Page 5 of The Demon's Tongue

"What in the..." I mutter, rubbing my eyes. The events of last night flood back, a whirlwind of candlelight, strange symbols, and... a demon? No, that can't be right.

I sit up, my thin blanket pooling around my waist. The familiar sight of my sparse room greets me—the rickety dresser, the cracked mirror, the pile of mending in the corner. Everything's as it should be, no trace of arcane rituals or otherworldly visitors.

"Get a grip, Geneva," I chide myself. "Demons? Really?"

But as I shift, something hard presses against my leg. My breath catches as I reach under the covers, fingers closing around three small, cool objects. Crystals. The demon's crystals.

"Oh, no," I whisper, staring at the glittering stones in my palm. "It wasn't a dream."

The reality of what I've done—what I've agreed to do—hits me like a punch to the gut. I've made a deal with a demon. To save my own skin, I've promised to trap three souls. The weight of it settles on my shoulders, heavy as chains.

"Did he even tell me his name?" I wonder aloud, trying to recall the details of our encounter.

The demon's form in my memory is a blur of darkness and power, his voice a rumble that seemed to vibrate through my very bones. But a name? No, I realize with a start. He never gave me one.

"Do demons even have names?" I muse, turning the crystals over in my hand. The thought of addressing him as 'hey you' or 'Mr. Demon' almost makes me laugh, despite the gravity of my situation.

A sharp knock at the door makes me jump. I hastily shove the crystals back under my pillow.

"Geneva!" Miss Pickett's shrill voice pierces through the wood. "Up and at 'em, girl! Your big day's finally here!"

My stomach lurches. Right. My eighteenth birthday. The day I'm to be sold off like prized livestock.

"Coming, Miss Pickett!" I call back, my voice steadier than I feel.

As I jump out of bed and try to make myself look somewhat put together, Miss Pickett bursts into the room anyway.

Her eyes are gleaming with an unsettling excitement. I barely have time to smooth down my sleep-mussed hair before she's upon me, yanking me close. I can smell the disgusting perfume she loves, and how the stench clings to every thread of her big blue dress.

"Come now, Geneva," she chirps, her bony fingers digging into my arm. "Today's the day you've been waiting for!"

I bite back a retort. Waiting for? More like dreading. "Miss Pickett, I?—"

"Hush," she cuts me off, already rifling through my meager wardrobe. "No time for chatter. We need to make you presentable."

She pulls out a dress I've never seen before—all gossamer and lace, leaving little to the imagination. My stomach churns.

"I can't wear that," I protest weakly.

Miss Pickett clicks her tongue. "Nonsense. You should be grateful. Do you know how many girls would kill for this opportunity?"

"To be sold away?" The words slip out before I can stop them.

Her hand cracks across my cheek, the sting sharp and sudden. "Ungrateful wretch," she hisses. "Do you know how much I've invested in you? How much coin this will bring?"

I stand there, stunned, as she roughly strips me of my nightgown and forces the new dress over my head. The fabric clings to my skin, making me feel naked and exposed.

"Now," Miss Pickett says, her voice fraudulently sweet once more. "Remember what I've taught you. Silent and submissive. That's what the dark elves want. Human womenliveto please the dark elves."

She circles me, adjusting the dress here and there.

"Eyes down. Smile demure. And for the love of everything you know, don't speak unless spoken to." She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Once you're in a dark elf's possession, I can't guarantee the punishments that await you if you disobey your master."

I nod mechanically, my mind racing. The crystals. I need the crystals.

"Miss Pickett," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Might I... might I have a moment? To compose myself?"

She narrows her eyes, suspicious. "Make it quick."

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