Brandon walked through the streets of downtown where everything was empty. The snowflakes were falling slower and in fewer bunches, it was the calm before the storm. It was getting very late, fifteen minutes to midnight. He turned the corner into an alleyway between two small shops, both of which had already closed their doors for the day.
Black trash bags were littered along the walls on each side. There was a flickering light above the side entrance to the shop on the right, as if someone hadn't changed the bulb in years. The foul stenches of garbage and rat feces entered his nostrils, but they were smells he'd gotten accustomed to a long time ago.
He stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he was at the alley's midpoint and started to turn his head back and forth, looking in several directions around him. There was not another soul in sight—which was good. He didn't want anyone else to see how he could contact the Devil.
Once he knew he was alone, he dug into his back pocket with his right hand and pulled out a small stick of dark red chalk. Then he knelt down and used the chalk to draw a circle with a satanic pentagram on the paved ground at his feet. It was twelve inches in diameter and surrounding the circumference were symbols that looked like the alphabet of a forgotten ancient language.
He stood up after writing the last symbol. Using the tips of his own sharp monstrous teeth, he pricked his left index finger, biting hard until he tasted his own blood. He stared at the red fluid leaking from his small wound for only a second before stretching out his arm and hovering his hand over the circle. A moment passed till a single droplet of his blood fell from his fingertip and onto the center of the satanic circle.
With the high amount of tension in the air, to Brandon it felt like an eternity passed until his call was finally answered. The dark silhouette of the Devil's head and neck was seen at the center of the vortex as its swirling and opening up a link to the Underworld. His eyes opened like two glowing red orbs of pure malice staring up from the ground at the young man. Brandon was looking down into the vortex on the pavement alleyway.
In a voice both old and young, grotesque and ominous, as if many voices were speaking in unison, he heard the Devil say, "Well, well, this is quite the surprise. It's been so long, Brandon J. Weaver. I never thought you were going to contact me again. I believe you were going to get me some new souls by the end of last week but hadn't heard of much effort coming from you."
Brandon wasn't amused by the Devil's attitude. His eyes narrowed, and he said, "Stop acting like you're the victim here, Mr. Peeping Tom."
"I do not need to act."
"Just stay the hell away from Mallory!" Brandon snapped.
"Is that a threat now?"
"It's a warning."
"Having the audacity to challenge me? I knew you were foolish but not suicidal. Though, I suppose," the Devil paused dramatically, "To make up for the work you've been overlooking, you could make that girl a contract since she has such good reason to resent her family as well as her desire for death…"
"Mallory is so kind! She would never even consider that!" Brandon shouted before coming to the shocking realization based on what the Devil just said, "Wait, what makes you think she wants to die?"
"Oh, I know much more than you do about her. Ever since you've been, how you say, slacking off on your responsibilities because of her," the Devil's tone seemed to break into something more sinister and crackling, "She keeps her true feelings hidden from you. A well job, if I do say so myself. Her journal is filled with pages of regret and grief and her envy of the dead."
"Do you spy on her even when I'm not with her?" Brandon asked with a furious snarl in his voice, and even though he already knew the answer.
"In the end, a fool is still a fool." the Devil replied.
Brandon's throat uttered a low growl like a beast between his grinding teeth, and his eyes were glowing bright red with anger.
"There is another way out, you know," the Devil spoke with confidence in his tones, "Return your powers to me and relinquish your soul to Hell. Doing so will cost your life prematurely, of course. In other words, it's you or her."
Brandon felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand, and his eyes grew wide, "You wouldn't dare…"
"Yes, I would. Don't forget, the one who gave you your powers was me, and I can take them away just as easily. I don't need useless tools," the Devil's words made a chill run up Brandon's spine and his whole body froze. "However, since I have quite a lot of time on my hands, believe it or not, I shall give you but one chance to think it over. Twelve hours from now. Then I will hear your answer."
"I…" Brandon tried to get the words he wanted to say out of his mouth, but his throat was all choked up.
Then the Devil said, "If there is nothing else, then farewell for now. I shall talk with you soon."
Before Brandon could say another word, the vortex portal to the Underworld began to close. It became smaller and smaller in size till it shrunk not nothing, and it was gone in a red and black flash.
