Boiling water on the stove, the ingredients cabinet is open to Matthew’s right. The larger pot having a bit of salt in the bottom, same with the smaller one. On the counter sits dried ramen noodles topped with scallions, and a bowl filled with a deep brown, soy sauce like liquid. Hot and warm. Currently, he’s chopping up some more scallions, the ramen package discarded to the side unopened.
Now lets see, thinks the demon staring at the ceiling, eyes slowly making their way around the room of tall walls. She’s sitting in the living room on a loveseat, bookshelf across from her, behind the mirroring white couch with the trenchcoat thrown over the back, and an old, tattered, and fucked up brown tweed chair to the left. Having no pressing desire to annoy the man and Matthew playing the part of a good host, taking her feet off the short transparent table, she deems it unnecessary to waste her time thinking. Making her way away from the old deep green couch, she takes in the entirety of the first floor.
Intermittently, the yellowed lights of the room are overpowered by flashes of lightning. White light illuminating the room, overhead lights turned off and the apartment only lit up by lamps with bland gray colored shades. In contrast, the only lampshade with good coloring being a turquoise blue with gold tassels, 1920’s-esque, sitting near the towering window.
The entire left wall; bookshelves filled to the brim with books, mostly academic or classics, a very small section holding old children's books right beneath the middle shelf on the far left. Against the floor to ceiling window taking up an entire wall of the loft apartment, old paintings of mostly flowers and collectible trinkets are scattered along the floor. A large and long glass table with barely any chairs blocks most of what can be seen on the floor.
The small pot, half cup of water being warmed on high heat, has a beef bouillon cube dropped in. The noodles have already been put in, as well as the scallions with a dash of rosemary. The half cup of water is then peppered with a teaspoon of pepper flakes, mixed in for a moment before a tablespoon of rosemary and thyme are mixed in as well. One of the few dishes he knows how to make, and all it is is late-night lazy noodles.
Turning right, two basic modern white doors sit before where the kitchen starts. Likely a guest room and adjacent bathroom. There’s even more bookshelves to the left of them, this time not a boring gray like the last, but decorated wood and encasing an old time-y desk. The floor holding multiple rolled up carpets, unfortunately their beauty can’t be appreciated from the small bit of underside being the only sight. The walls are an unfortunate dull white, akin to asylum walls and the ground a barely darker tile gray than the first bookshelves. At least the dark brown leather rolling chair fits into the feel of an old library.
Before the doors and in front of the kitchen stands a spiral black staircase, old Victorian like and standing out against the monotonous grays of the loft, the second floor obscured by the black metal railing and view from the downstairs.
Now that the beginning of the sauce is done, a tablespoon of eel sauce is added to the concoction. Mixing it in, fully diffused into the browning liquid, a tablespoon of oregano is now added. For a moment Matthew realizes his mom would be incredibly disappointed in his skills as a cook. Not even obeying the instructions of how to make soba, rather his own example of it, Bastard Style Soba. Maybe if his mother was from further down south, she would hit him over the head with a wooden spoon. Back to his cooking, some black pepper and a pinch of salt go in, and lastly a tablespoon of sugar. Allowing it to start to simmer after stirring for a moment with metal chopsticks, the noodles are taken to empty water in the stainless steel metal sink in the middle of the gray and black marble topped island. Dishes having luckily been cleaned up beforehand, he doesn’t have to worry about leaving the dirty pots on the stove.
Turning another 45 degrees, Matthew can be seen keeping the noodles from dropping into the sink by two metal chopsticks holding back the structured wheat. The small saucepan has a very slight amount of steam coming off of it as he sets the large pot back on the stove, plating the noodles. To the right, a long gray wall separates the kitchen from the ‘welcoming’ hallway. Tall gray walls on both sides, undecorated, and black trash bag sitting right where the wall ends between the room and walkway. Crouching down, leaning over slightly to check Matthews back is still turned and pouring the liquid into a ceramic white bowl, the devil reaches to check in the bag.
