Of Heaven and Hell

by Anthology

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Who’d win the fight? Cap or Iron Man?” (Another trick for soul-scamming in the modern age: know your pop culture.)

  He ponders this for a moment. Obviously it’s a deeper and more poignant question than I’d thought. I’ll have to remember that for the future. Perhaps I’ll bring it up again at some classy literary event and see what reaction it gets.

  “Iron Man,” he decides at last. “It’d be close, but Iron Man has the better weaponry.”

  “I’d plump for the Cap myself, but then I’ve always been partial to a blond.”

  I punctuate this statement by giving him a quick look up and down. He gulps and lowers his gaze to his glass. An attractive blush mottles his cheeks.

  It’s a bold move so early in the conversation. I couldn’t have made it more obvious if I’d had a flashing neon sign above my head. But I find I’m starting to enjoy myself. He’s a bit of a nerd, but the guy has looks, and I’m as partial to a pretty face as any man. Given my nature, I’m pretty gender fluid. Girls or guys, I’ll swing either way.

  My plan had been to seduce him as myself—get his juices flowing and all that jazz—and then I’d offer him the waiter to sweeten (and hopefully seal) the deal on the contract. Now I’m beginning to change my mind. Why not set myself a little challenge and make myself the main reward?

  Yep, if he signs on the dotted line, he gets one night of unbridled passion with yours truly. Not to blow my own trumpet or anything, but it’d be a much better deal for the guy. I’m fairly certain the waiter’s straight, for one thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s feeling up that waitress out back even as we speak. For another... well, let’s just say no one, male or female, has every finished a night with me feeling in any way... unsatisfied, if you get my meaning. I’ve got the moves, baby. Austin Powers, Don Juan, Casanova. They have nothing on me.

  “So, what is it you do, Tom?” Time to get the conversation moving again.

  “I do artwork. On comic books and graphic novels.”

  Figures. “Must be fun work. Get to set your own hours a bit?”

  He nods. “As long as deadlines are met, I can go into the office when I please.”

  “Sweet. What I wouldn’t give for a life like that. With me it’s nose to the grindstone day in and day out. One toe out of line and the boss hails down fire and brimstone.”

  “What is it you do?”

  Finally the guy is engaging. Things are looking up (hopefully in more ways than one). “Oh, I guess you could say I’m in procurement. Of a very particular kind.”

  “Oh.”

  Nothing more to add, comic boy? Never mind. Luckily I have enough skill in conversation for the both of us. “Say, I was going to grab some lunch. Want to join me?”

  “Here?”

  “Nah, I’ve seen the food coming out of that kitchen. I was thinking somewhere a little nicer. My treat,” I add, in case the thought of the bill puts him off.

  He’s taking a while to answer. He even takes the first sip of his drink. It’s done in an effort to disguise the fact he’s thinking hard about what to do, but it doesn’t fool a pro like me.

  “Yeah. Sure. Why not,” he says eventually.

  Praise the Devil! I down the last of my half-pint (Old Peculiar this time) and set the glass firmly on the table. “Did you want to finish your drink first, or are you ready to go?”

  “No. I mean, yes, we can go.”

  HE FIDGETS the entire way to the restaurant. I mean, we’re walking along the street, just two blokes out for lunch, and he’s shoving his hands in and out of his pockets and tugging at his T-shirt nonstop. He runs his fingers through those delightful blond curls so often I fear he’ll have pulled them all out by the time we reach our destination.

  Hey, it’s nice to know I still have that effect on people. A great boost to the ego. But I’m pretty certain some of the passersby have decided he’s mentally unstable. One woman definitely crosses to the other side of the street to avoid walking past him. Just saying.

  By the time we make it to the restaurant, even I’m beginning to feel relieved the journey is over. Once he’s in a chair, the table a meter-long barrier between us, he does finally start to settle down, restraining his actions to gently fiddling with the cloth napkin. Oh yes, cloth. I only dine at the classiest establishments. No paper serviettes for this demon.

