Fae Bargain

The Whispering Woods were aptly named. Not for the rustling of leaves, though there was plenty of that, but for the insidious murmur of voices that seemed to slither from the very bark of the ancient trees. They promised secrets, whispered temptations, and offered glimpses of desires best left buried. Bishop Dark, a man who generally preferred his secrets loud and his temptations served with a shot of cheap rotgut, found the Fae realm’s particular brand of insidious chatter irritating, at best.

He strode through the dappled sunlight, his heavy boots crunching on fallen leaves that seemed to shimmer with an unnatural luminescence. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and something else, something wild and untamed, like ozone after a lightning strike. Abbott Kale’s briefing had been, as usual, infuriatingly vague. “A rogue demon, Bishop. Operating out of the Whispering Woods. The Fae are… uncooperative. You’ll need to negotiate passage. The Queen of the Summer Court is the one to speak with.” Negotiate. With the Fae. Bishop Dark snorted, the sound a rough bark in the otherwise serene, if unnerving, forest. Negotiating with the Fae was like trying to pin down smoke. They dealt in bargains, yes, but their currency was not gold, nor even favors in the usual sense. It was promises, oaths, and sometimes, a sliver of your very essence.

He’d brought no offering, no trinket meant to appease their capricious nature. The Church, in its infinite, suffocating wisdom, had deemed such gestures “unnecessary for a hunter of Bishop Dark’s… unique talents.” Translation: they were too cheap to buy him a decent gift. Bishop Dark, however, had his own brand of preparation. He’d spent the previous night in the company of Sister Petra, her innocent gaze and trembling body a temporary balm against the gnawing darkness that always seemed to follow him. He’d washed her, slowly, deliberately, his rough hands gentle against her skin, and she had clung to him, a fragile dove seeking shelter from a storm. The memory brought a flicker of warmth, quickly doused by the chill of his current task. Petra was precious, a bright spark in his otherwise grim existence, but she was also a ticking clock. The closer she got to her vows, the further she’d drift from him, and the further he’d drift back into the abyss.