Untying the knot and breaching the opening, a rancid smell immediately emanates from the darkness, sending her reeling back. Steeling herself, she checks in the bag. A large black beak is the first thing she sees, secondly large black eyes. A dead crow lies on top of many, many, papers of incoherent ramblings and scratchy writing. Black, bloodied, feathers hide much of what may have made sense to at least the person who wrote the papers, but now the letters are smudged and submerged, illegible and circles losing their original purposes. If they were written correctly, she assesses. The irony isn't lost on her.
Re-knotting the bag, she steps back and looks back around the room, moving towards the nearest bookshelf. Barely scanning the titles, she immediately gravitates to the children's section. One book in particular, old and falling apart, clearly well loved, catches her eyes. Pulling it down, it reads, ‘The Wilds Swan Princess,’ a small laugh under her breath makes its way past the clinking of plates on glass. Opening the cover, on the back reads in beautiful calligraphy,
‘I can’t believe this was pirated! The story was so well done, and yet it was changed from Andersons original work? I almost can’t wrap my mind around it! Reading this growing up, even basing my own name on it! Surely when you are born you won’t be mad at me for changing my family name to that of a fictional character, will you? If anyone dares to comment on it, tell them the pirated version is something they’ll never have the pleasure of reading and enjoying!’
- Si-U Alballon
시우 알발론
“Are you done?” A voice behind her makes the demon jump, the small wistful smile wiped off her face as she whips around. The table is set, and Matthew is standing behind her. Rolling her eyes and setting the periwinkle book back on the shelf, she goes back to her seat on the green couch. The plate in front of her looks surprisingly good, a slight bit of water seeps out beneath the noodles however. The same is with his plate, but his dipping sauce still has steam coming off of it.
Using the set of metal chopsticks, the same boring gray as everything else in the apartment, she tries out the attempted soba. Bringing it to her lips after dipping it in warm enough liquid, he’s already dug in, eating almost like a starved man with at least a shred of dignity left to not just dump all the noodles in at once. Tasting it, it's surprisingly good. Almost beefy tasting. Going in for another bite, she’s interrupted.
“About the deal, what else is there about it?” Matthew asks, his bowl looking about half finished.
With bored lidded eyes, “Other than the obvious dragging your soul to hell bit? Infinite summoning magic, I guess,” she answers, shoving the dripping noodles in her mouth.
“But what about the time limit? Or what exactly can I summon? You said unlimited repertoire, which I don’t believe you on, and no limit-”
“Fucking hell, quit it with the questions. Let me eat, I’ll answer when I’m done,” She says, beginning to slurp up her noodles. Pausing for a moment, she realizes he hasn’t taken his eyes off her and is opting to stare at her.
She continues to eat her bastardized soba, now going slower than before, eating from lukewarm dipping sauce. His jaw tenses in response to it. In the meanwhile, she thinks up excuses to give up on how she pretty much cheated him out on his deal, given how badly they get on.
Finally finishing her dinner, she responds to him and points her chopsticks at him, “One question at a time, I’ll explain the best I can.”
“Time limit,” he fires off.
“Give or take however long your revenge plot lasts, and how far it goes. Or, you know, if you give up halfway through then I get to drag you to hell to your eternal suffering,” She immediately answers, then snarks to him at the end with a sloping smile.
With an annoyed, bored look on his face, “I’m already-,” He cuts himself off before continuing, turning to the first question that came to his mind when she answered, “Why do you keep referring to it as a revenge plot?”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Isn’t that what this is? You got fired for snooping around, like you said. You want to find out why you got fired, it’s probably because you pissed off some high standard douchebag. Thus, revenge plot,” She responds, beginning to twirl her hair around her finger, relaxing against the couch's pillows.
He looks down at his clasped hands, plate finished, deciding which questions to ask next. A thought occurs to him of recent words, “You said magic, summoning in particular.”
