The second time I walked into the Ashen Vale, I did it in daylight, which felt like a worse idea than doing it at night.
At night, the Vale at least had the decency to look like the name. Grey ash drifting like snow that never melted. Burned tree trunks standing in rows like mourners at a funeral nobody had bothered to finish. The ground crunching under my boots. Everything dead, everything quiet, everything making it very clear that nothing good happened here.
In daylight it was worse, because the daylight showed me that the ash was actually warm. The whole valley radiated a low, steady heat, like the ground itself was running a fever. Steam curled out of cracks in the black rock. And in the middle of it all sat Vera's manor — half-ruined, roofless in places, the stone scorched black — with smoke rising from exactly one chimney, in a valley where nothing had any business burning.
I stopped at the edge of the Vale and said, out loud, to no one: "This is the part of the story where the office worker dies."
Nobody answered. A good sign, probably.
Vera Cross found me anyway. I don't know how she always knew I was coming. Maybe demons have doorbells I couldn't see. Maybe the whole valley was her front porch. Either way, I heard her voice before I saw her — low, amused, coming from somewhere above me.
"You came back," she said.
I looked up. She was sitting on the broken wall of her manor's courtyard, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting on her hand, watching me the way a cat watches a mouse that has voluntarily walked into the kitchen. Her horns caught the grey daylight — black, curved, polished like they'd been maintained by someone who took pride in them. Her tail swayed slow behind her, the spade tip flicking.
"Morning," I said.
"It is afternoon."
"Morning for me. I work nights."
She laughed — a real laugh, surprised out of her — and dropped down from the wall. She landed without a sound, which I had decided to stop finding impressive and start finding rude.
"You are either the bravest man in Aldermere," she said, circling me slowly, "or the stupidest. The town cannot decide which."
"What do you think?"
"I think," she said, stopping in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off her skin, "that you are the first person in ten years to look at me without flinching. That makes you interesting. Bravery and stupidity both bore me. Interesting does not."
I had learned a few things about Vera Cross from our first meeting. She had tested me — asked me questions with traps in them, watched my face when she stepped into the light, waited to see if I would do what everyone else did. Everyone else did one of two things: ran, or tried to kill her. I had done neither. I had sat on a scorched rock and asked her if the chimney smoke meant she had a working kitchen, because I was hungry.
She was still deciding what to make of me. I could tell because she kept looking at me like I was a puzzle with one piece missing, and she was fairly sure the missing piece was the one where I screamed.
"I brought you something," I said.
Her eyebrows went up. "A gift? For the demoness?"
"Bread. From the tavern." I held it out. "Diane said — the tavern keeper — she said nobody should visit empty-handed, even a demon. Especially a demon, actually. Her words."
Vera stared at the bread. Then at me. Then she took it, very carefully, like it might be a trick, and broke off a piece and ate it.
"Nobody has brought me food in ten years," she said quietly. "They bring pitchforks. Occasionally a priest."
"Well," I said. "The bread was Diane's idea. Don't give me too much credit."
"I will give you exactly as much credit as I want, little mortal."
She ate the rest of the bread while I stood there, and I tried not to stare, and failed, and she noticed, and smiled in a way that made the heat in the valley feel suddenly very personal.
"Come inside," she said. "We are going to talk about what you want."
The inside of the manor was not what I expected. I had expected a dungeon. Chains. Skulls, maybe. What I got was a sitting room with actual furniture — scorched, half-melted in places, but furniture — and a fireplace with real fire in it, and a rug that had probably been expensive before something had set one corner of it on fire and nobody had cared enough to replace it.
Vera sat in the largest chair, draped across it like a queen holding court, and gestured at the smaller chair opposite. I sat.
"So," she said. "The man with corrupted taste. That is what they call you in Millbrook now. Did you know?"
"I'd heard something like that."
