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For a list of all the Devil’s Pact Chapters and other stories click here

This is a revised version of the story that I published on Smashword starting back in 2014. It is rewritten with much-added material. However, I did have to age up some of the characters so no one is underage in this version.

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Click here for Prologue.

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The Living Gods were born into the Flesh, sent to guide mankind. For years they grew apart, both yearning for the other. When there eyes met for the first time since their incarnation, both Living Gods knew each other and rejoiced to have been reunited. Finally, their great task—the reconditioning of mankind from hate to love—could begin.

—The Gospel of April 1:1-2

Wednesday, June 5th, 2013 – Mark Glassner – Spanaway, WA

After twenty-seven years of life, I still hadn’t gotten laid. Not even a handjob from a girl feeling sorry for me. I wasn’t an ugly guy, just average looking, maybe a little out-of-shape. There was no reason why I couldn’t find a nice girl to date me if I just had the courage to try. I was shy around women. I guess it was a mix of a lack of confidence, nervousness around strangers, and a fear of rejection that led to my current status: virgin. If I was being honest, my number one problem was a fear of rejection. I only ever had the courage to tell one girl I liked her. “That’s nice,” was her kick-in-the-balls response. And the older I got, the more pathetic it seemed. What girl would want to date a guy my age with zero experience?

It was that soul-crushing desperation that had me listening to this book I had found in the public library of all places. I stared down at it clutched in my hands, the hardback cover faded and tattered, the pages yellowing. A simple title, stamped on the cover, read: Folktales and Hoodoo of the Bayou by a D. S. Lucius. It was an old book, printed all the way back in 1903, and I had founded it tucked away in the corner of the New Age section of the Parkland Public Library.

I’m not even sure what possessed me to visit the library last week. I woke up that morning with an itch to try and find something to make my life more than the cesspool it had become, spurred by some half-remembered dream. Thus far, I had done nothing with my life. I had a dead-end job with a boss I hated, and only a few friends I got together with once a week to play D&D with.

The book stood out amid the glossy covers of all the other New Age crap that all promised to “revolutionize my life” with the power of “crystals,” or “holistic tonics,” or “aromatherapy,” or a hundred other bullshits. This book was different. It had weight, substance. It wasn’t some rush cash grab put out to exploit some naive fool from his money. I flipped it open, and there was a blurry photo, the type you’d see in a newspaper from the civil war, of a gravel crossroad and a box sitting in a hole dug in the exact center.

“One story told to me by Mere Angele in a run-down shack deep in a black swamp, was, perhaps, the most intriguing. The old, negro woman lay in her bed, consumption wracking her body with bloody coughs, and whispered to me a simple spell to summon the Devil. I record this as she recited, though I have not attempted to cast the spell myself, held back by some vagary of morality or fear of the Almighty. The spell was simple: at midnight, you simply buried a box in the center of a crossroads containing a photography of yourself, the bone of a black cat, and a cutting of yarrow, and the Devil shall appear and grant you three wishes for your soul.”

What could I do with three wishes?

Anything I wanted. I could think of nothing else for the last week. My job suffered; I didn’t move a single vacuum cleaner, which meant I didn’t get a paycheck this week, and that meant it was ramen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner next week. But that didn’t matter if I could sell my soul for three wishes.

But what if it didn’t work?

What if it did?

These thoughts assailed each other, warring in my mind until I could stand it no longer. I found an old shoebox, printed a selfie from my cell phone, bought the black cat bone at an occult shop—three for five dollars; I had no idea what I would do with the spares—and I found the yarrow, a white flower, at the Lawn & Care home improvement store.

Now I just had to kill some time until midnight.

I glanced at the clock. Fuck. That was still five hours away. I couldn’t stay at home, I was going crazy in my tiny apartment. My entire body was a tightly coiled spring, ready to, well, spring at the slightest annoyance. My skin felt too tight; my stomach was twisted into more knots than a pretzel. I grabbed my keys, jumped into my car, and drove.

I didn’t have a direction in mind, not really. I knew where I had to go to find a gravel crossroads, out in the foothills past Spaneway where there were acres of planted forests awaiting their eventual harvest and transformation into lumber or paper or whatever the hell they did with trees these days. I took the left on Pacific Avenue, the main street that ran south from Tacoma, through Parkland, Spaneway, Graham, and out to Mount Rainier.

A sign caught my eye, a blue mermaid holding a coffee mug on a white background. Starbuzz, the ubiquitous coffee house that seemed to have a location on every street corner in Western Washington. I was feeling tired, the excitement and adrenaline of the last few days had left little ability, only a great need, for sleep, and some caffeine might just help get me through the night.

