The Gift of the Demons

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  “Let me give you just a glimpse. A taste of what it would be like. This will cost you nothing,” he said, and handed me a mirror.

  I don’t know why, but I took it and when I looked in it, I could see myself in the reflection, but I was white. It was like a terrible dream, where the worst part of it is that you aren’t you.

  I could see my eyes move left and right in the mirror. I could see my nostrils flare as I took in a breath. I pressed my lips together and could see those lips, just a fraction of a shade lighter pink than I thought my own lips were. It was my face, or at least I thought it was my face. I recognized me. Only I wasn’t black anymore. I was white and I was pretty. I was normal. I would fit in. Everything that he said.

  Was that really the only difference, that I was white? It had to be more than that, surely.

  Then, suddenly the mirror wasn’t just a mirror anymore. It was a tablet showing me a movie of myself, like a crappy video camera, maybe security footage from the mall. There I was, in black and white. Or rather, only white.

  I was even more different than in the mirror. More white. But there was some part of me that was still me. The shape of my nose and my chin, maybe. Just a little bit.

  But my hair was blonde, curling around my temples, and then pulled back in a ponytail in back. I had sparkly hair ribbons tumbling down to match the cute little tight top I was wearing, also sparkly around the collar. I smiled and laughed and there were guys all around me. They were staring at me in a way guys never stared at me. Not as if I was a shock to them, but as if they wanted to eat me up. Was that the way it was for regular girls—white girls—all the time? Was this the way it was for Georgia?

  I couldn’t stop watching.

  I could see myself putting lipstick on, and then primping a bit. The guys were transfixed. I dropped something—obviously on purpose, and four guys fought over reaching down and handing it back to me.

  Stupid guys, I thought. I don’t want to be stared at by people who act like that. I’d get bored with them so easily.

  But the me in the video wasn’t bored. I liked it. I was happy. I could see that I was.

  I hated girls who were like that, all vanity and ease. I said I’d rather die than be like that. But what if it could make me happy? Wouldn’t I choose to be happy?

  It wasn’t as if it wasn’t still me. It was just another version of me. A version who didn’t have to be so hard and cold because she didn’t hurt so much. And they say that the color of your skin doesn’t matter. So why did I have to have the color that made my life harder?

  “What do you say? I could give you other things, too. Do you want to be successful? Get into all the best colleges?” asked the boss demon. “Or be a movie star? Invent the next hot item on everyone’s list to buy? Or be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams?”

  I could actually see myself in the screen in my hand myself driving a Porsche around. Then it changed into a Lamborghini just as I thought that a Porsche was a bit of a cliché for wealth. I was wearing shades, too, but they flipped off in the wind, and I could hear the thump of the awesome music system inside the vehicle.

  “Or if you think that’s too shallow and selfish, you could do good with your money. Save lives by becoming a doctor and go to Africa to give free health care and vaccinations to children who would die without your help.”

  I saw myself in a tent, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, sweat dripping down my face, mosquito netting around the cot I was leaning over, where a sick African child lay.

  “You could do so much good. Isn’t that worth whatever it costs you? After all, you are only one person. It would be selfish of you to think of yourself and not of others. Once you have the power that I am offering you, the world will be a better place. You will make it a better place.”

  It was him talking about being good that did it for me. It shook me out of the reverie he’d put me in. I looked at the screen and it creeped me out to see myself like that. It was like someone had stolen my body and made it into a puppet. And that made me think of Ms. Forest. She’d had a human body that was the puppet of the demon underneath. That was not what I wanted for myself.

  I dropped the screen and watched it fall. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. It broke into pieces like glass, but slowly, moment by moment. My head felt like it had turned into a rusted wheel and I was trying to make it move without giving it some oil first.

  But when the breaking was over, I felt immediately better. Lighter. Like I could see the world more clearly. Like I was myself again, instead of a puppet.

  “A bit overkill, don’t you think?” said the demon boss, staring down at the pieces.

  “No, thank you,” I said. My hands were too sweaty for me to get a good grip on the knife. I wanted to use it, I really did. But I was going to have to wait for another day. One when I hadn’t just seen the worst part of myself.

  The demon stared at me for a long moment. “A hard case. You should be proud of yourself, you know. Such self-control.”

  Call me crazy, but I didn’t take a compliment from a demon as much of a compliment.

  “Leave,” I said. I couldn’t make him, not right now. I hated the sense of powerlessness I felt. I had always hated that feeling, had always worked against it. I was strong enough to protect myself against almost anything but this.

  “I find you intriguing, Fallin. I think I will stay a little longer.”

  “You’re a demon. You don’t belong here,” I said, feeling sick and shaky.

  “Oh, but it’s so easy for me to disguise myself.” He snapped his fingers and he appeared as Mr. Barry.

  I looked away and reminded myself it wasn’t real. Mr. Barry was dead. Seeing him alive again was like being on a boat ride and suddenly the whole world was shifting in ways that it couldn’t. “Don’t,” I got out.

  He snapped his fingers again and was the demon boss instead.

