Deals with the Devil (PA #1)

Prologue

Lucifer

I don't get paid enough for this shit. I don't get paid at all, really. Unless you count the blood sacrifices and other dumb shit the mortals are always doing to try and get my attention, which I don't.

Why did they collectively decide that the best way to worship me is through the blood of animals or virgins, anyway? I have no use for either of those things. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if that dumb fuck archangel was the one to spread those rumors. Michael has always been such a pain in my ass.

Snapping out of my thoughts and back into the present, I watch as the sniveling cretin before me puffs out his chest to try and appear more intimidating. He's holding a severed chicken head in his right hand, while the headless chicken continues to run around the room before abruptly dropping to the pentagram-covered ground.

"You're not much, human, and you're cutting into my torturing time. What is so important that you went to such lengths to summon me?" I ask before he can get a word out.

It really is remarkable that he was able to summon me at all. Contrary to popular belief, most people who try to summon me end up dealing with lower-level demons. The disgusting little demon shits look scary enough to be the real deal. Plus, humans are stupid and easily fooled.

"I c-called you here to make a d-deal," the pathetic sack of bones, blood, and flesh is able to stutter out, his earlier attempt at bravado over before it ever really began. With greasy brown hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, a stomach that protrudes far past the barrier of his cheap-looking polyester pants, and enough body odor to kill an elephant, I can guess at what kind of deal he is attempting to make.

"Not sure even I could help you in the looks department, mortal. You want a miracle, go find Jesus. I hear he's good at those."

I despise my younger brother. All he did was die and then come back to life, yet he gets revered by humans for thousands of years. It's such bullshit.

"N-no. Looks are t-temporary and beauty is subjective, anyway. I want to be r-r-rich." At this point, the human finally drops the chicken head only to begin wringing his blood-covered hands.

"Fame, fortune, and beauty—the three most common wishes. You humans really never change. And what exactly would you offer in return for the wealth that you desire? I can't imagine it'll be very enticing."

"I would g-give you my soul."

That forces a laugh out of my throat, though it probably sounds more diabolical than amused. "Just as I suspected—your soul is of no use to me. And, if you have nothing better to offer, then we're done here."

The human's brown eyes bug out in alarm, vaguely resembling a bloated corpse. He places his hands out in front of him as if to physically keep me from leaving. "W-wait, no! If my s-soul is useless to you, w-what about the life of my f-firstborn child? I've heard you're i-into that kind of t-thing."

Somewhat offended that he's confusing me with Rumpelstiltskin, I'm slow to respond. "If the child is anything like you, then no."

"My d-daughter, she's barely a y-year old, but everyone says she t-takes after her mother. H-her mother is q-quite beautiful. I m-married up."

"And this beautiful wife of yours, she would be okay with her husband giving her child up to the devil in exchange for human money? Objectively worthless pieces of paper? Last I checked, mothers are usually against that sort of thing."

I don't really care about him or his wife. If you asked me seven years ago, I would say that I didn't really care about his daughter either. Alas, fatherhood changes a person, and having seven children of my own definitely changed me. As mortifying as it is to even think about, I now care about the wellbeing of children, even gross human ones.

"We n-need the m-money. She would u-understand, I'm sure."

If I thought he was sweating before, he is really sweating now. The human is like some kind of fucked-up science experiment with that sweat dripping all over the place. Surely, the scientific community should study him for the medical anomaly he must be.

I'm so distracted by his repulsive bodily functions that I don't respond for one long moment. Probably worried about the direction of my thoughts, the human starts making a high-pitched keening sound in the back of his throat. He now resembles a beached whale and sounds like a dying cat. Truly, I do not get paid nearly enough for this.

"Would you stop making that god-awful noise? It's really grating my ears and I'm used to the screams of dead sinners—a perfectly pleasant sound if you ask me—so that shouldn't be possible. Tell me more about this daughter of yours. What's her name? I assume it's something stupid and simple."

He quits making the noise, although I'm pretty sure that his sweat is coming down even faster. "L-Linda. After h-her grandmother."

I sigh. "Linda? You chose to give your daughter the name of an elderly person? Right off the bat, just making sure she has no chance? And they call me cruel." I huff out an incredulous breath.

Before he can speak and annoy me some more, I decide to cut to the chase and then get the, well, Hell out of here. "Sure. I'll take your unfortunate daughter. You'll be blessed with wealth beyond your imagination, spend it wisely, blah blah blah. See you in Hell."

Without even waiting to see his reaction, I step out of the pentagram and teleport from the basement of the human's house to his child's room.

Sleeping peacefully in a crib that has clearly seen better days, I silently observe the new ward I decided to take as payment. She's tiny, much smaller than my kids were at that age, with tufts of wispy blonde hair barely noticeable on her head. She snores lightly, holding a clenched fist close to her mouth as she curls her body into the fetal position, possibly trying to recreate the conditions of her mother's womb. As I watch, she raises that fist to punch the air several times in succession. It seems as though she is fighting off bad guys in whatever dreamland she occupies.

She doesn't seem like a Linda. I associate Lindas with khaki capris, bingo games, and retirement homes in Florida. They are frail, with bones as brittle as the candy they love to break their teeth on. Despite her tiny frame, this little human looks strong. Resilient. When she grows, I'm sure she will surprise those around her with an unshakeable tenacity to live. She reminds me of a tree. She looks like a...Willow.