I pulled into the parking lot, parked my car, and entered the store. I bother didn’t to lock it, there was nothing to steal but old, fast-food wrappers. The only valuable item I had was my smart phone, a cheap Motorola with a slide-out keyboard that I had owned for three years. It didn’t even have 4G. The coffee shop’s AC rolled over me like a wonderful, arctic breeze. It was worth it just to get out of the heat.

It was a pretty typical coffee shop: small tables with chairs that pretentious people who claimed they were writers would sit at all day long, pretending to pen that next, great American novel or screenplay; menu’s written with colorful chalks advertising today’s special—large, salted caramel mocha—and whatever god-awful music CD the store was hawking today. Behind the counter, busy baristas prepared the—

My breath froze.

She had long, auburn hair gathered in a ponytail, a heart-shaped face dusted with freckles, green eyes that sparkled like emeralds, the most beautiful dimples when she smiled. I was entranced; she wasn’t the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, but she had the pretty, youthful, girl-next-door look. She was probably a college student, working part-time to pay for school. She wore the typical Starbuzz uniform: white polo shirts embroidered with the blue mermaid half-hidden by her dark-blue apron. A nametag was pinned above her breasts—small, yet nicely filling out her tight shirt—read ‘Mary’.

“How can I help you?” she smiled at me, glancing up from the cash register. Her eyes were such a deep green, and her smile seemed to grow as she noticed at me; a sudden warmth flushed through my face.

“I…oh…hi.”

“Hi, sir. I’m Mary, and you just let me know when you’re ready to order, okay. Take all the time you want.” Her smile was dazzling.

“Kay,” I muttered. I tried to think, to come up with a drink to order, but those eyes were so green; I could lose myself in them for eternity. And she just kept smiling at me, patient and without a hint of irritation at my slowness. “I…um…” Then I said the first drink that popped into my head.

“Iced or hot?” she asked.

“Iced,” I mumbled.

She hit some keys and the register made some whirling noise. “All right, a large, iced mocha’s $4.87 with tax.”

I paid her, and she deftly went to work, adding the milk, the shots of espresso, the hot cream, chocolate syrup, stirred it up, and dumped ice and the drink into a clear, plastic cup. Then she popped a lid on and handed it to me. Her fingers, small and delicate, brushed my hand. I almost jumped, her touch was almost electrifying.

“I…um…” I struggled to overcome my shyness and talk to her. But that fear of rejection was so strong, I clammed up, grabbed my drink, and walked to a table.

I sipped at the chocolate coffee, it wasn’t bad, and thumb through my book on Hoodoo, trying to distract myself. I couldn’t concentrate; my eyes kept slipping up to glance at Mary as she bustled behind the counter, her dark-red hair swinging behind her. If my wishes worked, I would have any woman in the world, including her.

It made time seem to go even slower.

“Folktales and Hoodoo of the Bayou, hmm, sound’s interesting.”

I jumped; Mary stood behind me, looking over my shoulder. I had been lost in a momentary daydream about my impending wishes—returning here and taking Mary for my very own—that I had stopped paying attention to her. She walked around the table, sitting down across from me, those wonderful dimples appearing as she smiled.

“That sounds familiar,” she mussed, chewing on her lower lip. “Hoodoo. I think I heard that word on a TV show. Umm, what was it called. Jeez, it was the one with the two brothers traveling around in that old, black car hunting monsters.”

I shrugged; it didn’t sound familiar.

“Supernatural,” she smiled, snapping her fingers in triumph. “They had Hoodoo on it. It was some type of Southern magic. Are you into that, um…?”

“Mark,” I supplied.

“Mark.” She said my name slow, almost like she was savoring it. Color tinged her freckled cheeks. “That’s a great name.”

“Oh, thanks. I guess, Mary’s not that bad.”

“We’re a dime a dozen,” she shrugged.

“I wouldn’t say that, they can’t all be as pretty as you,” I blurted without thinking.

Her blush deepened. “That’s sweet of you. So, what’s your interest in magic? Are you one of those New Age guys?”

“Not really. It’s…um…just a hobby. I like the occult.”

Her grin deepened. “Ohh, that’s cool. It’s kinda fascinating, huh. I got into it big time a few years ago thanks to all those vampire novels.”

“Oh, those, eh, sparkly vampire ones.”

“Yep! Team Jacob all the way!”

She said it so enthusiastically that I couldn’t help laughing. “Isn’t he the werewolf though?”

“Who wants a cold-blooded vampire?” she asked. “When you could have a strong, powerful werewolf to keep you warm.”

“Makes sense. I mean, the vampire sparkles in daylight, right, like he’s covered in glitter. And that’s like dating a stripper.”

She clapped her hands over her mouth, laughing and blushing. “No. I definitely do not want to date a stripper.”

Were we flirting? Or was she just sitting here being friendly with a customer? I frowned. She should be working or something? Maybe we were firting.

