I’ve always been afraid of death, but that fear has always existed in the abstract, barring my suicide attempt.

I didn’t have a particularly dangerous childhood; I wasn’t a very active kid and I didn’t have many friends, so I mostly read books and played video games and stayed away from the wider world. I lived in safe areas and avoided the less safe areas, I didn’t play any kind of sport that could result in a concussion, and I just… never really faced any real danger.

Still, despite that lack of danger, I was obsessed with forestalling my own demise. I read about telomere decay and dreamed of going into the medical field to find a solution to aging. I read about global warming and wanted to fix it. I read about the sun’s eventual expansion and yearned to travel the stars in search of a new world. I even wanted to find some solution to the heat death of the universe, because even an uncountable number of years was too few. It still ended.

Is it pathetic, to fall into suicidal depression out of a realization that one day, no matter what you do, you are going to die?

“...trap…injured…”

Distantly, dimly, through heavy fog, I hear noise. Arguing, from tone. My companions, I presume, though I can only catch a few words and make no effort to discern further information. I should. I would, in any other circumstance, but it’s so hard to care about whatever they’re saying when I’m staring into the glassy eyes of a dead man.

I shiver on the floor of a nightclub in a pool of blood–some mine, some not. Next to me is the corpse of a man who, until mere moments ago, was a thinking, feeling being. He had a life, and a group that he belonged to, and probably friends within that group, and now he’s dead. He’s dead, and I killed him.

How fucked up is that?

“...not my fault…four years…”

I trace my fingers over his cheek, my hand shaking, and feel the lingering warmth. He’s dead, and that could have been me. If the axe hadn’t been stopped by my arm. If the crossbow bolt hadn’t been stopped by that figment. If Cheshire or Bashe had been just a bit slower. If I hadn’t used my spells in the right ways at the right moments.

I feel so very, very cold. I laugh, the sound hollow and broken, as I realize that right now I feel colder than the corpse lying next to me. Even the throbbing in my mutilated arm feels dull and muted, the hot spike of pain given way to steady room temperature agony.

“...debt…fix this…”

I hate this. I hate the pain, I hate the fear, I hate that I almost died, I hate staring into those stupid lifeless eyes accusing me, judging me for what I did. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. You tried to kill me first. It was self-defense. I’m not a murderer. I’m not a murderer. I’m not–

I hug my arms to my chest and the sudden movement sends a jolt of awful from my arm up to my brain, scattering the bad thoughts before they can spiral any further. I shudder and shake and feel something wet drip down my face towards the floor. I’m crying. Stupid. What kind of protagonist cries over one dumb fight?

The rational voice says we’re experiencing the aftershocks of a high-tension encounter. One chemical cocktail is being replaced by another, and nothing in our time on Earth equipped us to process the complicated emotions involved in taking a life and nearly having our own life taken. Let it hit you. Cry. Breathe.

I snarl, animalistic, and ignore her advice. My advice, but the wrong advice. I don’t need to cry, I don’t need to fucking cope, I need to be more! I crawl closer to the body, gritting my teeth through the fresh pain, and rip the dagger out of the corpse-thing’s throat.

More blood spurts from the wound, and I press my fangs to the gaping hole, wrap my mouth around the ruins of his–its–neck. I drink his blood and it’s still warm, still flowing, but the taste is rancid and horrible, like drinking liquid death. I try to force more down my throat, try to fill myself with this wretched substance, but it’s so bad that on instinct I tear my fangs away and spit out the blood, coughing. As I do, though, I feel that same telltale trickle of mana as when I ate falafel or interrogated Cheshire.

“...geist…changeling…”

It’s not much. Not worth the taste–and that taste is so much worse than it should be. Is it some property of my new existence? Like a vampire or ghoul vomiting up a meal it shouldn’t have eaten?

I glare loathing at the further-mauled body, mouth wretched with the lingering taste of the corpse-blood that has slid between my teeth and found home beneath my tongue. I have the urge to take the knife and stab the body like I did with the not-a-ghost all the way back in the school, but when I try to lift my arm it takes more energy than I have. I slump, exhausted, and focus on the conversation between Bashe and Cheshire for just long enough to catch a single full sentence before the pain takes me and I fade into blissful darkness.

“This is the way the world ends.”

…

“Alice.”

…

“Alice!”

I’m being shaken awake by rough hands, and when I open my eyes and blink away the disorientation I see the incubus standing over me. I’m sitting up, though I don’t remember moving, and my back is to the wall of the club.

Bashe snaps his fingers in front of my face, twice, and I hiss at him. “I’m up,” I mutter, head pounding and arm aching. I am fascinated to discover that the imp’s wound has seemingly vanished, with only a smear of blood to betray where it once was. I point at the glaring lack of a hole in his chest and ask, “Did you heal? I thought you said fast healing was dangerous and rare?”

The fucker rolls his eyes at me and complains, “Even half-dead you ask too many questions. Unbelievable.”