  I sighed relief.

  “You see? I can do anything you want. I’m your servant, not your master. There is nothing about me to be afraid of. I will do whatever you ask. And what I take from you will be only a small token, something that you will not miss.”

  I wasn’t fooled. “Like you took from Mr. Barry?” I asked.

  He shrugged and smiled. “You don’t believe in a soul. Why should it bother you if that is what I took from Mr. Barry?” he said.

  “Look, I don’t want to make a bargain with you. I want you to leave,” I said.

  “You want to fight demons, do you? You want to save people from making bargains with demons? I can arrange that, as well,” he said, and he leaned forward, his eyes growing larger and more sympathetic.

  I had to pull myself away from him, and I ended up putting my hands over my eyes. It felt ridiculous, but I did it anyway. “There is nothing you have that I want,” I said.

  “Oh no? What about your friend? The one you call Rumpelstiltskin?”

  And now he had my full attention. My hands dropped away from my eyes. “What about him?” I asked.

  “You know how he is suffering. What if you had the chance to give him what he wants?”

  “I can’t make someone love him who doesn’t love him,” I said, thinking about the morality of that. And besides, would you be happy if you knew the person you loved only loved you back because of a demon’s bargain?

  “But of course you can. You have only to ask.”

  “What if she’s already married? What about her husband? What about her kids?”

  “She isn’t married,” said the demon. “And she has no children. He could have what he wants most, and you could have it, too. You could make a double wish, for you both to be happy for as long as you live.”

  And how long would that be, if we made a bargain? I had Mr. Barry’s corpse clearly in my mind as evidence of how long a bargain lasted. I shook my head and used the demon knife to cut into my palm a little. Nothing like pain to wake you up. “There is nothing you can offer me to make a bargain with you,” I
said.

  “Nothing? Well, I suppose we’ll see about that.”

  “Don’t come back here.” I didn’t want any of the other students here at school to get caught up in this. At least I knew what the rules were—sort of. Other people might end up making bargains without knowing the risks.

  “Fine. I won’t come back here. Not because I can’t, but because you asked it and I want to prove to you that I am your servant. I will wait until you call for me. You know the words.”

  “I’m not going to call you,” I said.

  “Then there will be nothing for either of us to worry about,” he said, and he disappeared.

  I collapsed on the floor of the classroom. It wasn’t until the next class started coming in that I was able to get up. I should have told them that Ms. Forest wasn’t coming in, but I didn’t bother. Let them figure it out for themselves. I had enough to worry about getting through the rest of the day.

  Chapter 15

  Rumpy found me walking home from school. “I need your help,” he announced.

  “Tell me your name,” I said.

  He smirked. “John,” he said.

  “That’s not your real name,” I said immediately.

  “How do you know? How can you tell what name is my real name? I could give you ten different names and you’d never guess which one it was. Names are just random. Your parents pick them because they think they sound good at the time, and then you’re stuck with them for life.”

  “Not everyone. Some people change their names.” I was watching him carefully, trying to decide if he really was a John or not. That had been a gut instinct kind of response, that he wasn’t a John. Well, really, it was more that I didn’t think he was the kind of person to give up what he’d been hiding from me so easily.

  “Do they? They might think they’ve changed their name, but it’s always stuck to them. I bet that even people who’ve had a new name their entire adult lives would still answer to their old childhood name.”

  “So that’s the real name? The one from childhood? Even if it’s a stupid nickname?” I asked.

  He nodded. “That’s the real name. The one from the heart. The one that you turn toward when you hear, no matter how old you are.”

  “You’re not that old,” I said.

  He lifted his eyebrows. “I’m not?”

  “Come on. Tell me something real!” I begged. “Who are you?”

  “I already told you who I am. I told you more about myself, at heart, than I have ever told anyone in my life,” he said sincerely.

  I felt bad then. He was right. He’d told me a lot. “What difference does it make? It’s just a name,” I said, not ready to give up even so. Mom said that I was like that even as a baby. If I could see a toy I wanted, I would wiggle until I could get it. Or cry until I could convince someone else to get it for me.

  “It’s not just a name,” he said. “A name matters. It’s important. You can’t make a bargain with a demon unless you’re willing to give your true name.”

  I didn’t know that. “So if you give the demon a fake name, the bargain’s not valid?”

  He nodded. “Most demons know that trick, though. They won’t make a bargain unless they see proof of your name. A birth certificate or some kind of ID.”

  “You’re kidding me. Demons card you, too?” The boss demon I’d met in German class hadn’t asked to see ID, but on the other hand, we hadn’t really gotten that far in our conversation.

  “They don’t get fooled by false ID’s, either. They get really angry at humans who try to fool them.”

  “Well, that’s interesting and all, but I’m not a demon, in case you hadn’t noticed. And you’ve already made your bargain. So why can’t you just tell me?”

  He looked sad for a long moment. “I can’t,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I could give you a list of name. Let you choose one from them. Just like in the fairy tale.”

  “Will one of them be your real name? So I have some chance of guessing it?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Fine. Give me the list,” I said.

