#btdt

Chalk dust coats your fingertips, painting your clothing and skin. Ghostly trails of your absentminded touch. It doesn’t matter. In fact, it's the furthest thing from your mind as you meticulously focus all of your attention to the intricacies of the white lines that now crisscross the dark wood of your living room floor. Your area rug sits rolled up behind your couch, tucked out of the way to make room for the intimidating symbol. It’s the first time you’ve tried casting a summoning spell of this magnitude, both in power and size, so the details must be perfect. Every intricate line is double-checked as you practice the incantation in your mind. It takes some time, not nearly as long as the many hours it took you to draw the thing, but finally you’re satisfied. It’s by far your best work. It has to be, and not just because you had practiced the design for months. Any error you made now, the slightest deviation, even the smallest tremor in your hand as you drew the complex geometrical patterns, could end up costing you far more than what you were willing to sacrifice. 

Finished with the chalking, you move on to lighting the candles. Every wax pillar that’s been saved for ritual purposes like tonight, every seasonal candle for any holiday, every candle purchased with a two-for-one coupon has been dug out for tonight’s spell. Hopefully you don’t have any scents that clash with each other but there’s not much you can do about it now as you go from wick to wick. The sulfur smell of the match you use begins to stoke nostalgic feelings before they’re swiftly tamped down by nerves. It is very nearly the witching hour. Just a few minutes to go, enough time to place a circle of salt for protection around the soon to be portal.

Five minutes.

You close the box of salt but keep it near just in case. It’s unwise to show up to a casting without weapons of protection. The candles may be traditional but are also a precaution. The intention you set while lighting them adds protection and lends you strength from the energy you charged them with previously.

Four minutes.

You place offerings, bread you baked yourself, apples you picked by hand, mead you fermented in your home, inside the salt circle. A gift for the spirit you hope to summon. Another tradition-another precaution.

Three minutes.

You grab your ceremonial dagger. It’s cold and sharp. Perfect for what you need. You also grab a couple of Band-Aids. No sense in not being sanitary.

Two minutes.

The wait is excruciating. The seconds tick by like hours. Months of preparation, years if you wanted to get technical, all leading up to this moment.

One minute.

You place the pointed end of your dagger against your finger and press. Crimson blood begins to swell from the cut as you extend your hand out in front of you. Droplets fall to the floor, staining the white chalk red. The rest is camouflaged by the dark stain of the wood floor but you know the magic is working.

As the clock displayed on the screen of your phone reads midnight, swirls of thick smoke begin to rise from the blood on the floor. Setting the dagger back down you press your cut between two fingers, stopping the flow of blood. There’s nothing more for you to do at the moment except wait and see. Hopefully someone takes you up on your offer. You’re prepared to wait all night, longer if you have to. You don’t know if the spell even worked until a demon shows up or not. All of your hard work amounting to nothing–well the thought of that makes your stomach twist into knots. There’s no telling if anyone at all received your summons on the other side. 

They had.

The wait is quick. Far faster than you thought it would be. All the grimoires you had at your disposal had made sure to warn the caster that demons did not adhere to any mortal’s schedule. So when one moment you’re looking at the empty summoning circle, shadows flickering along the walls from the candle flames and the next you’re face to face with a hooded figure, separated by barriers of salt and magic and blood, your breath catches in your throat. The shadows move. Reaching with long fingers towards the being in the center of the circle, drawn to the demon as if being tempted. Even the flames flicker towards the creature. You feel the pull erging you along. Encouraging you to cross the lines of protection. Tempting you to let go, to be swept in the demon’s current and float down river to them. It’s common. This feeling, this pull or whatever you want to call it. Your grimoires had warned you of this as well. Demon’s use their magic to lure you to them without a pact of protection in place.

Bright crimson hands with dark lines of tattoos that flow past the wrists and disappear underneath their sleeves, reach up and pull back their hood obscuring their features. His angular face is just as red as his hands. The black, bold tattoos flow along the lines of his neck and accentuate his handsome face. You trace the flowing patterns with your eyes as they follow the line of his jaw, touching his lips, highlighting his nose, and paint the ridge of his cheeks. His yellow eyes, that are studying you just as intensely, are held in pools of black, until they flow upward still. They circle the many horns that adorn his brow. They mimic a crown, giving the demon a stately appearance. This is no lower-demon you’ve summoned. 

Perfect.

The terms of the contract are negotiated smoothly and efficiently. No small talk is wasted beating around the bush. When he asks you what you want out of the deal, the demon smirks and it sends a shiver down your spine. It settles low in your back and in the pit of your stomach. You know these nerves have manifested out of the air of intimidation the demon radiates. You’re well aware of how powerful this demon is, and what he could do to you given the opportunity. But there’s also anticipation. You want this. You’ve wanted this for a long time and finally, you’re about to make it a reality. “Power.” That’s your request, your demand. Speaking it out loud feels like there’s electricity on your lips. As soon as the thought crosses your mind the demon’s golden eyes drop to your mouth for the briefest moment. Heat begins to rise inside of you and you think you’re not the only one affected. The exchange will be–intimate. You settle on a time limit, one month, for both of you to fulfill the contract terms. He has one month to give you as much magical power as he can and at the end of it all, you’ll give him your soul.

You sign the contract quickly, reopening the wound on your finger from earlier. Blood soaks into the ancient paper, sealing your deal with the demon. You feel the magical pact slide into place between you and suddenly-everything feels right. Like wearing glasses for the first time, everything feels like it’s suddenly in focus. Almost as if you’ve been squinting, walking around half-blind until him. Until this pact. You toe the line of salt, breaking the line of protection that separates you from him. The demon can no longer harm you, or even touch you in any way that you don’t want or enthusiastically agree to. The contract is signed by both of you and there’s no getting out of it until the terms have been met.

“Now that the details have been taken care of,” the demon purrs as he begins to roll the contract up, stowing it safely away. “There’s no better time than the present to begin. Don’t you agree, my little witch?”

The urge to hide your face is strong but your pride is stronger. You knew what the process of the exchange of power would entail, but now that you’re here, face to face with it, poised on the precipice of everything you’ve wanted, you find yourself nervous. It was the way he was looking at you. Like he was ready to devour you. Ravenous.

“Um, you mean-”

“I’d like to begin my side of our pact now, yes.”

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