She peered at me with some suspicion. “So how do you know what dating a stripper is like? Have you been down that road?”

“What, no!” I shook my head, though not for a lack of trying. Strippers are very good at making you think they’re into you, but they’re really just into your wallet.

“You can tell me,” she grinned. “I bet you’re a player. You have all the girls crawling over you.”

“I wish,” I snorted. “No, I’m too shy around girls.”

“You don’t seem that shy. You’re talking to me and, last I check, I am a girl.”

My eyes couldn’t help flicking down to her perky breasts pushing against her polo shirt. “Yeah, you’re definitely a girl.”

“Yep, you’re a player,” she nodded. “Eyes up here, big boy.”

“Sorry, they’re…nice.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but a man’s voice yelling from behind the counter cut her off: “Hey, Mary, your till was short thirty cents. I need you to come sign the till variant slip.”

“I’ll be right back,” she sighed.

“You’re not in trouble, right?”

“Naw, it’s only thirty cents. That’s not unusual.”

My eyes watched her ass, just a little plump, sway beneath her khaki slacks as she walked behind the counter. Then it hit me; she had counted her till down, she was off work. She didn’t have to be sitting down and talking to me. I glanced at the book. Maybe I didn’t need to sell my soul, maybe I could turn all my luck around.

She was smiling as she came back, sitting down at the table. “Paperwork,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “So what do you do for a living?”

“I sell vacuum cleaners. Door-to-door.”

“Wow.”

She had to be flirting with me. No one has ever been excited when they heard what my job was. No one. “Hey, Mary, I was wondering,” I swallowed; you can do this, Mark. Overcome your fear. “I was wondering if you…wanted to get a bite to eat, or something.”

Her face fell. “I’m sorry. My boyfriend…he’s on his way over to pick me up.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to sound neutral. “I didn’t mean it like that, I was just…you know, since we were talking, that…”

“Oh, that’s alright.” She glanced at her watch, and her expression turned sour. “He’s late as usual. Well, at least his being tardy let me talk to you. It was nice.”

“Yeah.”

A rumbling came from outside, the deep, barking cough of a large engine that was in a desperate need for a tune-up. “That’s Mike.”

“Have a good one,” I nodded, trying to mask the hurt. This is why I never open up. It was just an invitation to be hurt.

“Maybe I’ll see you again,” she smiled. “I have the early shift tomorrow. Or, whenever. I wouldn’t mind talking some more.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. Tomorrow morning, huh. I grabbed the book, running my fingers across its embossed title. By then I’d have made my wish, and then it wouldn’t matter that she had a boyfriend. Mary, and any other woman I wanted, would be mine.

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Sister Theodora Mariam – Phoenix, AZ

“The pilot has switched on the fasten seat belt sign,” the calm voice of the flight attendant announced over the plane’s speakers. “We’ll be landing in Phoenix in a few minutes, so please return your seats and tray tables to their upright and locked position.”

An excited thrill passed through my stomach right to my pussy, leaving a damp itch I couldn’t wait to scratch. After a year of boredom taking care of St. Afra, a church in the slums of LA, I was finally sent on another mission. The Ecstasy had fallen upon me only three hours ago, and the Archangel Gabriel had sent me out into the world to once again fight evil.

There was a Warlock that needed to be stopped.

I had shed my nun’s habit for the slinky, blue dress I now wore, showing off a large swath of my round, perky breasts, and hugging my tight ass like a second skin. I was on my mission, absolved from any sins I may commit until I found the Warlock and exorcised his powers. And I was looking forward to sinning! I hadn’t been with a man in a year, and I was getting sick of my dildo. I needed a cock. Once I had scratched that itch, I could concentrate on finding the Warlock.

For thirteen years, I had served in the Order of Mary Magdalene, fighting the forces of evil. Thanks to the Gift of the Spirit, I may look eighteen, with all the perky flesh and curves of youth, but I was actually forty-four. There were other benefits to the Gift: I could exorcise Warlocks, control Thralls, and I could see the auras of humans. The average human had a silver aura, but Warlocks were blood-red, and those they had dominated, their poor Thralls, were black. With my powers, I could free the Thralls, and rob the Warlock of his powers.

I hated every Warlock and loved to defeat them.

Thirteen years ago, I had been happily married and a mother, but all that had been stolen by Kurt Wagner. He made me his Thrall, and…I forced those memories down. There was nothing but pain in remembering. He had taken everything from me—my family, my dignity, and almost my soul. But I had been rescued by Sister Louise Afra, and I had gladly joined the Order.

Kurt had left me nothing but my hatred.