"The Temple has heard it too." She leaned forward, and the firelight did things to her eyes — they were amber, almost gold, and they caught the light the way a cat's do. "There is an inquisitor asking questions in your town, Ethan Parker. Sister Maren. She carries ward-lanterns and a list of names, and your name is at the top of it in red ink."
My stomach did something unpleasant. "How do you know that?"
"I have ears in Millbrook. Rats, mostly. And one very talkative crow." She waved a hand. "The point is this: the Temple is coming for you. They will test you. They will try to fix you. And when they cannot fix you —" she smiled, sharp and white "— they will decide you are a disease."
"That's cheerful."
"I am a demoness. Cheerful is not in the contract." She stood, and crossed to the fireplace, and stood with her back to me, her tail moving slow. "I can help you. I know the Temple's methods. I know their wards, their tests, their little rituals. I was exiled by people like them, Ethan. I know exactly how they think."
"Okay."
"But I am also a demoness," she said, turning, "and demonesses do not give things away. Everything has a price. That is the oldest rule there is."
I nodded. "I figured."
"You figured." She came back to her chair but didn't sit — she leaned on the back of it, watching me. "Then let us make a bargain. The oldest kind. I will give you my protection — my knowledge, my wards, my counsel — against the Temple. In exchange, you will give me what I ask for."
"And what are you asking for?"
She smiled. Slowly.
"That," she said, "is the part you are going to hate."
Here is the thing about negotiating with a demoness: she has had centuries to practice, and I had a job where my biggest negotiation was arguing with the vending machine supplier about restocking the break room.
"State your terms plainly," I said, because my old job had taught me to read the fine print, and Vera's fine print was probably written in fire.
"Term one," she said, holding up a finger. "You will come to the Vale when I summon you. No excuses. No 'I have a shift.' When I call, you come."
"I work at a tavern, Vera. I can't just —"
"Term one," she repeated, and her eyes glowed a little brighter. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
"Fine. Term one."
"Term two." A second finger. "While you are in my house, you will do exactly as I say. No arguing. No negotiating. You will obey."
I stared at her. "That's — that's very broad, Vera."
"That is the point of term two."
"Can I at least get a safe word?"
She blinked. "A what?"
"A word that means stop. In case you tell me to do something I really don't want to do."
She considered this. Then she laughed — startled, genuine, the same laugh as on the wall. "You are negotiating a safe word with a demoness."
"I believe in workplace safety."
"Fine." She waved a hand. "Your safe word is 'sanctuary.' Say it, and everything stops. I swear it on my true name."
"Your true name?"
"Vera Cross is not the name I was born with, little mortal." Her voice went quiet. "No one has heard my true name in a hundred years. I swear on it anyway."
That shut me up. Which was, I suspected, the point.
"Term three," she said softly. "You will tell me the truth. About everything. About why you look at me the way you do. About what you are. No lies, no evasions. Demons can smell lies, Ethan. It is our least attractive talent."
I met her eyes. "I can do that."
"Then the bargain is struck." She held out her hand. Her palm was warm — warmer than a person's should be. "Shake on it, and it binds us both."
I shook her hand. Heat ran up my arm like I'd grabbed a live wire, pleasant and alarming at the same time, and for a moment the shadows in the room leaned toward us, listening.
"Done," she said.
"So," I said. "What do you want? What was all that building toward?"
She smiled, and stood, and walked around the chair, and stopped behind mine, and put her hands on my shoulders. Her touch was hot through my shirt.
"You," she said simply. "I want you. Tonight. Here. However I please."
My brain, which had been handling this conversation with remarkable composure, filed for early retirement.
"That's —" I said.
"Term two, Ethan." Her voice was right next to my ear now. "No arguing."
"I'm not arguing. I'm — processing."
"Process faster." Her hands slid from my shoulders to my chest, and I could feel her claws — she had claws, short ones, filed neat — tracing idle patterns through the fabric. "You came to the Ashen Vale twice, little mortal. Men do not walk into a demoness's house twice by accident. Tell me the truth — term three, remember — what did you come here for?"
