror. He called on Mr. Night and made a Pact he could not afford—more years than any single life could provide. And so, in his madness, he agreed to bring Mr. Night the sum required through others. As many as it took.

But should he die, his children were to inherit the debt.