The Devil’s Bargain

New Orleans — Rue Dumaine ,Two Nights Later

The absinthe wasn't doing the trick.

Seraphina pressed the glass against her forehead, hoping the coolness would ease the throbbing behind her eyes. The green fairy had always been a trustworthy companion before—blurring the sharp edges of her visions, soothing the murmurs that danced in her mind like wisps of smoke. Yet now, even three fingers of the strongest emerald liquor couldn't wipe away the memory of him.

Lucian Vael.

If that's even his real name.

She gazed at the portrait she'd painted of him—no, it—leaning against the wall of her dimly lit studio. The canvas appeared to breathe in the flickering gaslight, the shadows in the background twisting like living creatures. She had tried to destroy it twice since that night. Once with a knife (the blade had shattered upon the paint). Once with fire (the flames had curled away from it, hissing like scared cats).

A knock at her door.

Seraphina stayed still.

"You can't ignore me forever, darling."

That voice. Like honey dripping over a razor.

Her hands trembled as she picked up the poker beside the fireplace. The metal felt cold—too cold, as if all warmth had been drained from it.

"Go away."

Lucian's chuckle slithered through the wood. "We both know I won't."

The lock clicked open by itself.

"You can't keep pretending I'm not here, darling."

That voice. Smooth like honey but sharp as a razor.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the poker by the fireplace. The metal felt so cold—almost as if all warmth had been drained from it.

"Just go away."

Lucian's laugh wormed its way through the wooden walls. "We both know that's not happening."

The lock clicked open on its own.

He came in like smoke—no sound of footsteps, no rustle of fabric. Just there, all of a sudden, leaning against her easel with that same maddening smile. Dressed in black again, his cravat perfectly in place, his gloves immaculate. The very definition of a gentleman.

Except for those eyes.

Up close, they weren't just black; they were gaping voids, depths hiding something that watched her with an ancient, hunger-driven intelligence.

"You've been busy," he said, glancing over at the stack of new paintings leaning against the wall—all of him. All of it. The throne. The wings. The fire.

"Get out of my head," she whispered.

"I'm not in your head, Seraphina." He picked up a brush from her table, spinning it around his fingers. "I'm in your blood."

She lunged forward with the poker.

Lucian caught it in one hand, not even flinching as the hot metal sizzled against his glove. "Tsk. And here I thought I'd come with a gift."

From his coat, he pulled out a small velvet box. Inside, resting on black satin, was a paintbrush—the handle carved from something that looked like bone, its bristles impossibly white.

"What is that?" she asked, despite herself.

"A key," he replied. "To doors you've only ever dreamed of." He extended it toward her. "Paint for me, Seraphina. Paint for real. And I'll reveal to you what you truly are.

She really shouldn't have grabbed that brush.

As soon as her fingers wrapped around it, the studio shifted. The walls peeled back like decaying skin, exposing—

A city filled with dark spires, reaching up into a stormy sky. A throne made of screaming faces. And there she was—her—standing next to it, draped in shadows and flames, with a crown made of iron and starlight glowing on her head.

"Yes," Lucian—no, not Lucian, never Lucian—whispered in her ear. "Do you see? See what's waiting for you?"

Seraphina pulled away, panting. The vision shattered, leaving her on her knees, clutching the brush like it was a lifesaver. Blood trickled from her nose. Her palms were bleeding too, where the bone handle had pressed into her skin.

"What are you?" she managed to ask.

He knelt in front of her, holding her face with a gloved hand. His touch burned.

"Yours," he said, not telling the truth. "If you just say yes."

#####

As she raced through the rain-soaked streets, memories flooded back in fragments, with Lucian's laughter echoing in her mind.

She was just seven years old, kneeling on the attic floorboards of her grandmother's home. The scent of camphor and candle wax filled the air, with shadows deepening despite the presence of three burning oil lamps.

"Why do I see them, Grandmère?" little Seraphina murmured, gripping the hem of the woman's black skirts. "The winged men? The fire?"

Grandmère Duvall's expression—often so stern—shifted into one resembling fear. She grasped Seraphina's chin, compelling her to meet eyes as dark as the bloodline they shared.

"Because you're a Duvall," she whispered harshly. "And the Duvalls have always been brides of ruin."

From a locked chest, she revealed a weathered piece of parchment. It was a family tree—though the names appeared to bleed at the edges, the ink writhing like insects. At the very top, a single word written in archaic script stood out:

Lilith..

Seraphina jolted awake in her studio, still gripping the bone brush tightly in her hand.

She rummaged through her things until she finally found it—the only keepsake from her Grandmère. A locket, faded silver, warm against her skin even after all these years.

But it wouldn't budge.

Not until she stabbed her finger with the brush's bristles, which were as white as teeth and sharp as truth, smearing blood across the latch,Inside was a tiny portrait—not of a family member, but of him. The same face she had been painting for weeks, the same smile that lingered in her dreams.

Written on the back in Grandmère's handwriting were the words:

"He comes for us all. The First Wife sends her regards."

The absinthe-fueled investigation that followed felt like it uncovered too much yet not enough.

The Duvall women were all artists. All of them had visions. And all had died before turning forty—mostly by suicide. Drowned. Burned. Vanished.

Their artwork was destroyed by the Church in 1723, labeled as "manifestations of infernal pacts.

The earliest account was a trial transcript from 1692: "Marie Duvall did consort with the Devil in the shape of a beautiful man, and did birth a child with eyes like embers..."

Seraphina's reflection in the rain-smeared window flickered. For a brief moment, her pupils slit like a cat's.

"Oh God," she murmured.

Somewhere in the city, a church bell rang out thirteen times.

Why Her?

Lucian found her bent over a basin, heaving. The locket she wore felt like it was searing against her skin.

"You knew," she spat out. "You knew."

He knelt next to her, gently wiping her mouth with a handkerchief that carried the scent of funeral lilies. "Of course I did. I was there at your christening."

The truth hit her hard, like a punch.

"My grandmother—"

"—made a deal." He ran his thumb over the locket. "One daughter each generation, to ensure the others remain safe. You were promised, Seraphina. Long before you even existed."

She pulled back, horrified. "I'm not a sacrifice for anyone."

Lucifer's smile was surprisingly soft. "No, you're the inheritance."

Outside, the rain began to fall, but it was red.