At these words, she realizes this is the point where she might need to skirt the truth a bit, or just admit that semantics heavily influence deals. Keeping a straight face, not betraying the gambit, “Yep, I did.”
“And?”
“Well…,” she draws out, face tightening, hair no longer in hand. Rather tapping on the arm of the couch. Head bouncing side to side in indecision, “It’s not exactly as straightforward as I made it sound.”
“Straightforward? You said unlimited repertoire, not much straightforward than that,” His head tilted down for a moment, questioning her response.
Giving in, not exactly able to lie about the contract, “I also said all at your disposal, neither of us specified which kind of disposal. A bottomless pit, pretty much.”
It takes him a moment to respond, the idea that he so willingly agreed to this weighing down on his mind heavier than everything else. The only thing making it out being, “An unlimited trash can?” Whatever madness that might have bubbled in his throat dies out as it tightens up.
His eyes flicker around the room for a moment, his throat feeling achingly warm. A chafe feels as though it's made its home around his neck, whatever confidence he may have regained from the elevator incident slowly starts to wane. His head bows for a moment, eyes watering and he wipes his face with his hands, trying to steady himself. He coughs out the tightness.
“Pretty much, technically. But, unlike most trash cans, you can pull things back out of it. And this bag of holding is connected to the great wonders of the world! Sweetens the deal, doesn’t it?” She throws her hands up in jazz hands, smile becoming crude.
“So, I can still summon anything out of it?” Silver eyes meet orange, or at least an attempt to. Her eyes flicker away from his, thinking on how to make the deal a bit more palatable, while his have a hard time keeping their focus.
“Technically, but not really anything,” Unfortunately, she can’t give such respite, regardless of the small amount of pity she has for his troubles.
Luckily for him, his voice doesn’t waver. Regaining his composure, “And that means?”
“I can’t exactly give you unrestricted access to an infinite repertoire, my boss would have my head if I did that,” she says, eyes finally meeting his.
He reiterates what it is he wants to know, hoping for a confirmation, “But still, I can summon just about anything?” His eyes betray his feelings, desperation evident in his form.
With a click of her tongue, looking down on him at his hunched over form with amusement, “Unfortunate news, buddy boy. We both have to be in agreement as to what you want. I can take whatever I want out, you need my permission.”
He takes a moment, head in hands, brown hair obscuring the look on his face. Pure disappointment and an ever present feeling of helplessness. Neither of them get on that well, the two of them quite literally at each other's throats.
Interrupting his spiraling thoughts, “Anything else you want to ask?”
The confidence from before makes its way back to him, perhaps he has truly given up on trying to reason with the situation. Fully giving in to the depravity of selling his soul, “How about how demons work? Are all of them as much of a liar as you?” He tests the waters, seeing how far he can push things in the moment, still keeping enough distance as she sits on the other side of the glass table.
“Excuse you,” She laughs with wide orange eyes, “I didn’t lie for shit, I used semantics, asswipe. Whole different ball game.”
Looking away, swallowing the lump in his throat and shaking away his worries, “Fine, how about the eye thing. That one guy had the same eyes as you, but blue and with black sclera,” he references the man who jaywalked in front of the car on the main street. He supposes the demonic nature would dull someone's instincts towards a barreling car coming towards them.
“He’s a Hellborn, they get the cool black sclera that contrasts against the animal eyes. I was recruited, so I don’t get those perks.”
The last words fall on deaf ears as he comes to a realization, an uncomfortable one made all the more so having realized how long it's taken him to come to it, “If demons exist, so do angels? Does that confirm the existence of God?”
At the same moment he ends his sentence, a crack of lightning strikes the air. Thunder rumbling throughout the city, none of the lights flickering, but causing the demon to roll her eyes and shocking Matthew out of his twisting thoughts. Muttering something about dramatics she continues to recline in the plush sofa, getting more comfortable.
“Pretty much, yeah. Don’t let it get you, you’re going to hell anyway so it’s a little late to start praying,” She says while picking at her nails, the lack of dirt making it fruitless.