“Answer the question, incubus,” murmurs Cheshire from my left. I look over to see the catgirl–a vicious gash in her side that drips blood to the floor below–crouched down and scribbling intently in the ruins of my notebook. “It’s relevant and you’ll have to explain it anyways for the contract to take.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bashe mutters. He sighs and smooths back his hair. “I guess we’ve got time, since you’re not in any real danger of dying from that scratch.”

“Joy,” I mumble. I poke my wounded arm and wince at a fresh spike of pain. “Why isn’t this worse? I mean it hurts, a lot, but it also feels… weirdly manageable? I was freaking before I passed out, and now I don’t really feel like I’m in danger. Why?”

“Benefits of being a demon,” Cheshire informs me without looking away from her art. “Even as a fledgling you’re a lot harder to kill now than you were when you woke up in this world. You’re not likely to die of blood loss, disease, or even poison unless there’s a mage backing it up.”

I frown. Fascinating. That’s something to be grateful for, I suppose. “Okay. Walk me through what’s happening next. Cheshire mentioned a contract. Am I getting a new spell?”

Bashe nods and gestures at the spot on his chest where the wound should have been. “I did this with [Indulgent Vitality]. You’ve heard me use it once before, actually. It’s a big spell, but it can be deceiving; that hole the crossbow put in me is still there, and it’ll still be there for a while. The spell spruces up your appearance and tries to keep any harms from getting worse while it transfers those harms to a marked object, usually a portrait or statue. Since that transfer counts as regenerative healing, it goes pretty slow.”

Portrait? Like the Oscar Wilde story? I glance at Cheshire and finally realize what she’s drawing: it’s me. She’s drawing a portrait of me. I look away quickly and back to Bashe. “I’m interested, but I want to know why this is necessary. If I’m not in danger and it’s not going to make me better at any reasonable pace, what’s the point?”

“The point,” Cheshire answers, “is that your arm is shattered and bleeding and it will get worse. You’re not going to die of blood loss, sure, but your bones aren’t going to mend themselves and running around will only aggravate the wound. We need the imp’s spell so you’ll be safe to transport to a real healer. Also, it’s a useful spell to deconstruct later.”

Right. Making my own spells. “‘Kay. What’s the catch?”

Bashe gestures at the sketch of my ugly mug and says, “It may surprise you to learn that this spell is mostly used for non-combat purposes. Someone wants to drink or take drugs without worrying about their liver or other organs, and maybe they want to get rid of those bags under their eyes and all the other signs of hard living. All those harms and imperfections get sent to the portrait, and they build. An imp can siphon mana from the portrait to reset it, but if the portrait gets too corrupt–or if the caster dies while they have an active portrait–then their soul is trapped inside and left at the mercies of any imp.”

I blink. “That seems like a big deal. So is that the invocation downside?”

“It actually isn’t; everyone who uses the spell has to deal with that quality. No, your unique downside is that every time you cast the spell you’re going to experience some… let’s call it ‘mental feedback.’ It’ll make you more like Indulgence herself, though if you only use the spell once it shouldn’t be too noticeable.” He hesitates with an unpleasant look on his face and adds, “It can sneak up on you, though.”

That’s also part of the story. Corruption of the portrait and corruption of the self. Hmm. “I think I understand the risks. How many memories do you need?”

Cheshire makes a final mark on the notebook page, sets it carefully aside where it won’t soak up blood, and melts into shadow and smoke. My cloak settles where she was, torn, and I grimace at yet another loss.

The catgirl reforms sitting next to me and gives me a wink. “There’s one more thing to be aware of,” she says, “which is that if the portrait gets damaged it’ll send all the harms it’s gathered back at you en masse. So, ah, don’t let that piece of paper get ripped once you’ve spelled it.”

I shiver, very aware of how fragile paper can be. “Noted. So, the memories?”

Bashe shakes his head. “I don’t want your memories, Alice.”

“Oh.” I tilt my head. “Then what do you want? I don’t exactly have a lot to give here, my guy.”

“I don’t need mana; I need assurances that whatever you become, whatever kind of demon you turn into… you’re not going to come after me.” His voice hardens. “I’m not interested in helping someone who’s going to turn around and try to eat my soul.”

I glare at the incubus. “That’s a pretty rude accusation. Didn’t I tell you when we met that I consider that kind of betrayal self-defeating?”

Bashe gives me a very unimpressed look. “If I put any trust in the value of your word, I wouldn’t be insisting on a binding contract. So let me be clear: if you want the spell you need to reach a healer safely, you’re going to have to swear by Azathoth to keep my soul out of your filthy fucking fingers. No bindings, no soul-eating, no taking my soul and forging it into an artifact.”

I glance at Cheshire and raise an eyebrow. “Is this what you two were arguing about?”

“Among other things,” Cheshire mutters.

I look back at Bashe and ask, “Why the soul specifically? Wouldn’t it be better to have me swear not to harm or kill you?”

Bashe snorts. “We both know there’s a dozen ways around an oath like that, no matter how we word it. Especially with that thing at your side,” he points at Cheshire accusingly. The catgirl raises her hands to her cheeks and grins. “There’s no contract you can sign that will bind her not to attack me, so it’s a moot effort. Taking away my soul as a prize kills your biggest incentive.”

