Foggy knew all the stories: Poe, Faust, Marlowe, obscure myths he had half-forgotten as the years passed, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of what he had done. What he would do again if it ever became necessary.
He had expected fire and brimstone, smoke and screams rising from the pit of hell itself- as for what its master would look like… he wasn’t certain, but it hadn’t been the man he had found waiting for him. Small, whip-thin but with a wiry strength in his frame that made his every motion seem more graceful than cautious, though he was that too. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and devil in truth as far as Foggy Nelson knew.
The smile was the first thing to strike him: warm and open, but with an edge of mocking contempt beneath that was reflected in the crinkle at the corner of his lips. Even the tilt of his head reminded Foggy of a hawk he had seen once, listening for the scurry of a mouse through the grass. That encounter had not ended well for the mouse. Almost he had reconsidered, the deal was not struck until they had shaken hands on it, and it had taken a minute or two for Foggy to work up the courage to so much as speak. He could have left then, but there was enough of a challenge in the stranger’s silence that he had felt compelled to answer.
“I don’t know if you’ll even bother with something like this-” It wasn’t the tone he would have struck with a client or opponent, lacking all of his normal confidence, but then, this was the devil and nothing other than children’s stories ever ended with someone besting him. Foggy was counting on that, he desperately hoped it was true.
The man was silent, smile fading to a mere smirk that managed to convey both profound disinterest and eagerness all at once. Foggy tried not to think on it too much.
“One of my clients, Mrs. Cardenas-” He didn’t care, nothing Foggy could say would change that, but dammit he was going to try because she deserved more than to be forgotten, “was murdered a week ago.. The news said it was a robbery, but-”
“What do you want, Mr. Nelson?”
“Foggy.” He shrugged, “Might as well call me Foggy. And I just want him caught. I want to throw him in a cell so dark he forgets the warmth of sunlight.”
The smile returned, so smug and arrogant Foggy wanted to slap it right off his face. He didn’t, it wasn’t good business.
“Done.”
What? As simple as that? Foggy knew better; he had come prepared, not with anything so cheap as money, but possessions he held infinitely more dear. The Devil never took more than they could afford, those few desperate or foolish enough to strike a deal with him, but he always took enough that the pain of it would linger.
“What’s my part?”
He had thrown him, it was there in the minute squaring of his shoulders and the way he shifted to adjust his weight.
“Only a strand of hair this time.”
Foggy’s neck prickled at the casual assumption that he would ever resort to this again, blood freezing at the thought of turning anything of himself over to this shadow man. A strand of hair might as well have been his flesh and blood, his soul.
Mustering far more courage than he had ever thought possible, Foggy fisted his hair in his fist and pulled viciously. It stung enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he made himself smile anyway for the first time in over a week.
“Here, take a little extra on me.”
The devil was startled again, his smile vanished and did not return as he accepted the hair like it was strands of precious gold. The tilt of his head became less pride and more curiosity, brows lifting behind the dark glass that concealed his eyes from even the glare of the street lamps. Foggy saw none of this, being exhausted and relieved and frightened out of his mind all at once.
He turned and strode away, completely oblivious to the way the Devil seemed to follow his progress. Never once glancing back to the shadows nipping at his heels.
The Devil's Due Part 1.1
He had expected fire and brimstone, smoke and screams rising from the pit of hell itself- as for what its master would look like… he wasn’t certain, but it hadn’t been the man he had found waiting for him. Small, whip-thin but with a wiry strength in his frame that made his every motion seem more graceful than cautious, though he was that too. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and devil in truth as far as Foggy Nelson knew.
The smile was the first thing to strike him: warm and open, but with an edge of mocking contempt beneath that was reflected in the crinkle at the corner of his lips. Even the tilt of his head reminded Foggy of a hawk he had seen once, listening for the scurry of a mouse through the grass. That encounter had not ended well for the mouse. Almost he had reconsidered, the deal was not struck until they had shaken hands on it, and it had taken a minute or two for Foggy to work up the courage to so much as speak. He could have left then, but there was enough of a challenge in the stranger’s silence that he had felt compelled to answer.
“I don’t know if you’ll even bother with something like this-” It wasn’t the tone he would have struck with a client or opponent, lacking all of his normal confidence, but then, this was the devil and nothing other than children’s stories ever ended with someone besting him. Foggy was counting on that, he desperately hoped it was true.
The man was silent, smile fading to a mere smirk that managed to convey both profound disinterest and eagerness all at once. Foggy tried not to think on it too much.
“One of my clients, Mrs. Cardenas-” He didn’t care, nothing Foggy could say would change that, but dammit he was going to try because she deserved more than to be forgotten, “was murdered a week ago.. The news said it was a robbery, but-”
“What do you want, Mr. Nelson?”
“Foggy.” He shrugged, “Might as well call me Foggy. And I just want him caught. I want to throw him in a cell so dark he forgets the warmth of sunlight.”
The smile returned, so smug and arrogant Foggy wanted to slap it right off his face. He didn’t, it wasn’t good business.
“Done.”
What? As simple as that? Foggy knew better; he had come prepared, not with anything so cheap as money, but possessions he held infinitely more dear. The Devil never took more than they could afford, those few desperate or foolish enough to strike a deal with him, but he always took enough that the pain of it would linger.
“What’s my part?”
He had thrown him, it was there in the minute squaring of his shoulders and the way he shifted to adjust his weight.
“Only a strand of hair this time.”
Foggy’s neck prickled at the casual assumption that he would ever resort to this again, blood freezing at the thought of turning anything of himself over to this shadow man. A strand of hair might as well have been his flesh and blood, his soul.
Mustering far more courage than he had ever thought possible, Foggy fisted his hair in his fist and pulled viciously. It stung enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he made himself smile anyway for the first time in over a week.
“Here, take a little extra on me.”
The devil was startled again, his smile vanished and did not return as he accepted the hair like it was strands of precious gold. The tilt of his head became less pride and more curiosity, brows lifting behind the dark glass that concealed his eyes from even the glare of the street lamps. Foggy saw none of this, being exhausted and relieved and frightened out of his mind all at once.
He turned and strode away, completely oblivious to the way the Devil seemed to follow his progress. Never once glancing back to the shadows nipping at his heels.
Happy Fourth Everyone!