What would you trade your soul for?
The answer is simple for Jessa: nothing. Life isn't perfect, but it's pretty good with her best friend Taylor at her side.
But everything changes when the Devil--disguised as an attractive high school girl--comes...
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I was thankful Lana had told me to wear some good walking shoes. The path was long and winding, taking us up and down sloping hills, alongside dribbling streams, and through large fields of wildflowers.
Everything around me was both familiar and foreign. There was some sort of sun above us, but the light it gave off was more silvery than golden. When a brook wound its way along the path, the water looked clear and refreshing, yet when I plunged my hand into its depth, it made my fingers tingle, as if I had dunked them into a river of seltzer. And all of the plants that dotted the fields were somewhat reminiscent of home, but just a bit off: swirling green roses, blue dandelions, and hot pink lilacs.
There were a few times I could almost convince myself I was back on Earth. Occasionally we saw houses in the distance, set in the middle of farmland with some people too far to make out clearly tending the fields. During these stretches of our trek, I tried to close my eyes and imagine I was in the middle of Italy, or at a farm out in the countryside. And yet something strange would always draw me out of my fantasy, and I'd question for the millionth time whether all of this was just a façade that could turn into barren fields of ash and boiling pools of lava at any moment.
"We should be seeing a city soon," I said to James, repeating a line I'd been saying for at least an hour. It was almost as if I thought repeating the phrase would make a skyline suddenly appear in the distance. But the only thing in view at this point was the mint green pathway fading off into the horizon, climbing over the honey hills.
"We just have to keep walking," James said.
I glanced down at the teddy bear, who was comfortably lounging in my arms. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one actually walking."
"Neither are you, technically. You're unconscious on a picnic table right now, remember?"
"Ooh... Touché, James. Touché."
"Excuse me!"
The addition of a new voice made me jump and whip my head to the right. There was a girl sitting under a willow tree about twenty feet away from the path. She had a sketchpad balanced on her knees and a small collection of colored pencils scattered on the grass around her. Had we been up on Earth, I'd have assumed she was an art student at the local college.
She gave a little wave, gesturing us over. I looked down at James, whose shrug was nearly imperceptible as he once again pretended he was just an inanimate object, and I tentatively took a few steps off the path to join her.
"Sorry to interrupt your walk," she said, "but you smell fresh and I have a question for you."
I wasn't a fan of everyone remarking on my scent down here, but I ignored the comment and said, "Sure, what is it?"
She showed me her sketchpad, where she had drawn, in intricate detail, the surrounding countryside. In the one illustration, she had the hills, the willow tree, some flowers, and of course, the winding path, all lightly shaded in with colored pencils. She pointed to the pathway with a slender finger, and asked, "How do you like the mint?"