“Then what do angels look like?” He asks, surely they aren’t always the biblically accurate kind Sandie liked to talk about.
She raises an eyebrow, expecting him to use critical thinking skills, “Pure white sclera for eyes, no irises. Divine in essence and ethereal in presence!” Audible sarcasm returns to her tone at the talk of angels and the divine, “All in all, there's just a lack of difference in eyes for angels, wings are what you have to look out for to determine rank.”
“And God?”
“Yep, big man in the sky that’ll curse me with bad luck if I speak against him,” she says, back to picking at her nails.
“Huh,” Bad luck from God, a new idea to him. He’s never had to think too hard about it before but he supposes it makes sense, “So demons get black sclera, angels white?”
“Fallen angels get black sclera, angels white. Demons get animalistic eyes thrown in the mix,” She explains, head leaning back and eyes closed as she relaxes.
Again, thinking over what he can ask, he entertains the idea that she will likely lose her patience over a while from all the questions. About angels and demons and physical traits, he comes to the realization of a surprising fact, “You said fallen angels have black sclera, right?”
“Yep.”
“And so, that means Lucifer, right? He rules hell?”
Her head tilts to the side as she grimaces, thinking over how exactly the title system works in hell. Not to mention the discrepancies of what people want others to believe, regardless of the truth, “I mean, technically? More so a Hades and Thanatos situation there. He’s the ‘ruler’ of hell, but more like a figurehead. It's the Kings that have most of the power.”
“Kings?” To Matthew, it sounds more like Kings are figureheads. Then again, the papers said something about leading legions. Perhaps they take a more of a general role?
“You know, like fallen angels?” She says, waving her hand around, attempting to hopefully jog his memory. Unfortunately he simply shakes his head in response, her hand dropping back on the couch as she explains, “The ones that followed Lucifer out of heaven, becoming Kings and what not.”
“Is Lucifer your boss?” He asks naively.
Again, catching her off guard, “Hah! If I served under him I never would have had to come and make this deal!”
“So you’re not-?”
“I’m employed by Paimon, not much else other than getting invited to parties,” she plays with her hair while a smile makes its way on her face, almost bittersweet.
“Paimon?” That was one of the names he saw on the papers he was able to read, he must really be some high ranking guy if he somehow has a leash on this woman.
“Yep, he’s the guy who would kill me if I gave you too much power,” She says with a finger gun and a wink. Only to shirk the burden of what she said with a hedonistic tone, “Or just completely end our deal.”
His eyes shoot up at the sound of that, “End our deal?”
“Well, it would definitely end my deal,” She says, overtaken by old thoughts, “but ours might just jump up the ladder a bit to someone else.”
He immediately jumps on the idea, “If you give me too much power it could end our deal? No going to hell?” He doesn’t exactly enjoy the thought of eternal damnation, he fully realizes now that the lack of sleep made him way too eager for an escape. Damned him in multiple forms.
The question surprises her from how quick it was, but ultimately causes her to laugh yet again, “Oh no, you are definitely going to hell! Selling your soul is a one way trip downstairs, babe. And I just said it would jump up the ladder, so if anything the contract would just be rewritten with more restrictions on what you can do.”
Annoyed at her amusement, as well as her insistence on calling him babe, he continues on in asking more about the bureaucratics of where the deal could end up, “It could jump up the ladder? To who? Paimon?”
The amusement never leaves her tone, “As if. It would likely go to a lesser demon under him, given that you used his seal to forge a contract,” she begins to pick at her nails, but slowly stops. Choosing to stare at him as he goes deeper into his own head.
So the ramblings were right, he thinks. He finds it even more strange that his coworker got something this big, but pawned it off to him as trash. Then again, there was the dead bird. If anything, he was lucky to find anything legible in the muck of it all.
Shifting his thoughts away from the fact he had a trove of demonic information buried beneath the dead, she asks her own question. Leaning forward, hands on her knees and meeting his eyes, “My turn. Where’d you get the blood bag?”