"Death is the province of fools," said Calibast, leaning deeply into the white, wicker chair.
Roald snickered. "Everyone dies."
"Then everyone is a fool," said Calibast, taking a delicate sip of orange tea.
"Plato? Newton? The Bard himself?"
Calibast shrugged. "Ignoramuses."
The smile fell from Roald's lips. "Death is not avoidable. It comes for every man and woman. I don't see..."
"There is a man in Ludst," said Calibast, lowly. "And he will tell you anything you wish to know. Any fact, past, present...or future. This is not a trick or a sleight of hand. They say he communes with demons. He knows things no man should know. I will contract this man. He will provide for me the means by which I shall cheat death."
Roald looked stricken. His wide eyes looked black and sunken in the bright, dancing candlelight. "I am familiar with the man in Ludst. He does not provide his services for free."
Calibast nodded, slowly, as if placating a child. "Yes, dear Roald. Everything of value must have a cost. I am well aware. But to live forever? What could be an unacceptable price? All that I have I could lose and rebuild in less than a lifetime. You worry too much, Roald. I am no fool."
The dinner ended with neither man much enjoying himself. Calibast called for a taxi and immediately set forth for Ludst. Roald stood in the doorway and watched his old friend disappear around the corner. They would not meet again.
It was dark in Ludst when the taxi came to a stop outside a tobacconist's shop under the looming arches of the great Byrndon Cathedral. The sight of the cathedral made Calibast strangely unsettled, but he swept out of the cab and into the shop without any further hesitation.
The little shop was predictably smoky, with a warm, wet scent that recalled fresh leather and dark chocolate. The woman at the counter motioned for Calibast to step behind the curtain, as if he were expected.
The curtain lead to a dark, dark room ringed by hanging blankets and smothered in loose pillows. It took Calibast some time to adjust to the overwhelming dimness and find the figure sitting on the pillows there in the dark.
"You have a question?" said a voice like a plow spearing its way through rocky soil.
Calibast took a seat. "Yes. I'd like to know where, when, and how I'll die."
"Three questions?" said the figure, still too deep in the darkness for Calibast to see properly. "Every question has a cost."
Calibast considered this. Did he really need to ask all three? He was, after all, a businessman. He loathed a wasted expense.
Perhaps how was irrelevant? If he knew a time and a location, he could avoid that place at that time and so avoid death.
Though...how specific would the man be? What if the location was somewhat vague? "A forest" "A place near water" "A place you call 'home'". How much help would that be? And might it not unconsciously poison Calibast against such a location, no matter when he might die?
No, perhaps it would be best to cipher the how and the when, so then it would not matter where Calibast was, but what he did. That put the power squarely in Calibast's own hands.
"Two questions," said Calibast. "When will I die? And how will I die?"
"Are you certain?"
"Quite."
There was silence for a moment. Calibast felt something limp and dry press against his hand. He opened his palm and felt a piece of paper laying there.
"There are your answers," said the figure in the dark.
"But we didn't discuss terms," said Calibast. "The cost?"
"I don't negotiate," said the figure.
"But that's absurd!" shouted Calibast. "I can't agree when I don't know the terms."
"The terms are what they are," said the figure. "And you haven't agreed. The contract is not valid until you read the words. If you don't agree, tear the paper into pieces and leave the scraps here in the dark."
"Not until I read the paper?"
"Aye."
Calibast sat quietly for a time, feeling the small slip of paper and purposefully staring up at the ceiling, although it was much too dark to read the paper anyway.
"Think on it," said the figure. "I think our business is closed."
"Right," said Calibast, stuffing the paper into his pocket. He stood up and reached out a hand as if to shake, but there was no reply. In fact, there was no one else in the room at all.
Back in the taxi, Calibast found himself thoughtfully stroking the paper in his pocket. Why was he so afraid? What was the worst that the man could ask for? All of his money? He'd make more. His wife? He'd find another. To be better than all those who had come before, one had to be willing to make sacrifices. Calibast was committed to making those sacrifices. And yet...yet he still couldn't quite bring the paper back out of his pocket.
"Storm's coming," said the driver. "Might you want to find a room for the night?"
"I suppose," sighed Calibast, regretful that he'd dawdled so long with Roald.
The driver soon found an inn and Calibast went inside to register for a room.