  So here it is: John, Luke, Nick, Harry (yes, as in Harry Potter), Delcan, William, Terrance, Frederick, Carlton, and Eldridge.

  “Eldridge?” I said. “What kind of a name is that?”

  He poked out his lower lip. “What if that is my real name? Think how you are hurting me.”

  I thought about the names. John. He wasn’t a John. He wasn’t a Harry. That had to be a joke. FredeJayden was old-fashioned and I was trying to figure out if he was old enough for that. I didn’t think so, unless the bargain he’d made with the demons meant that he would live a lot longer and look a lot younger than he really was. What if he’d been alive for two hundred years? Or four hundred?

  No. He didn’t talk like someone who was that old. Life fighting demons probably took a toll on him and that was why he had so many lines around his eyes.

  Not Frederick.

  Not Carlton.

  Luke—maybe. Nick—maybe. I could even see him as a Will.

  “Terrance?” I said, giggling a little.

  He smiled back at me. “I was just throwing that one out there to make it a little easier.”

  So, it was a test. He wanted me to guess which was his real name. “Should I look up the origins in some Baby Name Dictionary?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  Maybe he really was a Terrance or a Terry. If I was picking his name, then I could just throw that one at him, and it would stick. Maybe.

  “Will or Luke or Nick,” I said finally.

  “Not Delcan? It’s Irish.”

  “Are you Irish?”

  He shrugged again.

  I tried out the names separately. “Will,” I said, and then I stared at him, to see his reaction. What would the right reaction be like? I had no idea. I’d never done this before. It seemed stupid.

  I thought about the fairy tale about Rumpelstiltskin again. The miller’s daughter had made three bargains with the little man. Was he a demon? Or was she the demon who had needed to know his name to take his soul?

  “Luke,” I said, and watched him again.

  He was tense, but I couldn’t see any change in his behavior.

  “Nick,” I said finally. And this time, there was something. It was the tiniest reaction, and it probably meant nothing. But he took in a breath and his mouth opened just a little.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Is it?” he asked me back. He wouldn’t look at me. He wouldn’t give me any helpful hints at all.

  “Nick,” I said finally.

  He looked at me and there was this weird moment between us. I felt like I knew who he was and he knew who I was. It didn’t last long, just that one moment, and then it was gone and he was just this guy who had problems who had walked into my life and my problems.

  “We should go now,” said Nick.

  “Go where?”

  “I told you. I need your help.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me if it’s your real name or not, are you?”

  “A real name is the name that you respond to, that feels right. Didn’t I say that already?”

  “So it is your real name?”

  “What do you think?” he said.

  And that was all I could get out of him. Sometimes he was like a little kid. Sometimes he was like a grandfather. And sometimes he was like a really, really annoying slightly older brother who you wish would soon head off to college. But maybe I would miss him if he did that. Who knows?

  “What do you need me for?”

  “Did I mention demons before?” said Nick, grinning so that his face showed every little wrinkle all the way across, from the rings of them around his eyes to the ones above his eyebrows, to the ones around his mouth and even the ones that went up to his ears.

  I sighed. “Yeah, I think you did, maybe once or twice.”

  “Good, because I wouldn’t
want to go too fast for you.”

  I hit him. Because even if he was old, I didn’t have to put up with that.

  He rocked back, his hand on his chest where I’d twatted him. “Oh, oh!” he said. “I can’t breathe.” He went down on one knee, and then sort of rolled to the side.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. I really shouldn’t have done that, even if he had deserved it. I leaned over him and tried to think about the list of symptoms of a heart attack. “Where do you feel the pain?”

  “Right here,” he said, and he grabbed my hand and pressed it hard against his chest.

  “OK, I’ll call an ambulance.” He probably had just had a heart attack and it was my fault. My hands were shaking as I reached for my cell phone. I got it out and dialed 911. We were almost home. If I could run there, then maybe Mom would be able to help.

  Then he took away my cell phone and I realized he was laughing.

  “I could kill you,” I said, and walked away from him. I’d almost gotten home when he caught up to me.

  “How would you do it, then? Kill me, I mean,” he said, tears still leaking out of his eyes as he struggled against the laughter that kept bursting out of him in shakes and gasps. “Poison?” he asked. “Maybe strangle me?”

  “Strangling sounds good right about now,” I said. I brought out my hands and put them together, then cracked my knuckles.

  “I don’t believe you could do it,” he said.

  “I could make a bargain with a demon,” I said.

  It made him stop laughing, at least. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t even joke about it. It’s not funny.”

  I realized that my face was very close to his face. And he smelled—well, good. Not like he’d put on cologne that morning or anything. He smelled human, though. Not like brimstone. Which, you know, turns out to be surprisingly important to me.

  “Yeah, bad idea,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  He was in love with a woman he could never have. It was like watching an old black and white romantic comedy with Cary Grant, where there’s only a kiss at the end. Nothing more than that. But it matters because when they finally kiss, after all the crap that they have to go through to get to each other, you want to have someone next to you to kiss, too.