A Piece of History: An Offer He Can’t Refuse

      When he opened his front door, Jonas Foster knew something was wrong.
 
      It wasn’t definable, the feeling that swept over the death mage as he paused, uncertain, in his own doorway. Perhaps ‘feeling’ wasn’t the best word. It was more a foreboding, a prickling of the fine hairs on the back of his neck. While this exact sensation had never overtaken him before, but when the hairs on his neck stood up, Jonas Foster always paid attention. His hand moved instinctively towards his hip where, until recently, he’d carried a loaded Walther PPK with the safety off. Groping fingers found nothing, not even a shoulder holster, and a vague memory of leaving the gun in his dresser drawer before going to visit… Well, needless to say, he was unarmed and very uncomfortable with that feeling. Although it always made his bones ache, wore him out and gave him a sensation of unease with the world in general for days after, the death mage clenched his fist and called electricity out of the air to crackle in his fist. Silently, he walked through the bland living room, still stinking of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke, and peered into the kitchen.
 
     "That’s not a very good idea, you know." The man’s voice was toneless and flat, his boredom apparent as he leaned back in his chair, idly filing his well-manicured nails.
      "Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in my house?" Jonas’s voice was harsher than he intended it to be. (…so easily aggravated now…so much emotion…) He stalked into the kitchen, boots ringing on the linoleum floor, and paused a few paces from the man. It was…inexplicable, this aura that kept him from physically throwing the man out of his apartment.
      "People really have no manners these days," the man said with a faint sigh. He took his Italian loafers off of the kitchen table and straightened in the chair, brushing a bit of fluff from the charcoal sleeve of his silk Armani jacket. It was almost surreal, this scene: the untidy, lower income kitchen with a model straight from the pages of GQ sitting in the straight-backed chair, drawing a silver cigarette case from within his jacket. His chilling grey eyes flickered up to Jonas, and he pulled a book of matches from his pocket before removing a cigarillo from the case. "Won’t you sit down? You look rather weary." He smiled, showing teeth from a Colgate ad, and lit the cigarillo, taking a langorous puff.
      "I’ll stand, thanks," Jonas drawled, sarcasm hanging thick in the air. He crossed his arms, letting the electricity crackle back into the air, and fixed his dark gaze on the man’s face. "You haven’t answered my questions. Who are you and what are you doing in my house?" The man’s amusement made his light grey eyes glimmer, and he laughed as he exhaled a plume of fragrant smoke.
      "Oh, are we willing to be a bit more polite now? Well then. My name is Richard Travers, and I’m here to see you, Mr. Foster." He sat back, crossing one leg over the other, and idly tweezed the crease of his trousers between his fingers.
      "To see me." There was a faint tingle of anxiety beginning as Jonas tried to recall if he’d had any jobs for a man named Travers. Had he been a target? An employer? Why couldn’t he remember? "And what exactly do you want with me, Mr. Travers?"
      "Please, call me Richard. Perhaps if we come to an agreement, you may call me by a different name," Richard said, his smile flashing with souciant charm.
      "Agreement?" Jonas frowned as he tried to focus, tried to think clearly. Days of paralyzing grief, confusion, liquor and smoking had done nothing to sharpen his mind, and now that he was struggling to think coherently, he realized that the fog overlying his thoughts might never dissapate.
      "Yes, Mr. Foster. An agreement." Richard leaned forward, the cigarillo forgotten between his fingers. "A mutually beneficial agreement which requires minimal effort on your part."
      "You’re not making any sense. An agreement about what? Why the hell are you coming to me with this?"
      "Because you, my dear sir, are in need of my services."
      Jonas frowned, his expression growing blacker by the moment. "And just what services are those?"
     

     Richard smiled, and this was truly a predatory expression. His eyes glimmered with some odd light that gave Jonas a vague thought of fire…and then he relaxed, taking a deep puff from his cigarillo. The exhalation produced a very few wisps of smoke, and as the death mage watched them drift upwards, his heart clenched with a suddenness that made his knees weaken. Perhaps it was only a trick of his grief-clouded mind, or the weariness of his dry eyes…but in the fading smoke, he saw the shape of a woman with wings. It was more than his abused body could take, and his knees gave way. Whether it was good luck or Richard’s timing was impossible to tell, but Jonas collapsed into a chair Richard had nudged out rather than onto the floor. His eyes burned fiercely, and it took several moments of painful silence and raspy swallowing before the death mage could trust himself to look up. When he did, his eyes were black with rage, and his voice crackled.
      "Why the fuck have you come to me now?" He couldn’t help the snarl…nay, -wouldn’t- help the snarl. Why apologize for ill manners to a cruel creature who would rip at raw nerves like this? Jonas rubbed at his eyes, and took another breath, trying to force the emotions that seemed like wild horses thundering through his body. {…ironclad control…where had it gone?}
      "As I said, Mr. Foster, you need my services." Richard had watched the emotional turmoil, the mental struggle evident only through the smallest facial tics, without expression, and only now did he smile indulgently. "I’m quite good at what I do, and I believe you would benefit greatly from my expertise."
      "Unless you can reverse time, you’re no good to me."
      "Ah, no. That, regretably, is beyond me. However…I am able to…arrange things." He smiled at Jonas over the cigarillo, manicured nails tapping lightly on the table.
      "And what the hell do you think I need arranged?" The thoughts of a funeral were pointless, despite the fact that they nagged at Jonas’s mind. {…holding handfuls of silver ash…looking at his hands, tacky with her blood, coated with fine silver dust that sparkled in the sun…} </e