The girl at the counter was beautiful; no more than 16, with wavy, golden hair and a reserved smile. The innkeepers' daughter, no doubt. Calibast was momentarily lost in the possibilities. When she asked for the night's fee, he pulled an untidy pile of bills from his pocket and laid them there in front her.
"Oops," she smiled, plucking a single bit of paper from the pile. "This one's a note."
Calibast took it from her hand and thrilled at the touch. He was so caught in the moment, he did not at first realize what he held in his hand.
TOMORROW, SUICIDE read the note.
"Are you alright?" The girl was around the counter in a flash, holding Calibast by the arm like some infirm old man. He pulled away from her. "Just fine," he snarled. "The key."
She gave him the key meekly and he stomped up to his room.
The bed was uneven. He could hardly sleep. Instead, he mulled the words on the piece of paper.
TOMORROW, SUICIDE
So it was a scam. The man didn't know anything. And that meant the contract was equally meaningless. There would be no payment.
The thought put Calibast at ease, though he was still agitated by the ruse. He would have to find another way. That was all.
Sometime past midnight, Calibast had nearly fallen asleep when he was awoken by horrible, piercing screams. Terrified, he stumbled out of his room and down to the first floor, where a small crowd had gathered. There was a strange reddish light in the room and when Calibast shouldered his way past the ring of shouting customers, he saw the source of it all.
The innkeepers' daughter was dead on the floor. Her blood was smeared across every available surface. And there, hovering over her, plunged neck-deep into her dissected abdomen, was Calibast himself.
But it was not Calibast. The way it glowed and snarled, it could be nothing other than a demon. It was feasting on the girl. It had no interest in anyone else. A man - likely the girl's father - burst in from another room with a shotgun and unloaded a round directly into the thing's head. But the shells merely passed right through.
"It's him!" shouted a woman. Calibast was too startled at first to realize she was pointing at him. "It's him!"
A man nearby made the connection and dove forward, fist cocked. He had just taken hold of Calibast's collar when the demon in Calibast's form lunged across the floor and tore the man's throat out.
In the resulting turmoil, Calibast ran out the door, finding his driver sleeping in the taxi. "Go, go!" said Calibast, grabbing the man by the shoulders.
The driver did as he was told, pulling away from the inn at top speed.
"What happened?" asked the driver. "Is that...is that blood on you?"
Calibast shook his head. "I don't...I don't know..."
"It's fine, it's okay," said the driver. "I see things like this all the time. I've got a man who can help. If you've got the money, he can help. I can take you there and we can talk to him, if you like? Is it that kinda situation?"
Calibast didn't know what kind of situation it was. "Just take me home."
"No problem," said the driver. "We'll be there in..."
With a snap of cold air, there was suddenly another Calibast in the cab of the taxi. It dove over the gearshift and twisted the driver's head clean off his body. The taxi listed off to the side, smashing into a ditch.
As the demon tore into the driver's flesh, Calibast yanked open the door and began to run.
Following the road, he ran for what seemed like hours. Occasionally cars would slow, but he waved them off. He was too afraid. Finally, exhausted, he collapsed on the side of the road.
He awoke in Gallant Hospital. The place rang with screams.
Just to the side of his bed, there was a nurse dressed in white and split nearly in two from pelvis to clavicle. Her insides were outside and slowly oozing across the tiled floor.
Calibast walked cautiously through the gore, finding some new horror with every turn of the head.
Here an orderly with a hole in his chest.
Here a doctor, missing an arm, the left side of his ribs exposed and peeled open, one by one.
There a police officer, blood seeping from three puncture wounds in the neck and skull.
There were patients in their beds, unharmed. There were nurses cowering in isolated corners.
And there was the thing. The demon bearing Calibast's face. It was slowly, carefully dining on the innards of another police officer.
"It's with him," said a man from across the room.
"Don't!" shouted Calibast, hands raised. "Don't." He walked to the police officer's body, trying to filter out the gore and focus on the holster at his side.
He pulled out the gun.
"Drop it!" shouted someone else. There was a click, as of a safety being released. The demon raised its head.
"Don't," said Calibast, pointing the gun upward and raising it toward his own chin. "Just wait," he said, closing his eyes. There was another click. The demon growled.
"He's really very good," said Calibast. "A man like that deserves to set his own price."
There was a sound. A thunder. The air was filled with a mist of fine, red droplets and flecks of torn paper.
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