Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
❧ the devil's deal ❧
≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫
The engine of Amalie's car roared down the empty highway like a beast starved for chaos, and she was more than willing to feed it. The speedometer needle danced well beyond the legal limit, but she barely noticed. Wind howled through the open windows, tearing at her hair, whipping it into a wild mess, but the reckless speed only made her feel more alive. The night sky stretched out above her—an endless abyss dotted with stars, cold and distant, like pinpricks of light too far away to matter . It was the kind of night that made everything feel sharp, alive, and teetering on the edge of unraveling.
Her fingers drummed absently on the steering wheel, here eyes narrowing as the lights of Mystic Falls drew closer in the distance. This cursed town—its history as twisted as hers—called to her like a siren.
In the passenger seat, Ana sat with her back slouched against the leather seat, one leg propped up on the dashboard, her scuffed sneakers catching the moonlight. Her curly, dark brown hair framed her face in a tousled mess. A lollipop stuck out of her mouth, the candy clinking against her teeth as she flicked her gaze toward Amalie. Her dark, heavily lined eyes carried a mix of boredom and curiosity, a permanent expression that she had perfected in her forty years as a ghost.
"Still driving like you're in some kind of illegal drag race?" Ana quipped, her tone dry, laced with the detached amusement she always seemed to have.
Amalie shot her a sidelong glance, smirking. "Isn't that what you love about me?"
Ana snorted, pulling the lollipop from her mouth and twirling it between her fingers. "Love's a strong word, babe." She paused, a sly grin playing on her lips. "But I do appreciate a little recklessness. Keeps things... interesting."
Amalie pressed harder on the gas pedal, the engine growling in response as the car surged forward. The vibrations rattled through her bones, but she welcomed it—the distraction, the control. Ana wasn't criticizing her, not really. Amalie knew the ghost wasn't interested enough to actually criticize anyone. But Ana had a way of making everything sound like a casual, biting observation, one that often pricked at Amalie's nerves whether she wanted it to or not.
They drove in silence for a while, the hum of the engine and the rush of wind filling the space between them. But it was more than just the sound of the road that lingered in the background. There were always the whispers. Soft, insistent , like static on an old radio. The voices of the dead. They pressed at the edges of Amalie's mind, a constant hum, never fully quiet. They were always there, like ghosts waiting for her attention—waiting for their turn to be heard .