m>"I don’t have anything that needs arranging," the death mage snarled.
      "Oh, don’t you? Don’t you wish you could speak to the Wheel? You’ve pled with it, I don’t doubt, but to no avail. The Wheel, or if you wish, Death itself doesn’t come to pleas or whimpers made from the depths of grief."
      Jonas’s eyes narrowed, and his arms crossed over his broad chest. "I think I know more about the Wheel than you do."
      "Oh? And what if I told you I could gain you an audience with Death? Give you a chance to plead your case to a listening ear?" Richard observed the sudden silence with a catlike smile, and ground out his cigarillo in the ashtray he’d so thoughtfully brought along. "Ah, I thought that might give you pause."
      "How the fuck do you think -you- could do that?"
      "Because, my dear willworker, I have contacts and abilities that you do not."
      Jonas nearly panicked, or would have if he’d had the reserves to muster that kind of energy. As it was, his face drained of what little colour it had, and his lips whitened. "How the fuck do you know…"
      "What you are? It’s easily read, my dear man. Not to mention few mortals could call electricity from the friction of air molecules about them," Richard said smugly. Jonas looked at his hand and visibly winced, remembering that little trick he’d pulled.
      "Okay, fine," he snapped, meeting Richard’s eyes boldly. "What do you want for this arrangement? And what the hell are you, anyway?" Jonas frowned, looking at the man intently. "You’re not one of those changelings. You’re not a mage. I don’t know what you feel like, but I sense heat about you."
      "One of the lingering results of time spent in Hell, I’m afraid," Richard said airily, pulling a silver flask from his jacket. He took a sip of the contents, ignoring Jonas’s startled expression, and smiled at the mage. "Care for a taste? Bourbon is so very refreshing."
      "You’re a demon?" The death mage had a sudden flight instinct so strong he made the chair creak.
      "The boy has been studying! Congratulations. Not many could have pinpointed that so quickly, even with a broad hint."
      Jonas twisted nervously in his chair, eyeing the demon who sat across from him, so debonaire, so neatly coiffed. Everything he’d read about demons, about those who contracted with them, summoned them, dealt with them in any manner was flooding his brain. Red lights were going off in his mind, and he had to again fight that overwhelming flight instinct.
      "Why? Demons never do anything without wanting something in return. What do you want for getting Death to talk to me?" It had never failed to make Jonas smile, the unspoken yet understood capitalization of the word ‘death’ when humans spoke of it as a sentient creature. Now, however…if he could truly speak to Death…could make the force of nature understand…could he? Dare he? {…crystalline eyes, sparkling with pale blue, soft rose…a smile which sculptors of old ached to capture…} Jonas’s eyes closed for a long moment, and when he opened them again, his jaw was set.
       "What would it take?"

       Richard smiled broadly, and capped his flask. "Ah, now you’re speaking as a true willworker. None of this whining about right or wrong. Merely determination to get the job done. I truly admire you people." He chuckled softly, and tented his fingers under his nose, examining Jonas’s face for a long moment. "All it would take from you, Mr. Foster, is a simple task. A trifle, nothing more."
      "What, no soul bargaining?"
      "Why on earth would I want your soul?" Richard made a face, wrinkling his nose expressively. "What would I get with it? Do with it? No, my dear man. A soul is an antiquated idea. What I want from you is a service, the same as you shall receive from me."
      "Can you just come to the fucking point?" The death mage’s patience, never lengthy of late, had run out, and his snap was exceedingly sharp.
      "Very well. I gain you an audience with Death. You summon a comrade of mine from Hell."
 Jonas frowned, one eyebrow quirking. "Why do you need it summoned? Can’t you get out by yourself? Doesn’t…"
      "Lucifer? Satan? The Adversary? Does he release us? Hardly, my good man. He’s more trapped than we. No, we can only be drawn out by willworkers and foolish mortals. Once here, once a form is secured, we may remain indefinately. I was called to this plane in the late 1800s and I’ve made good use of my time. Now I feel it would do well to return the favor and bring a friend of mine out."
      Jonas sat back, glowering at him from under his eyelids. "So I summon a demon out of Hell, and you get me a chance to talk to Death."
     "Exactly."
     "When?"
      Richard smiled, looking out the kitchen window, noting the bleak view of a grimy brick wall. "When do I ask for the task? Or when do you speak with Death? There are several questions to be addressed, those are merely the most important two you’re thinking of."
      "When do I get to talk to Death?" Jonas could hardly believe that he was arguing this, that he, a death mage, was seeking a way to undo what he’d done all his life. For a moment, all that was stable in him rebelled, and he opened his mouth, fully intending to yell at the infernal creature to get out of his home. Perhaps he would have, perhaps he could have gone on, healed and been himself once more…if the phantom scent of fresh rain on pine needles hadn’t caught him. If maybe he hadn’t thought he heard the rustle of silvery wings…or seen a ghostly reflection in the dirty window pane of rose-petal lips smiling…
      "As soon as I can arrange it. You must understand that it will take time. Such things are not done lightly. However, you and I have the days to spare and she, well…" Richard smiled gently as he rose, patting Jonas’s shoulder lightly. "She won’t notice if it takes a while."
      The death mage drew away from the contact, his skin crawling at the feel of the feverish hand on his shoulder, burning even through his clothing. He didn’t turn to watch Richard, if that was his name, leave the apartment. He…didn’t do anything at all. Jonas Foster merely sat at his dusty kitchen table

and looked at the filthy pane of his window, imagining a pair of crystalline eyes gazing back at him…no matter what the cost.