  When we order, I notice he picks the cheapest item on the menu despite my insistence the meal is my treat and he can have whatever he wants. I see the waiter raise an eyebrow when he orders a Coke to go with his Spaghetti Bolognese, but the man manages a polite, “Of course, sir,” and seems relieved when I choose a suitable glass of wine to accompany my risotto.

  “So, Tom,” I say when the waiter struts off with our order, “tell me more about yourself.”

  “Like what?”

  “Favourite book?”

  “I’m more into comics, you know.”

  My heart sinks. This might be harder than I thought. I try to keep up with the full spectrum of pop culture, but I doubt I know enough about DC and Marvel to maintain this kind of conversation for long.

  “Sorry, you seem pretty cultured.” He’s tugging at his hair again. “I must come across as a bit of a nerd.”

  Oh, yes! “Not at all.” I flash him one of my most winning smiles, and he almost returns it... almost.

  “I do like films.”

  Hmm, this I might be able to work with. “What’s the last thing you saw?”

  “Guardians of the Galaxy.”

  Then again, maybe not.

  OH, YOU’RE back? Good thinking, not staying through the whole of the meal with us. You may have been bored. That said, it’s not the hardest time I’ve ever had. Once the food arrived and he started eating, he did loosen up a bit. He may not be a prolific consumer of the written word, but Tom does know his art history.

  Once we’d found this common ground we had a fairly pleasant conversation on the merits of different art movements through the ages. I was able to throw in a few amusing facts about some of the artists. Not sure he believed all of them, but just between you and me, every single one was true. Some of those painters were wild. A few would’ve made good demons if they’d had the inclination. I used to spend a lot of time with artists—mainly because where there are artists, there are models. Yep, I’m pretty shallow at times. But I just roll with it, and so should you if you want to hang with me.

  Anyhow, a few moments ago I persuaded Tom to join me in dessert and we are just waiting for our chocolaty treats to be brought forth. In another quirky twist of fate, the house specialty dessert is a “Double Diablo Cake”. I swear, it’s pure coincidence. But a funny one, you have to agree.

  I glance over at Tom and am surprised to find him looking back at me. Praise Beelzebub! It’s taken the whole meal, but the boy can finally meet my eye without blushing or lowering his gaze. No, I take that back—there is some minor blushing—but it’s still a good step forward.

  Actually the more time I spend with Tom, the more I like him. Under that nerdy crust lies a good sense of humor and a kind soul that makes him oddly angelic, especially when matched with that blond curly halo and those blue-gray eyes. I confess there’s a little corner of my hell-blackened heart that feels just the teensiest bit bad about what I’m trying to do to the guy. Hey, I said it’s only a small part. Nothing I can’t suppress, don’t you worry.

  The waiter returns and sets two plates in front of us. The opulent dessert is simply oozing chocolate. Like most demons, I have a terrible sweet tooth and so I dig right in. I’m probably shoveling the cake down faster than would be deemed suitable for polite society. But to hell with that! Within seconds I’m scraping the last vestiges onto my cake fork and licking hard to clean off every last morsel.

  I can feel Tom’s gaze on me so I make the most of it and elaborate the movement. I work that fork in and out of my mouth like I can’t get enough, sucking hard. I conclude the display with a satisfied sigh
; then I set the much-abused item of cutlery back on the plate.

  When I glance up, Tom is stock still. He was obviously about to take a bite when I began my show because his fork has come to a halt about an inch away from his mouth. His elbow is locked in place, and his (frankly quite perfect) lips are parted, jaw frozen open.

  “Sorry,” I say, “when I see something so delicious, I just can’t resist.” I wink and offer a little pout.

  Tom starts. He nearly drops the fork entirely, but catches it just in time. The portion of cake is not so lucky. It tumbles off the metal prongs and lands on the table cloth in a gooey heap.

  The time is most definitely here. This one is ripe for the plucking.

  I lean across the table, closing the distance between us. “Tell me, Tom, what would a night with me be worth to you?”

  “What?”

