Everyone would sell their soul for the right price.
For Beck Calloway, that price was not their own. Years after their mother made them the collateral in a demonic deal, Beck remains in Fate: a small town between this life and the next, where Soulle...
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SOULS ARE WORTHLESS. Wishy-washy. Weak-spined.
As if they have spines to begin with.
Rinzor has never been concerned with human anatomy, but I suppose anything that can't be peddled on hell's black market is the least of a demon's worries. Give him your uncle's heart, a virgin's blood, or an angel's left wing, and he'll have your contract sealed before the crimson ink dries.
If the deal is sweet enough, he may even settle for another being's soul... just like he did for mine.
Worthless. Wishy-washy. Weak-spined.
His words echo to the beat of my shoes splashing through puddles, accompanied by puttering cars and rain plinking against the sidewalks. Despite the eternal rain plaguing the Gloom District, its streets never flood. But the overcast skies and fog only seem to grow. The sun never tries to penetrate them. It has never warmed the pale-skinned faces of the district's residents.
At least not since I arrived in town. How long has it even been? Time is messy when you're stuck in the devil's hamster wheel. Life is empty, just like my chest, where emotions seep from a void that once housed my soul.
Worthless. Wishy-washy. Weak-spined.
The more I repeat the demon's words, the truer they'll become. Or so I tell myself.
In this town, there is nothing else to hold onto. The wicked stake their claim, the poor pay their bargain's price, and the Soulless wait out an endless sentence.
They call it "Fate," I suppose because purgatory is outdated.
Worthless. Wishy-washy. Weak—
Rinzor's slithery voice leaves with a rush of water. Moisture dribbles down my face, cold and stinging. A gold Volkswagon the color of overripe fruit rumbles down the brick street, as if laughing over the tsunami it launched across the sidewalk. I pat my eyes with the sleeve of my knit sweater. Red skin creeps across my palms, and numbness tingles my fingers from the icy puddle.
In Fate, there is no need for rest, or sustenance, or even the bathrooms in our homes. Our bodies are not living. They should not be bothered by temperature. But the illusion of humanity remains in our minds, as if we aren't consciousnesses embedded in an eternally frozen form.
As if we're still alive.
I trudge down the streets, sopping, squishing, and super annoyed. Lavender strands cling to my cheeks, and the wind sweeps wisps of hair between my lips. I should be thankful for the sensory distraction. It's enough to loosen the vice gripping my chest and subdue my fading thought spiral.
But my shoes are wet, my sweater weighs twice what it should, the howling wind is nails on the chalkboard of my eardrums... and I'm headed to my least favorite corner of town, where the fruit-colored Volkswagon parks when it isn't soaking passersby.
