Clause Twelve

"You," you say.

It comes out as a croak. You clear your throat and try again, gripping the edge of the back bar like it's the rail of a ship.

"You're the coin guy. End stool. Bourbon neat."

His mouth curves. "You remembered."

"I remember everybody's drink. It's my job." Your heart is going so hard you can feel it in your cut thumb. "Get off my bar."

He slides off it. He doesn't hop down, he just arrives on his feet, unhurried, like gravity is something he agreed to as a favor. Standing, he's taller than you thought. Six three at least. The scroll trails from his hand to the floor, rustling.

"Malakai Sable," he says, and inclines his head, an old-fashioned little bow that should look ridiculous and doesn't. "Collector, Court of Ash. I'd offer to shake your hand, but you're bleeding."

You look down. You are. A thin line of red is running from your thumb to your wrist.

"This is a prank," you say. "Tova put you up to this. Or Quint. Is this a Quint thing? Is there a camera?"

"There's a camera over the register," he agrees. "It's been broken since August. Lazlo keeps meaning to fix it."

That's true. That's so specific and so true that the floor tilts a little.

On the TV behind you, the fire is still burning. Firefighters in yellow coats. The brass letters gone dark.

"I didn't do that," you whisper.

"No," Malakai says. "I did." He lifts the scroll, and you see the first line, inked in that engraved hand: In exchange for the ruin of Quint Raike, the Signatory surrenders her soul, payable at sunset on the fortieth day. "You asked. I answered. Clause one."

"I was drunk."

"You were," he says, gently, as if he's sorry about it. "That doesn't matter where I come from. A wish is a wish."

You do the sensible thing. You run.

You grab your coat and your bag and you go out the side door into the fog and up the cobblestones, past the shuttered shops and the dark tavern windows, your sneakers slapping the wet stone. You call Tova. It goes to voicemail. You call 911, and while it's ringing you realize you have no idea what you'd say. A very handsome man made my ex's restaurant catch fire with a napkin.

You hang up.

Your apartment is three blocks from the bar, a third-floor walk-up over a tailor's shop that closed in the spring. You take the stairs two at a time, get the key in on the second try, slam the door, throw both locks, and turn around.

He's in your kitchen.

He's leaning against your counter next to the toaster, his jacket off, white shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, examining the magnet on your fridge that says I LOOKED FOR A SIGN AND THIS IS IT. The scroll is rolled up neat and tucked under his arm.

"Charming," he says.

You scream. Not loud. More of a strangled noise.

"I'm sorry," Malakai says, and he sounds like he means it. "That was rude. I'm bound to stay close to you. I came in through the window because I didn't think you'd open the door."

"Get out."

He goes still. Something flickers across his face, there and gone.

"Say it again, Ava," he says quietly. "Like you mean it to be obeyed."

"Get out of my apartment."

And he does.

He doesn't argue. He picks up his jacket, walks past you to the door, unlocks both locks himself, steps into the hallway, and closes the door behind him with a soft click. You stand there, panting, staring at the wood.

After a second, a folded paper slides under the door.

It's a page of the scroll. Or a copy. One clause, circled in ink.

Clause 13. The Collector shall do the Signatory no harm, and shall obey the Signatory's commands concerning her home and her person.

Underneath, in the same perfect handwriting: I can't lie to you, so here is the truth. Inside these walls, and on your skin, you're the one in charge. M.

You read it four times. Then you slide down the door to the floor and you finally cry.

At 3:15 a.m. you're still awake on the couch, wrapped in your dad's old Ravens blanket, a mug of tea gone cold in your hands. You've read the clause until you could recite it. You've googled demon contract and immediately regretted it. You've checked the news nine times. The fire is out. Raike is a black shell. Quint is quoted as "devastated."

You feel something. You'd like it to be guilt. It's mostly a horrible, quiet satisfaction, and that scares you more than anything else tonight.

Outside your window, the fog has thickened so much the streetlamp across the road is just a smear of yellow.

Something moves in it.

You sit up. It's low to the ground, long, moving the way water moves, wrong and smooth. It stops under the streetlamp. You can't see eyes. You can feel them. The temperature in the room drops so fast your breath fogs.

Then it lifts its head toward your window and breathes in, slow and deep, like it's smelling something on the wind.

Like it's smelling you.

You don't move. You don't blink. The ring at your throat burns ice-cold. Your phone lights up on the cushion beside you, and you nearly knock it to the floor.

It's a number you don't know. Five words.

Please don't go near the window.

The thing in the fog turns its head toward the street, toward something you can't see, and then it's gone, melting back into gray like it was never there.

A knock on your door. Three soft raps.

You go to it on shaking legs. You don't open it. You put your palm flat on the wood.

"I know you told me to leave," Malakai says from the other side. His voice is low and even, but there's something under it now. Something urgent. "I left. I'll stay out here on the stairs all night if that's what you want, Ava. It's your door. But that thing was a hound, and it isn't mine, and it won't be the last."

"What does it want?"

"You. Before I can collect you." A pause. "There's a reason I have to stay near you. I'd rather show you than have you read it at three in the morning."

You unlock one lock. Then the other. You open the door four inches, chain still on.

He's standing on your landing in the dim bulb light, coat on, hair damp with fog. At his feet sits a single black leather suitcase, old-fashioned and expensive. His ember eye is glowing faintly. His dark one is fixed on you.

He holds up a second folded page between two fingers, the way he held the napkin.

"May I come in?" Malakai asks. "Contract clause twelve."