  He’s confused, poor dear. And I don’t really blame him—I’ve been using all my very best moves on him, after all. They’d be enough to floor even the most blasé of marks. For an innocent like this? Let’s just say I’ll soon be scraping him off the floor the way I scraped that thick chocolate sauce off the plate.

  “One night. With Me. Doing anything you want, in as many ways as you want.” I reach out and brush the tips of my fingers over his hand. He shivers; it’s delightful.

  “Hang on.” He shakes his head. He’s trying to focus. “Are you a... gigolo?”

  Not a bad guess. I almost feel like one sometimes when I think of some of the things I’ve had to go through over the years to get pen to paper.

  “No, I’m not a gigolo.”

  Usually at this point I’d say a few things to ease him in before the big reveal, and yet the urge to just blurt out the truth, to lay it all on the table, overcomes my usual reserve.

  “Actually, I’m a demon. I procure souls, and I’d like to acquire yours. Sign it over to me and I’ll give you the best night of your life. That’s a guarantee.”

  “You want my soul in exchange for... sex... with you?”

  He’s a smart cookie this one. And I mean that as a compliment, not a snide aside. You’d be surprised how long it takes some people to cotton on to what I’m saying; Tom has nailed it straight away. Hmm. The thought of nailing him makes my cock twitch. Down boy. Not quite yet.

  “Yes. What do you say?”

  He laughs. Okay, not the best response, but again I’ve had worse. I keep my expression blank—no smile, no winking—and his laughter fades away. We stare at each other for a few moments. Just to test the water, I briefly lower the illusion that masks my eyes, letting him see the real me, the one behind the sexy exterior. He gasps and sits back, keeping his gaze fixed on my face.

  “Why me?”

  An intelligent question. Tom rises once more in my estimation. We passed the incredulous phase pretty quickly and efficiently. This could well be the easiest mark in a long time.

  “You looked like someone who needed something.” I could leave it there, but I feel compelled to add, “Plus, I find you appealing.”

  He nods. I can practically see the little cogs in his brain turning. “So, is this like in Supernatural? Do I get ten years or something?”

  Now Supernatural I can talk to. All demons watch that show. It’s almost like required reading these days. If you aren’t intimately familiar with that series, you look like an ass when a mark asks you a question about it. And trust me, a good eighty-five percent of them do bring it up.

  “Way better than that,” I say. “We wouldn’t be so stingy as to set a time limit. No, you get to live out your natural life for as long as that may be. We don’t interfere with your fate. All we ask is for the rights to your soul when the day comes.”

  “And I’d go to Hell?”

  “Yep. But it’s really not as bad as you’d think. I mean, I live there myself when I’m not up here for work.”

  “What if I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell?”

  “Makes no difference to the contract.”

  He gives me an assessing look. “And you really think a night with you is worth my soul? Think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

  I grin. “I can promise you it’ll be worth it. Or perhaps you aren’t interested...?”

  I let my voice trail off. I know Tom is interested. His pupils are like flying sauces. His eyes are so black, he almost looks like a Supernatural demon himself. I know if I were to slide my foot up his leg to his groin he’d be just as hard as I am right now.

  “Can I see this contract?”

  I like a man who’s straight to business. It means we can get to the fun part so much quicker. And the fun part is coming, I’m certain now. He’s going to sign on the dotted line. The boss’ll be happy, I’ll be happy, and I’ll make sure Tom gets a little slice of heaven tonight. It’s the only taste he’ll get of it, after all, once he’s put pen to paper.

  Some demons are all about filling the quota, and once they’ve gotten that signature they no longer care. Me, I’m old-school. I believe in upholding my end of the bargain, and I make damn sure my customer gets what he or she has been promised. It’s only fair, don’t you agree?

  I remove the parchment from the inner pocket of my jacket. A nice old-fashioned papyrus always inspires the right level of awe and confidence. It’s a simple document, just a few lines long, with none of the small print and incomprehensible clauses you see in television shows and films. We aren’t out to swindle people, you know. It’s a business transaction, no more and no less, and in business you want to make sure everything is clear and above board to avoid the risk of any retractions at the last moment.

