Chapter 1: Cheerleaders and the Devil’s Bargain
The scent of sunscreen and freshly cut grass hung thick in the afternoon air, undercut by the sharper tang of adolescent sweat. From the dappled shadows beneath the peeling oak tree in his own unkempt yard, Bertram Butterfield watched.
In the Swansons’ backyard, the grass was a neon green insult. Tiffany and Brittany moved through a series of stretches on a mat laid out on the patio, their bodies—lean, tan, and infuriatingly perfect—flowing in unison. Their matching neon pink cheer shorts and tight white tanks might as well have been armor. Their laughter, high and clear, bounced across the lawn and drilled into Bertram’s skull. It was the sound of a world that had permanently locked him out.
He adjusted his glasses, which were sliding down his nose with sweat. His t-shirt, a relic from a programming marathon two years ago, clung unpleasantly to his back.
“Pathetic,” a voice whispered, not in his ear, but directly into the fabric of his thoughts. It was smooth, amused, and carried the warmth of a distant furnace. “You burn with it. A tiny, smoldering coal of want. It’s almost cute.”
Bertram jumped, nearly dropping the ancient, leather-bound journal he was clutching. He hadn’t heard anyone approach. He turned.
Leaning against the rough bark of the oak was a figure that made the breath catch in Bertram’s throat. They were tall, willowy, and dressed in what looked like an impeccably tailored black suit that drank the light. Their features were a fascinating, impossible blend—sharply elegant yet fluid, masculine and feminine all at once. Their skin had a faint, warm gold undertone, and their eyes were the luminous, pitiless green of deep forest moss. A sardonic smile played on their lips.
“Azazel,” Bertram breathed, the name feeling dangerous on his tongue.
“In the suburban flesh.” The demon pushed off from the tree and took a slow, silent step closer. His gaze slid past Bertram to the twins. “Your offerings are… quaint. A chicken’s blood, some rancid butter, chalk from a child’s sidewalk kit. You summoned a principality of the Fifth Circle with craft supplies.”
“The internet said—”
“The internet is a tapestry of mortal ignorance,” Azazel said, not unkindly. He tilted his head, studying the twins as they moved into a handstand, holding it effortlessly. “But the desire? That, at least, has a certain purity. You don’t want to rule nations. You don’t crave forbidden knowledge. You just want… them.” He said it like it was the most bizarre and entertaining request he’d ever received.
Bertram’s face flushed. “It’s not just that. I want them to see me. I want to not be invisible for five minutes.”
“Semantics.” Azazel’s grin widened, showing very white, very even teeth. “You wish to be desired. To be chosen. It’s a primal little itch. And watching you scratch at it from over here is tragically dull.” He stretched, a languid, predatory motion. “So, I’ve decided to help.”
A cold thrill shot down Bertram’s spine. “Help? How? The ritual was for a familiar spirit, for, like, luck on exams or—”
“And you got me. Consider it an upgrade.” Azazel’s eyes never left the twins. “Your task is simple. Go over there. Talk to them.”
“I can’t,” Bertram whispered, panic clenching his stomach. “What do I even say?”
“You say anything. The content is irrelevant. Just go. Stand in their sun. Let them see you.”
“They’ll laugh. Brittany will look right through me. Tiffany will make some joke about my shirt.”
“Probably,” Azazel agreed pleasantly.