I would see that every man or woman that had made a Pact with the Adversary, selling their soul for power, defeated and their evil undone. That was the purpose of my Order. We were the only ones who could stand up to the Warlocks and thwart the Adversary’s plans. We were few in numbers, perhaps a dozen in the entire world, and I was one of two whom shepherd North America.

I had no idea who the Warlock in Phoenix was, or how I would find him. But I had faith that Providence would guide me. Another Gift.

The plane touched down; I deboarded with the other passengers. I was on the look out for any promising men. Nothing was jumping out; my flight had been filled with dumpy men and frazzled women. I pressed my thighs together; ever since I had received the Ecstasy, my pussy had been on fire with excitement. My year of self-denial was over, and my pussy needed to be indulged.

I reached the baggage carousel and found a man staring disconsolately at the luggage moving in a slow circle on the black conveyor belt. He was a tall man, early thirties, and seemed to be in great shape. His suit was blue and rumpled like he had slept in. His face had a haggard cast, his eyes red; my heart went out to him—something tragic had just happened. The mother in me rose up and, forgetting about my selfish desires, I walked over to him.

I patted his arm, just above the elbow. “It’ll get better. Eventually.”

He regarded me with bloodshot eyes, his left fist clenched tight. There was a tan line on his ring finger. I used to have one of those after Kurt made me throw away my wedding ring. It had belonged to my husband’s deceased mother, a family heirloom, and that bastard treated it like—

I pushed those emotions back down. Dwelling on the past just made the present harder, and living was trial enough.

“How?” he asked, his voice sounded dead. The poor guy.

“One day at a time,” I answered, smiling sweetly at him. “The pain will dull, fade, and turn into a scar.”

He stared at me for a long moment. No, he wasn’t staring at me, but past me. The poor guy, his wife really did a number on him. I kept rubbing his arm, trying to soothe his pain away. It was pointless, he was hurting too much for a simple touch to heal him, but what else could I do besides leave him to suffer alone?

“I just don’t get it,” he whispered, a tear spilling down his cheek. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know.”

My bag slid past; I grabbed it off the conveyor belt. My sudden movement snapped him out of his funk for a moment. He looked at the luggage passing by, then grabbed a tan suitcase off the belt. He clutched it in his hand, his lower lip quivering.

“She packed this for me before I left. She told me she loved me.”

“I think you could use a drink,” I said. “Do you know a bar around here, um?”

“Newton,” he answered. “Everyone calls me Newt, though. Except…” The pain returned.

“I’m Sister Theodora, pleased to meet you.”

It turned out Newt did know a bar. The Prickly Pear was a quiet bar just up the street from the Sky Harbor International Airport. It was Wednesday night, so it wasn’t packed. We sidled up to the bar, and I savored my first rum and coke in a year, while he drank two shots of Jack Daniels in a row. Then he started talking.

“I left on a business trip on Monday, meeting a few clients for my company. She packed my suitcase, dropped me off at the airport, looked me in the eye and said she loved me.” He took a deep gulp of his Jack Daniels. “Then…last night…she…” He finished off his third shot, pushing it to the barkeep. “She called me up and we were done.”

“Oh, no,” I said, reaching out to stroke his hand.

“Yeah. She said, ‘We’re done. I’m moving in with Tex. He’s a real man and I love him. You can go blow your brains out for all I care.’ And she hung up on me.”

“She really said that?” I asked, my heart breaking.

“Yep,” he snorted, grabbing his fourth shot and downing it in a single gulp. “Monday she loved me, and on Tuesday she couldn’t even care if I killed myself.”

I frowned. “How long were you married?”

“Six years. I thought they were wonderful. Y’know, we had the usual fights, but…”

“Yeah, but you thought everything was going fine. Tell me more about this Tex.”

“He’s the asshole that lives across the street,” he exclaimed, splashing his drink down the front of his suit. “We only moved into the house two weeks ago, and since then there has been naked girls parading all over his house and yard.”

“Really?” I set my drink down. Had Providence led me to the Warlock already?

“Who are these women?”

“Some kinda of whores. Like my wife! They parade around in skimpy bikinis, sometimes they sunbathe nude on his front lawn. I called the cops on him, like, twenty times. But the police didn’t do anything. They’d just talked to him then left, not caring that there are a couple topless women outside in public.”

I placed my hand on his. “Would you like to take me home?”

He glanced at me, his eyes falling on my half-exposed breasts. “What are you, a hooker? Another whore, like my wife?”

“No, I’m a nun,” I answered.

“You don’t dress like a nun.”

I leaned over, and whispered in his ear, “I’m not like most nuns.”

His hand fell on my thigh. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Yeah, why not. My wife doesn’t fucking care anymore, why should I.”

I leaned over, cupped his chin, rough with his five o’clock shadow, and kissed him on the lips.

To be continued…

Click here for Chapter 2.