I swallowed. "You."
"Say it properly."
"I came here because I wanted you. Because you're —" I gestured vaguely, helplessly, at all of her. "Because every time I look at you I forget how to be professional about it."
"Good." Her breath was warm against my neck. "That is a very good start. Now stand up."
I stood up. She was shorter than me by a few inches, which somehow made it worse — made it clearer that the power in the room had nothing to do with size.
"Take off your shirt," she said.
I took off my shirt. The valley's heat was on my skin, and her eyes moved over me slowly, deliberately, taking inventory, and I had never felt so thoroughly examined in my life. Paula had looked at me like an opponent. Diane had looked at me like something precious. Willa had looked at me like prey.
Vera looked at me like a meal she intended to savor.
"Turn around," she said.
I turned around. I heard her move — that silent demon glide — and then her hands were on my back, her palms flat and burning, sliding down my spine, and I shuddered.
"You are tense," she murmured. "Do I frighten you?"
"A little."
"Good. Fear is honest." Her hands kept moving, down to my waist, and her claws caught lightly at my belt. "But you are not running. Why are you not running, Ethan Parker?"
"Because I don't want to."
She laughed, low, against my shoulder. "Term three. The truth, always. I am going to enjoy you."
Her hands undid my belt with infuriating patience — not fumbling, not hurried, just slow, deliberate, making me wait for every movement. My trousers loosened. Her palms slid inside the waistband, hot against my hips, and I heard myself make a sound I had not planned to make.
"Shh," she said. "I will tell you when to make noise."
She turned me to face her. Her eyes were glowing now, properly glowing, twin amber coals in the dim room. She looked at me — all of me — and her smile went wicked.
"Oh," she said. "You really did come here wanting me."
"Term three," I managed. "No lies."
"Then no more talking." She pushed me backward, and the chair was behind me, and I sat down hard, and she climbed into my lap like she owned it — like she owned me — straddling my thighs, her dress riding up, her heat pressing through the thin fabric against me.
Her dress. I should describe her dress. It was black, and it laced up the front, and she had clearly designed it for exactly this kind of moment, because the laces were already loosening under her own fingers, unhurried, one by one, while she held my gaze and dared me to look away.
She was magnificent. There is no other word. Her skin had a warmth to it that wasn't human — a faint ember-glow under the surface, like coals under ash. Her breasts were full and heavy, her body strong and curved in ways that would have given the Temple of Grace a collective stroke. A thin gold chain hung around her neck and disappeared between her breasts, and I had never envied a piece of jewelry so much in my life.
"You are staring," she said.
"I'm appreciating."
"Appreciate quietly." She took my hands and placed them on her waist, and her skin was like touching sunlight. "You may touch. You may not lead. If your hands go somewhere I have not permitted, I will bite you."
"Is that a promise or a threat?"
"Yes."
She leaned in and kissed me, and it was not like any kiss I had ever had. Her mouth was hot — actually hot, fever-hot — and she kissed the way she did everything: like she was in charge of it and had strong opinions about how it should go. Her tongue demanded entrance and I gave it, because term two, because I had no interest in arguing, because her claws were digging lightly into my shoulders and her hips were rolling against me with slow, deliberate pressure that was driving me insane.
She pulled back, breathing hard, her eyes blazing.
"Stand up," she said.
I stood. My trousers were around my thighs and I felt ridiculous and she looked at me like I was the most delicious thing she had ever seen, which canceled out the ridiculous.
"Take them off. All of it."
I did. She watched every second of it, arms crossed, tail flicking, like a general inspecting troops. When I was done she circled me — again, that slow circle — and this time her claws trailed along my skin as she went, leaving lines of fire that weren't quite scratches.
"Beautiful," she murmured, and there was something almost surprised in her voice. "You are actually beautiful, little mortal. No one has ever —" She stopped. Shook her head. "On your knees."
