His contractor was gone.
Anger spilled through his entire being and his weightless form trembled like a child preparing to throw a tantrum. Blind fury led Paris into an apartment building, front lights illuminating a welcoming glow as he passed through the brick walls. He entered a brightly-lit room, spacious and sprawling with luxurious furniture that spoke of affluence.
Inside the apartment room sat a woman, her face buried in a thick text. Paris hovered near her, waiting for the worthless human to take notice of his glorious presence as the storm gleefully clacked against the glass windows. She continued reading.
Enraged, he brazenly breezed through her, who evoked a terror-filled, high-pitched shriek. Her book plunked to the floor. Mustering the meager energy he had left, solidified and wiry tendrils danced into squiggly letters.
GXXXVEXXXXXXE?
XIXXXXXXXM
XIXXXXXXXM
To remain a pitiful shade of his self would be eternal torture. He wanted a contract—needed it, craved it until his insides burned with ravenous desire. Paris needed the woman to give him a contract or face the consequences. But the morning after, when neighbors attempted to knock on the door, none answered. Town officials later realized that Miss Schwartz seemed to have oddly disappeared.
She had not made a contract with him.
Distressed and at a loss, Paris took refuge inside the walls; however, he quickly grew to detest the cold, moldy walls. Insects crawled in the dark, desperately burrowing into the weak wood for sanctuary and food. The air was stale and filled with a perpetual, pungent stench that loved to cling to the interior walls of the apartment building. Even worse, the entire room had been redecorated with cheesy, floral wallpaper and an ascetic set of furniture.
It was depressing. He was almost ready to resign himself to a life of being a shade, almost.
“Sir, would you like me to place your things here?” inquired a voice. Heavy footsteps strode across the creaky wooden floor.
Another set of footsteps, lighter and slower, followed after it. “Yes, yes. That’s fine.” The second voice was quieter and raspier, but incredibly calm.
Someone dropped a heavy box, clunking with a resounding thud. “M’kay. We’ll be back with the rest of your things, Mr. Bennett.” The heavy footsteps traveled towards the door and began to fade, each step growing softer than the last.
“That’s fine. Perfectly fine,” repeated the voice Paris presumed was ‘Mr. Bennett.’
Curiously, Paris popped out of the wall. Realizing that his dark form starkly contrasted against the light-colored walls and furniture, he darted behind a dresser made of dark wood. Paris cautiously hid behind the dresser. When he heard silence, he turned around and peeked from behind the furniture.
Predictably, Mr. Bennett was an elderly man. The shade took in the human’s small stature, but at least Mr. Bennett still had the strength to stand straight and proud. Most of his grey hair had already fallen off, leaving the senior citizen with only meager tufts that were his sideburns. Mr. Bennett adjusted his tiny, circular spectacles before striding over to the box placed near his bed. He rummaged through his things, pulling out tattered books and trinkets.
Paris continued to watch the man from afar. He hated humans. He absolutely loathed their whimsical, idiotic behavior. But at the same time, a human was necessary to elevate him back into a presentable form. If he had eyes, Paris would have glared at Mr. Bennett. As much as he hated to admit it, he was growing weaker each day. A contract had to be made soon.
Wordlessly, Paris floated towards Mr. Bennett.
The man smiled without looking away from his belongings. “I wonder when you’d come out from behind the dresser. Your dark form was too noticeable not to see, poor eyesight or not.” His eyes crinkled until Paris could not see Mr. Bennett’s dark green irises. “I have heard of your kind, but this is the first time I’ve met a demon.”
Frail hands reached up to take his glasses and wipe the lens against the silk sleeves of his coat. After placing his glasses back upon the bridge of his nose, Mr. Bennett smiled warmly. “You grant contracts, correct?” Hands neatly folded behind his back, he turned around and strode over to a nearby mirror. In the reflection he saw not only himself, but the black shade silently floating a few paces behind him. He continued to smile, but his eyes were surprisingly grim. “I have a proposition for you.”
At first, Paris remained still, save for his gentle bobbing. He did not particularly like this man. On one hand, Mr. Bennett did not panic over his presence—like the other woman had. On the other hand, his expectant expression—as if he knew Paris needed him to gain strength—was infuriating. He debated between his meager options: pray for a better contractor or make a contract now.
His tendrils moved in quick, fleeting strokes.
TXXXXXXRMXXXXXX?
XXXEXXXXXXXS
XXXEXXXXXXXS
A broad grin. “Grant me temporary youth. I want to live the rest of my life as a strong, sturdy lad again." His expression turned wistful and filled with regret. "In return, I shall shelter and nourish you to the best of my ability.” Mr. Bennett gestured at the glowing jewels and trinkets splayed across his bed to demonstrate his wealth, then he pushed out a waiting hand.
A handshake? The shade suspiciously eyed the outstretched hand. Silently, Paris wrapped his shadowy tentacles around the hand with contempt. Humans and their mundane gestures, but at least a deal had been made.
He had found his new contractor.