I chew my lip and consider his logic. Were we planning on stabbing him at some point? I mean, he’s gotten under my skin a few times, and I would have liked to have him as a minion, but I’d already written him off from the moment I left the tea party. So, I don’t think this actually inconveniences any of our plans, and it doesn’t stop us from acting in self-defense if he betrays us. Okay. “Sure, I’ll take the deal.”

Bashe nods and doesn’t wait any longer. “Azathoth, O Dreamweaver! I invoke the right of channeling that all imps are due. Bear witness to this contract and give it meaning. Hear our words and make them binding.”

The club falls away, and the body of the man I killed, and the blood on the floor, and even the pain in my arm… but this time, as the world vanishes, there’s one sensation that’s different: I feel Cheshire’s hand slip into mine, soft and warm and oddly comforting. I can’t see her, but I know that she’s next to me, with me, even inside this strange ephemeral space.

An eldritch horror watches all three of us, waiting, perceiving. Her doting love and clinical interest pick and tear at my psyche, and rather than fade from repetition it only seems stronger this time, more intense. There’s more for her to take interest in, now. More to love. More to dissect. More to witness.

Bashekehi has more composure this time as he says clearly, “The contract is thus: a bestowal for a sworn oath. I offer my library of spells to pull from, and my mana to serve as a vessel for the Dreamweaver’s grace.” The incubus lifts his hand and a new purple-pink sigil forms, streaked through with bright green. “I offer the spell [Indulgent Vitality], and have explained its capabilities to the invoker.”

The Dreamweaver seizes my throat, her caress cold and caring, and forces me to say, “I understand the capabilities of the spell and find it satisfactory for my purposes.” I tense my good arm, desperate to exercise some small act of free will, and feel Cheshire squeeze my hand in response.

“There is a price for all magic,” Bashe continues. “I have offered a spell to be bestowed, the mana to bring it to life, and the grace of the Dreamweaver to bind it to your soul. What will you sacrifice to claim this offering?”

Azathoth’s grip tightens, softens, expands, contracts. I speak again, her words in my mouth. “I shall not take the soul of Bashekehi the Ever-Gleaming within myself to consume, nor shall I bind that soul to my will, nor shall I forge that soul in the manner of demons and imps. I shall not lay a hand of flesh nor a hand of will upon the soul of Bashekehi the Ever-Gleaming, this and these I swear by Azathoth, Dreamweaver, All-Mother, Origin. Weaver take me if I forswear.”

My breath catches in my throat as the last word leaves my lips, and I feel the vast presence of the Dreamweaver pour inside me, tendrils of divine emanation breaking into my chest and curling around my lungs, my ribs, my heart. Azathoth squeezes, and for a moment my mind goes white with terror, and then I am released and can breathe again, each breath shallow and panicked.

What was that? Why? A warning? An embrace?

I see stars, and I see the glowing sigil travel from Bashe’s hand to my chest, nestling into my sternum and taking residence. I feel vaguely uncomfortable realizing I’ve done this whole ritual in just a bra and skirt, but I’m sure Azathoth was watching me in the shower anyways.

“The bargain is struck,” Bashe murmurs, and Azathoth’s attention falls away… but I’m certain not all of it.

I steady my breathing, grateful for another hand-squeeze from Cheshire, and focus on my new spell. “[Indulgent Vitality].” The diagram appears in my mind’s eye, full of fresh symbols to examine, and once more I strive to understand the diagram, to see the secrets hiding behind the strain that rises whenever I glimpse some hint of deeper meaning. It’s still too overwhelming, and after a few moments I cease my attempt.

Bashekehi hands me the notebook page with its sketch of my face. I clutch the paper gingerly and mentally select the text prompt. “Make this page my portrait, and restore my broken body.” The symbol turns blue, and I unleash the spell.

It’s utterly mesmerizing to watch my own body alter as Bashe’s once did–and revolting, once I see what it does to my skin. The wave of change washes over me and seems to fix my arm, mending flesh and restoring mobility, though I can still feel great pain and ache beneath the surface. And wherever the wave passes over my scars, it washes those away too.

I panic at the sight of all the scars on my arms and legs suddenly vanishing, skin made smooth and unblemished. I run my fingers over the skin and feel the smoothness, feel the glaring absence of scars that have been there for years. The name of the spell catches in my throat, almost primed for a second time, but I can feel the weight of two gazes bearing down on me. What would they think, if they saw me ask for my scars back?

I lower my head and try to control my breathing, try not to think about how wrong it feels to be missing the texture on my skin. To be missing so many marks of memory. I hate it, and I hate that I hate it, but to do anything about it would invite more judgment than I can bear right now.

I raise my head, clear my throat, and ask, “Where to now?”

Bashe is inscrutable, but Cheshire watches me, hand still wrapped in mine, and there is a sympathy in her gaze that makes me profoundly unsettled. She lets none of it into her voice, though, as she tells me, “Now, we visit the city shrine.”