Brandon was quickly left alone. As his shoulders began to shake and his head was bowed, trying to hold in his rage, he just couldn't. He turned to the building to his left and began pounding his fists into the outside wall. His bare knuckles punched brick and concrete hard, cutting his own hands and chipping away at the brick. Blood trickled down the wall. He then moved his attention to a couple of metal trash cans to his right. Grabbing one by the handles and throwing it by spinning around once and releasing it towards and it slammed against the opposite building.
His breathing was heavy and loud, and he cursed so many times at himself, at his work, at the world, at everything. He kept kicking trash bags and littered beer bottles so hard that they went flying till they smashed against the ground or a wall. Then he was hitting the bottom of his sneaker against the front face of the dumpster in the alleyway.
No one was around to hear his tantrum or try to stop him. Fury fueled him until the adrenaline went away minutes later and then he slammed his back against a wall and his backside sank to the ground.
Sitting on the cold hard pavement, the thought of being the cause of Mallory's demise made him face palm himself. Then he hung his head and felt tears starting to stream down his cheeks.
Wait, he was crying? He hadn't shed even one tear in years, though. Baffled, he stared down at his own hand as teardrops fell onto it. Was he really getting this upset over a girl? He never thought he'd come to this kind of point on his life. Having someone to care about and who cares about him back--aside from Gramps, of course--was starting to become tiresome, but a part of him secretly hoped it would be worth it and that it would last.
His mouth quivered, and he clenched his teeth. He kept his hand covering his eyes, and there was a lump in his throat that made it hard for him to breathe calmly. As he inhaled a few times, his breathing sounded distorted and choppy.
An icy breeze blew passed him, snapping him back to reality, and then he realized he shouldn't be spending the night in subzero temperatures. Even with his fiendish blood running through his veins, it wouldn't be enough to keep him warm through the night. He felt a chill run up his spine, and before he knew it, he was back on his feet and stumbled out of the alleyway. Returning to the sidewalks, he began to subconsciously walk back to Gramps's apartment.
There were no working street lamps when he reached the edgiest, roughest parts of the neighborhood where the old man's apartment was located. Most of them were either off or flickered like crazy. Despite the uneasy darkness, Brandon had strolled through the area in the dark so many times before, he could get home with his eyes closed. He really didn't care at this point.
When he found his way back, it was just a few minutes after two 'o clock in the morning. With all the self-control he could summon, Brandon closed the front door silently so as not to wake Gramps who was sound asleep in his bedroom down the hall. Then he sauntered over to the cheap brown sofa in the middle of the living room and collapsed onto it facedown, his head hitting a small throw pillow.
He should be exhausted, but he couldn't sleep a wink. Seconds turned to minutes, and minutes turned to hours. The tiny apartment at the basement of the building was so quiet that the ticking hands of the clock on the wall was the loudest noise in the room. His eyes were all puffy from crying, and he was wide awake. Lying face up with his hands resting behind his head, he began thinking about how he was going to protect Mallory from the Devil's wrath. However, thinking was never his strong suit, and it only made him more agitated and angry the longer he tried it.
He was torn. It seemed no matter what he chose, he was going to lose. But shouldn't this be for the best? Wouldn't leaving Mallory be better? Just the thought of never seeing her again was enough to wreck Brandon with grief. He felt destroyed from the inside out and was on the verge of crying again.
Then his eyes opened quickly as a realization hit him like a ton of bricks. It was a stupid one, but he couldn't shake it off. He slowly sat up for he had another option that the Devil didn't bother to mention. If he could find a way to keep working for the Devil as well as ensuring Mallory's safety while still hanging out with her, wouldn't that mean he couldn't lose at all?
With that in mind and knowing he had the strength to back it up, Brandon wanted to waste no time. He then remembered before he first met Mallory, he was in the middle of dealing with a client he had forgotten about. Surely with the power he had granted that man, he was bound to have committed a lot more misdeeds than he was allowed to, even while under demonic contract.
By the time dawn came about and the first morning light peeked its weary head through the one window, Brandon made up his mind. He leaped off the sofa with a newfound burst of energy and rushed out the door again towards his fate.