One, two, three-four-five, six—so went the rhythm of a knock on John's door this rainy evening, different from the water beating on the roof tile by just a bit of volume.
When he pulled the door wide, two eyes met his own, stealing the look of blood-wet pearls set upon black linen. A powder-white face took them in, gaunt in the cheeks and sharp at the jaw, an unlawful beauty were there ever one. At one glance, he could tell it was no mere man that stood before him, but a demon wearing false skin.
"Good evening," were the demon's words, bouncing off his full lips in a sultry tone like the song of a siren.
It took all John's will not to stare like a dullard, then more to utter three simple words.
"Who are you?"
The demon's lips made a smile. "You can call me Mister Bones," he said, straightening his odd, expensive-looking garments. "I'm here to make you an offer. May I come in?"
An offer. A deal with a demon like the Church forbade. Every piece of his soul and his wit told him to slam the door shut, but curiosity was a foul thing, and it demanded he allow the demon a few words.
"Yes, of course," John muttered, parting himself from the doorway to allow him entrance. "Please, have a seat at the table."
"Thank you, John," Mister Bones said.
John stiffened like a dead man upon hearing his name.
"Word has it that you're a budding merchant," he said. "I would like to invest in you."
So that was it—his soul for talons. It wasn't a deal he could make, no matter how great the amount was.
"I refuse to grant you my soul, demon," John said, casting a cold stare at the seated man.
Mister Bones laughed. "It isn't your soul I want." He spread his arms wide and forged another smile. "All I'm after is wealth and notoriety. I'd like you to help me gain those two things."
A creature from hell had such base and worldly desires? Was it a trick, perhaps?
"Make clear your offer or see yourself out," John demanded, tightening his glare.
"I will afford you the talons required to begin your venture. In exchange, you will spread my name wherever you go, enticing more merchants to seek my funding. Additionally, I will get a flat cut of any and all wealth you acquire." He pressed on after a moment of silence: "Fifty percent of all your earnings will do nicely. Tell me the amount you require and let us strike a deal."
Perhaps the man wasn't a demon. After all, what sort of demon wanted to do business with talons?
"Fifty percent?" John asked with a frown. "That is beyond extortionate."
"I'll give you two hundred talons for fifty percent," Mister Bones clarified.
"Twenty-five percent for two hundred talons," John snapped back.
"Bargaining is a passion of mine, but doing so with such meager amounts bores me. Tell me the amount you require for fifty percent of your profits and see it fulfilled."
Meager amounts? If the man was so rich, why would he want to invest in a twice-failed merchant? Surely there was some ulterior motive at play here.
"Four hundred talons and a guarantee that no harm will befall me."
"Harming an investment is counterintuitive." He raised a finger. "If you were to go back on our deal, however, I would be left with no choice but to burn down all that you hold dear. Now, do we have a deal? Four hundred talons works for me."
There was honesty in the man's voice; he truly meant what he said. If he abided by the settled terms, then no action would be taken against him. This was what he needed to escape poverty—to wrest himself from this wretched district and all its restraints. He had to take this deal or risk dying a poor man.
John donned a solemn expression. "I agree to your terms."
Mister Bones clapped his hands together. "Marvelous! I will have your talons by next week—all four hundred of them. If you find yourself in need of more money, we can discuss adjusting our terms."
Was this the right decision? It felt dangerous, but four hundred talons was enough to buy him a horse and carriage and enough goods to strike a handsome profit at a stall in Balmwell.
"I understand."
Mister Bones stood from his seat. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, John. I look forward to becoming rich together." He left the house without another word, leaving John alone at the table.
"It was a good deal," he tried to convince himself. "It was a very good deal."
::::::------::::::
Tommy left the house sporting the widest grin his face could manage. That was the sixth merchant he'd dealt with today, and, funnily enough, they had all believed him to be a demon. In spite of that, they accepted his deal, making them his new fifty-fifty partners.
What was the point of investing in some poor, small-time merchants, though? Well, there was little advantage to it right now, but in the future, having an extensive trade network would be priceless. Selling illegal potions and hard liquors across Alyria would net him both infamy and cash. He'd be the fantasy equivalent of Al Capone.
