The boy closed the book. He looked up at the empty field around him. His father had begged him not to, saying that he was only a boy, that it wasn’t his responsibility.
But the boy knew what he had to do.
His father had prayed to God for help. But when God had ignored the man, he sold his soul to the Devil. Months ago, when the boy’s mother had fallen ill. In return, the Devil told the boy’s father what was wrong with his wife. Something incurable; mental, physical, and emotional, it seemed, from when she had been six years old.
She had grown steadily worse since then.
Now, the boy, seven, summoned the Devil. Smoke and ash exploded everywhere, and the boy staggered back, coughing, waving his hand in front of his eyes. A dark figure in the middle of the swirling ash moved. It was the Devil - a lurking ten-foot creature, opening black wings that had a blood-red shimmer to them. The boy’s gaze slowly moved up him. Slim feet covered in black boots, black pants held up by a chain around the waist, a red tunic tucked into the waistband of the pants, black jacket with spikes on the shoulders and elbows. Finally, they locked gazes. Surprisingly, the Devil had pale skin, nearly bone-white, and long, silky black hair that hung in waves to the Devil’s shoulders, but two small black horns sprouted from the top of his head. The ends were tipped with glowing red. He was beautiful and strangely human - aside from his eyes. They were dark, soulless, ruthless. The pupils were glowing red, like embers. It was impossible to tell his age; everything about him was ageless, like the faeries in ancient texts.
“Who calls me?” the Devil demanded.
The boy was surprised. The Devil sounded like a normal person, too, with a British accent: no booming voice, no flicking black tongue. He forced himself to say, “Cael. Son of Callie and Abdul-Rahmin.”
“Cael?” the Devil laughed, and the boy suppressed a shiver in his chest. “No, Cael is not your name, young warrior. I know you. I have met many of your blood. I ought to strike you down, but your origin and name prevent me.”
“Cael is my name,” the boy said firmly.
“Cael was once one who aided me in my court. Tell me, were you born June twenty-second?” the Devil continued.
The boy knew he wasn’t supposed to let the Devil know anything about himself, lest he would be under the Devil’s command. But he started, unable to help himself.
“Yes,” the Devil crowed. “The twenty-second. Tell me, Cael, this one thing, and I shall hear your request. Your name is not Michael?”
The boy hesitated. He needed the Devil’s aid, but… “Yes. Michael is my full name. Michael Ecaiyre.”
The Devil’s wicked eyes narrowed. “Very good, Michael Ecaiyre. Now, we made a deal. Tell me what you have called on me for.”
“My father asked for your help seven months ago, today. My mother is dying,” the boy said firmly. “I want you to heal her. Save her. You shan’t take her until her time, do you understand me?”
The Devil dipped his regal head. Smoothly, he declared, “I will do as you request, and in return, you will sell to me your soul.”
“I already payed!” The boy was astounded.
“I told you, tell me your name and I will hear your request, Michael Ecaiyre. I heard your request,” the Devil said absently. “I have better things to do with my time than listen to little boys whine. Do we have a deal?”
The boy paused. His mind flashed to his mother, frail, lying in his parent’s bed in the small house over the bend of the hill, hidden from sight.
The Devil’s eyes narrowed and he smiled. His teeth were bright and white, his canines unusually pointed. “Excellent,” he hissed gleefully. The boy found himself walking closer to the Devil, who closed his wings and thudded to the ground like a stone dropped from a cliff, though the tremors in the earth suggested more of a boulder falling from the sky.
The Devil hovered six feet taller than the boy as he placed his hands on the human’s shoulders, then wrapped his wings around him. And the boy knew no more.
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