"What?"
"On. Your. Knees." She was in front of me, and her hand was in my hair, not pulling, just holding, just reminding me who had decided this. "I want to see you look up at me."
I knelt. The rug was rough under my knees. She stood over me, magnificent and terrible, her dress open, her body bare to my eyes, and she looked down at me with an expression I had never seen on anyone's face before — triumph and hunger and something softer underneath that she clearly had no intention of naming.
"Do you know what I am going to do to you?" she asked.
"No."
"Good. Neither do I, entirely." She smiled. "That is the fun part."
She stepped closer, and her hand tightened in my hair, guiding, and I understood what she wanted, and I went willingly — more than willingly — because her skin was hot and sweet-smelling, like cinnamon and smoke, and when I tasted her she made a sound deep in her throat that I felt in my bones.
She was not quiet. That was the first thing I learned. Vera Cross, demoness, terror of the Ashen Vale, was loud — gasping, cursing in a language I didn't know, her claws digging into my scalp, her thighs trembling around my head. She tried to stay in control — I could feel her trying, feel the effort of it — and then she stopped trying, and her shadows surged around us like a living thing, and she came apart with a cry that shook the embers in the fireplace.
She stood there for a moment, breathing hard, her hand still in my hair. Then she looked down at me, and her eyes were wide, and her smile was dazed.
"Get up," she said hoarsely.
I got up. She kissed me — hard, desperate, tasting herself on my mouth — and pushed me backward toward the rug, and I went down, and she followed, crawling over me like something out of a dream I would never admit to having.
"My turn," she breathed against my throat, and took me in her hand, and I stopped thinking entirely.
Her hand was hot. Everything about her was hot. She stroked me slowly, watching my face with fierce concentration, learning me — what made me gasp, what made me shake, what made me beg. And I did beg, eventually, because she kept stopping just before the edge, kept pulling back with that wicked smile, kept whispering "not yet" against my skin.
"Vera," I groaned. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop."
"Clever boy." She positioned herself over me, and I could feel her heat, her wetness, and she sank down onto me with agonizing slowness, inch by inch, her eyes locked on mine, her claws raking my chest hard enough to leave marks.
I had never felt anything like it. She was tight and burning hot inside, and she moved with total command — setting the pace, the depth, the angle, adjusting me with her hands when I wasn't giving her what she wanted, praising me when I was.
"That's it," she panted. "Just like that. Don't you dare — don't you dare finish before I tell you —"
"I'm trying —"
"Try harder."
The shadows were moving again, coiling around us, around my wrists — not restraining, just touching, just hers, an extension of her. The fire in the fireplace flared higher. Her hair had come loose and fell around us like a curtain, and inside that curtain there was nothing in the world but her: her eyes, her mouth, her body taking mine apart piece by piece.
She came first — I felt it, felt her clench around me, felt her cry out against my shoulder, her teeth grazing my neck — and the moment she gave me permission, the moment she gasped "now," I followed her over the edge so hard my vision went white.
We lay there on the scorched rug, tangled, breathing hard, her weight on top of me, her tail curled around my ankle like it had decided something without consulting either of us.
After a long time, she lifted her head and looked at me, and her expression was — I didn't have a word for it. Wonder, maybe. Or suspicion.
"That was term two," she said. "Obedience."
"That was great," I said honestly.
She laughed — that startled, genuine laugh — and bit my shoulder lightly. Not hard enough to break skin. Almost tender.
"Sleep," she said. "Tomorrow night, you come back. The bargain isn't finished."
"It's not?"
"You agreed to give me what I ask for." Her eyes glowed in the dark room. "You never asked what I intend to ask for."
She curled against me, her heat seeping into my bones, and I fell asleep to the sound of her breathing — and her last words, murmured against my chest like a threat and a promise at once:
"Tomorrow, little mortal. Tomorrow I ask for the real price."