A Faustian Bargain

By Thio Isobel Moss

January 23rd, 2015: Parkville, Missouri

Oscar Àngel Abello Mendoza, eleventh Próta and third Representative of the Sheta Djew, ended the call. He set the phone on his desk and crossed to the window, staring out at the haven he had helped create—one last look before it all fell apart.

Outside, it didn’t look like the end of the world. The golden hour lit every tree, and the sounds of children playing carried through the walls, underscoring the cost of the choice before him.

Anyone who manipulated the ley lines was guilty of warped practices under Community law. Motive didn’t matter; even life or death was no defense. Only warlocks, the Agency’s witch hunters, and the Ipseitata Dualis, a few rare Quorum elites immune to corruption, could access the lines without consequence. For everyone else, there were only two endings: death or mental imprisonment.

And that was the problem.

He glanced at the clock. Minutes, maybe, before the warlocks arrived.

The Sheta Djew had always sided with the Unrelenting camp: ley manipulation was forbidden, and the warped had condemned themselves. A simple view. But Oscar had questions—about the role of helotry, about why duchowe puɫapki—spirit traps—were still constructed, about whether the records told the whole truth.

Once, debating these concerns had been a fun intellectual exercise. Now his sister was caught in the crosshairs.

If he reported Mari, perhaps the Sheta Djew would be spared the worst of the backlash. More likely, it was already too late—and betraying her would only destroy his soul.

He couldn’t do it.

Mari only ever wanted to help people, and she had. That was why they were here now. His people would want to protect her too...but not at the expense of their families.

The situation was impossible. Oscar hurled the cell phone at the wall hard enough that it stuck in the sheetrock.

Someone tsked from the other side of his desk.

A petite woman sat calmly in his tidy sanctum, her layered, crimson robes clashing with the room’s minimalist palette. Dark dreadlocks framed features that suggested a mixed heritage, her skin an ambiguous shade. Large, tea-colored eyes weighed him, her full mouth pursed critically; her raised brows suggested he’d failed to impress.

She shouldn’t be there. She couldn’t be there. The office door was locked, and his hearing was preternaturally sharp.

Idiotically, as he slowly accepted that she was real, he wished he were taller—or at least not in scrubs.

“Who are you?” he demanded slowly. “How did you get in here?”

Her eyes snapped with distant amusement. She crossed her legs, unbothered.

“I am the solution to your problem, of course,” she said, dimples flashing.

Her voice—confident, soft, seductive—short-circuited his thoughts for a moment. Then reality hit: his situation had just grown infinitely worse. She was one of the warped. She had come in the Devil’s stead—to make a deal.

He was desperate enough to listen, even knowing the choice would damn him: betray his sister, his cadre, or the Community. No matter what he chose, he lost.

Sensing his thoughts, her smile deepened.

“Yes, you have much to consider. Unfortunately,” she checked the clock, “you only have thirty-five minutes. Forty, if the Agency is distracted. Past that, Marisol will be beyond my aid.”

Fatalism steadied him. He reclaimed his chair.

“What are you proposing, and what will it cost me?”

She seemed to appreciate his bluntness.

“A one-time use of Marisol’s talents in a protected location, and entry into your cadre. You will not tell anyone of this conversation, save your sister. You will not reveal what I truly am. You will not interfere with my business here. You and Marisol will not betray me in word or deed. In return, she will explore her gift without fear of reprisal, and I will teach her how to ward against detection. When I leave, she will no longer need me.”

“Define ‘your business.’ I won’t permit you to use, injure, or corrupt my people.”

The woman rolled her eyes, producing a slim leather portfolio from a briefcase that hadn’t been there a moment ago. She slid it across the desk to him.

“It’s all in the contract. Magically binding, both ways. I won’t endanger the Sheta Djew. You won’t question my absences.”

He skimmed the document. Thorough. Specific. Too good to be true. It cost him little more than peace of mind, while giving her camouflage. She was just one small witch—how much trouble could she be? Plenty, no doubt, but he would sign anyway. He had no choice.

“One thing,” he murmured, catching her gaze. A flame lit in his eyes, his voice resonant, coaxing. “As a member of the Sheta Djew, I am your protector. For your own good, I need your obedience. Add an addendum promising that you will obey my laws, never betray my people, and bring no other witches into my territory.”

Her smugness faltered. Eyes unblinking, lips parted, she slipped into a trance. When he handed her the pen, she wrote.

“Now sign,” he said.

She obeyed.

Trembling, he added his name. Relief flooded him—Marisol would be safe, his cadre spared, and the Community was guarded. He would protect them all.

The contract smoked, curling at the edges, and burned to ash.

“Word or deed, Oscar,” the woman crooned. “I know what you are capable of—your best will not best me.”

“I had to try,” he said, without apology.

It was the only way he could live with himself. Who knew how powerful this witch was? Maybe appearing out of thin air was her only trick. No, he’d had to test her.

“Perhaps. But you’ve proven untrustworthy. While your treachery was inconsequential, it demands…some alterations in our bargain.”

She produced a second portfolio.

“Came prepared, did you?”

Her mouth twisted faintly. She gestured for him to read.

This contract was longer. Darker. Draconian. He would be a servant in his own house. He would be giving this witch direct access to the Quorum.

“I can’t hand over my cadre. I won’t,” he hissed.

“That’s a shame. Give my best to Marisol.”

She rose, heading for the door.

“Wait!”

Hand on the knob, she paused.

“You won’t hurt them?”

“I won’t hurt them.”

His soul tore. There was no reason for him to believe her…but Marisol! Five minutes remained.

He signed.

“Save her. Please,” he begged, thrusting the paper at her.

She glanced at his signature, then traced her finger over the blank for her name. Copper script bloomed in its wake.

“Done.”

A gong reverberated in his skull, final and unalterable.

“I’ll see you both next Tuesday. Have a few sturdy fellows on hand—my books are numerous and heavy.”

With that, the locked door jumped to obey the movement of her hand. He watched her exit and head for the woods at the border of his property. Between one breath and the next, she vanished. She didn’t just disappear behind a tree; she was there, and then she wasn’t.

Oscar went and pulled his cell phone out of the wall, dialing with shaking hands.

“Mari…it’s taken care of. Just go about your day like nothing happened.”

He jerked the phone away from his ear, trying to escape his sister’s distress.

“Oscar! What did you do?”

He watched the tree line for movement that wasn’t there. It was still a beautiful, sunny day. He could still hear children playing. As though no one knew that he had sold them all.

He wiped his eyes and pulled himself together. It wasn’t over. He would fight every step of the way. He would find a way to save them.

“What I had to. Forgive me.”