The next step would be finding the right product to mass produce and peddle. If there was an addictive potion out there, he needed to know about it. His bone knights could farm the ingredients for it, then hired alchemists could mix them together. Better yet, if the process wasn't too complicated, bone knights could run the operation entirely on their own, no help needed.
Tommy made his way to the slummiest apothecary the city had to offer. The building was small and shabby, timber-framed like the adjacent houses but without whitewashed nogging. Cracked stone filled its gaps with several carved, shutterless windows that allowed air into the backroom laboratory.
He opened the creaky front door to reveal a cluttered interior that harbored the smell of dust and cold medicine. Wooden shelves lined the room's walls, holding phials and jars of colorful liquids, labeled and priced like thrift store goods. It was an underwhelming sight, though exactly the one he had hoped to see.
A man sat at the front desk, half-lidded eyes fixed upon the book in his hand. He seemed unaware that Tommy had walked in.
"Excuse—"
The man jumped from his seat, throwing his book to the ground in shock. "Lord almighty!"
Tommy chuckled. "I apologize. It wasn't my intent to frighten you."
"That's alright," he said, reclaiming his seat with a heavy breath. "How can I help you today?"
Tommy approached the bar with a faint smile. "Actually, I had"—he passed the man two talons—"a few questions I was hoping you could entertain."
The potion maker threw Tommy a confused look. "You're willing to pay me a laborer's daily wage for a few questions?"
"That's correct. These questions might be rather upsetting for you to answer. It's my hope that this small payment will ease any discomfort you might feel."
He retained his look but grabbed the talons and set them behind the bar. "What are your questions?"
"Oliver is your name, correct?" He pressed on at the man's nod: "Tell me, Oliver—how's business?"
Oliver rubbed his brow and exhaled from his mouth. "Bad, as you can tell. My competitors have deals with all of the major merchants in the city, so I find it hard to maintain a stock of quality ingredients."
"How many talons would you say you make on a good day?"
"Four on my best days and one on my worst."
So little. This presented an incredible opportunity.
"You seem as sharp a man as any, so I'll be honest with you," Tommy began, "I'd like you to work for me. I'll pay you far more than you earn here."
Oliver narrowed his eyes. "What's the catch?"
"There's three, actually, and I'd like you to keep an open mind while I list them." Tommy paused a second, then continued: "First, you'd need to close your shop and move seventy miles east of the city." He raised a finger before the man could speak against his offer. "Second, you'd need to brew illegal potions. I'd provide the ingredients, of course; you wouldn't need to worry about stock ever again. And, third, you would have to swear yourself to secrecy. I'm sure that one is understood, though. Neither of us wishes to get in trouble."
"And why in the name of light would I want to work with you after hearing those conditions?"
A devilish smile found its way onto Tommy's face. "Because you get to name your own salary."
"What do you mean?" asked Oliver, clearly taken aback by the claim.
"Your salary—tell me what it will cost to hire your services, and I'll see it met."
The man spoke scornfully and with disbelief: "My competitors make up to six talons per day. Pay me ten and I'll—"
"Done." Tommy fished ten talons from his belt pouch and set them on the counter. "To guarantee your silence. Let's call it a signing bonus—your first paycheck without having to do any work."
Oliver was struck speechless. He picked up one of the coins and bit down on it, forming a small dent in its metal. "Gold," he whispered. "You're offering me ten talons just to keep my mouth shut?"
"I'm giving you ten talons to keep your mouth shut and to consider my offer with the seriousness it's due." Tommy spread his hands in the air. "Imagine a life in which you receive free lodging and food while also getting paid more than your competitors. Sounds nice, doesn't it?"
"I don't—" Oliver stopped himself, a parade of emotions marching across his face, one after the other. "Why me?"
"Because you're desperate enough to say yes," Tommy admitted. "It's as simple as that."
"I need some time to think this over," Oliver murmured with just a hint of a frown.
"Of course you do. I'll come back in a week's time." Tommy walked for the door, then spun around before walking through it. "By the way—the name's Bones. Mister Bones."
He had to be honest—the name sounded way cooler than it did a week ago.