  Tom takes the contract from me and scans it. He glances up at me and I nod: yes, that’s all there is to it. He looks back down and reads it again. By the time he finishes I have my pen in hand—a lovely Montblanc fountain pen, in case you were wondering—and when I offer it to him, he doesn’t hesitate.

  My heart rate quickens as he lowers the nib to the parchment. Time slows to a crawl as he forms the signature in long, drawn out strokes. He adds the final flourish... and it’s done.

  Invisible to Tom, the magic pulses in the parchment, sealing the deal. He sets the pen down beside the contract, and I reach across to take both. I slip them back into my pocket and look across at him. He’s flushed, and his breathing is a little quicker than it was before.

  “Um, so what happens now? Do I see you again at sunset?”

  He’s fiddling with the napkin again. It’s down on his knee, but I can see what he’s up to from the movement in his arm. Soon I’ll give him something much better to do with those pretty pale fingers.

  I pretend to consider the question for a moment, but actually I’ve already decided to give this guy a bonus. Yeah, okay, I confess it’s as much for myself as it is for him, but seriously, I’m so hard right now it’s becoming painful. I don’t recall having ever been quite so enthusiastic about fulfilling my end of the bargain before. It’s certainly an exhilarating feeling.

  “I know the contract says the night lasts from sunset to sunrise, but I have no other commitments today and we’re already here together. How about I give you a few hours extra as a bonus? No additional cost to you, naturally.” I throw him one of my most winning smiles. “I’ll settle up with the waiter, and then we’ll get out of here.”

  I TAKE him back to my place. Well, I say “my place”, but actually I share it with three other demons. It’s a city apartment the boss rents out and keeps available for us drones to use when we have overnight stays up top. Or for occasions such as this when we need somewhere to go to... fulfill our obligations.

  I suppose it’s nice in a modern, minimalist sort of way. If you like white and bland. The only plus point really is the bedroom. The king bed is utter luxury: all silk sheets and cushions, decorated in black, purple, and burgundy. Much more my color palette than the rest of the apartment. The ceiling mirror can be used if needed. Not all customers are into that sort of thing, but I rather like it myself, so I’m hoping Tom
won’t object to a little self-voyeurism.

  We’ve not yet made it that far, though. I’ve left him seated on the white leather sofa while I move across the white carpet to procure two glasses and a bottle of bourbon from the (you’ve guessed it) white kitchen cupboards. I know some people like the plain look, but seriously, if I stay here for too long without a break, my eyes start to go funny. I don’t know how people who live in these places full-time stop themselves from going blind.

  I set my drink on the coffee table—which in case you were wondering is... you guessed it, white—and hand his to him. To my surprise he immediately takes a sip. He was quiet on the way over, and I begin to worry he might back out. Not from the contract—nothing can change that now—but from the night ahead. In most situations, if a client chose to forfeit their payment I’d just shrug and consider it an added bonus to the deal (not that it’s ever happened in my experience), but the thought of missing out on making good on my end this time causes a tightening in my chest.

  When did I fall so hard for this guy? At what time during the afternoon did it change from an emotionless business transaction to something more? I can’t quite pin it down. And it’s not just physical either. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not going to deny that’s a big part of it—I mean, the thought of getting my hands on that lithe form, running my fingers through those curls, and plowing that no doubt tight ass has my cock straining against my clothing, desperate for release—but it’s more than that. I want to know the guy on—dare I say it—a more spiritual level. Something about him draws me in. It’s a new feeling for me, and it’s both exhilarating and, if I’m honest, a little frightening in its intensity. Yep, not often you’ll hear a demon say he finds anything frightening, but I’m a modern thinker and willing to embrace my feminine side, yada yada yada.

  I slip out of my suit jacket—the contract is still in the pocket, ready to be lodged in the morning—and lay it over the arm of the chair before taking a seat beside him. Close beside him. Close enough that our knees touch. The liquor has brought tears to his eyes. They’re red and watery in the half-light of the room.