Chapter Text
657 days. That’s how many days it had been since Carol Sturka's life ended.
Not literally, although, it surely felt that way.
Carol lay sideways on the couch, an empty glass dropped onto the floor. The Golden Girls theme played for the fourth time that afternoon, though she barely even noticed it anymore. Grief and emptiness was all that consumed her, along with her dear friend alcohol.
The TV cast a glow over the room, illuminating a copy of her second Wycaro book, Stormshadow of Wycaro. Lucasia with her eyes closed, arms wrapped around Raban, who stood beside her; tall and dark and over-the-top handsome. It still felt like a betrayal to herself. She had written Raban in a way she wouldn’t allow herself in real life. She had known, even then, that he should have been a woman. She’d known it in her bones, the same way she’d known Helen was the one when she first laid eyes on her. But Raban was a man because men sold better, because being out felt like handing someone a grenade and politely asking them not to pull out the pin. The world, in her experience, did not respond well to polite requests.
Helen had understood. Helen had always understood. She’d handled the social media, the appearances, the emails from fans who said Wycaro had saved their lives. Carol had written the books; Helen had made the career survivable.
Now the emails piled up unanswered. The publisher called more often. Fans speculated. Is Carol okay? Has anyone heard from her? Wycaro five when?
Carol took another drink. The whiskey burned less than it used to. That seemed like a bad sign, because it meant it couldn’t numb her mind from thinking of that day.
It was a random Tuesday. She and Helen had stopped at a bar on their way home from the Bloodsong of Wycaro book tour. Just a drink, a small celebration, just something to conclude the success of her best-selling series. Then they went outside for a smoke. One minute Helen was full of life, the next she lay on the ground, unresponsive. Dead. And within a matter of seconds, Carol’s entire world was gone. It had stopped existing. She had stopped existing. Ir was Helen who’d worked so damn hard to make Carol’s dream of becoming a best-selling author come to life. It was Helen who let her believe she could be loved, who was there to lift her up whenever she fell down, who challenged her but also accepted her, supported her and stayed by her side throughout all that Carol would throw at her, that life would throw at them.
And then she was alone. 25 years together with her person, just… vanished. All that was left were the memories, which would slowly start to fade away from her too. It was so fucking unfair.
She hadn’t been to a signing since that day. Hadn’t written more than two sentences. The last time she’d opened the manuscript file, her hands had started shaking so badly she poured herself a drink at eleven in the morning because why not. No one was here to stop her. The episode ended, and the theme song started again. Carol groaned and reached for the remote, meaning to turn the TV off, but her thumb slipped and the volume went up instead. That did it. That really did it.
“Oh, fuck off!” she yelled, throwing the remote at the screen.
The remote hit the TV with a dull crack and bounced onto the rug. The screen flickered, then went black. The Golden Girls theme cut off mid-note, leaving the house in sudden, ringing silence. Carol stared at the blank screen, chest heaving. Her heart thudded too fast, like it had forgotten how to behave. She ran a hand over her face and laughed weakly.
“Great,” she muttered to no one. “I just threw the remote Betty fucking White.”
The silence pressed in, and for a second she wished not to be alone. She reached for the bottle on the coffee table and found it empty. Of course it was. Carol sat up with a groan, joints aching as she stood. She shuffled toward the kitchen, bare feet cold against the tile. Halfway there, the doorbell rang.
She froze. No one rang her doorbell, not anymore. But then it rang again.
Carol frowned at the front door as if it had betrayed her. “No,” she said aloud. “Absolutely not.”
A loud knock followed.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, turning around. “Fine.”
She checked the clock out of habit. It was mid-afternoon. She hadn’t showered, she was still wearing yesterday’s shirt... or possibly the day before. Whatever.
Carol yanked the door open to find a woman standing on her porch. Tall. Dark hair falling down her shoulders, framing her face perfectly. Sharp cheekbones. Amused brown eyes. She wore a black suit, and wore it effortless. It was like she’d stepped out of a book cover Carol knew far too well. For one long, strange moment, Carol just stared. Then her gaze averted to the blue Toyota Corolla parked at the sidewalk in front of her house, before landing back on the woman in front of her.
The woman smiled. “Hello, Carol.”
Carol blinked at her.
“…Nope,” Carol said, and started to close the door.
The woman stuck her foot out, stopping it easily. “Oh, come on. I don’t get a warm welcome?”
Her voice had a slight accent, Eastern-European maybe, and for some reason it sounded annoyingly captivating.
Carol stared at the foot, then up at the taller woman again. Her heart skipped. “I am either hallucinating,” she said slowly, “or you’re very committed to whatever scam this is.”
“Predictable response,” the woman said. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
She was already stepping inside.
Carol sputtered. “H—Hey—what the hell?”
The woman glanced around the hall like she belonged there, eyes flicking over the paintings on the walls. Her smile softened, just for a second.
“This is a nice house,” she said. “A little sad. But nice.”
Carol slammed the door shut and spun around. “Okay. That’s it. I’m calling someone.”
“Who?” the woman asked, arching an eyebrow. “Your fans? Your publicist? The cops?”
Carol’s stomach dropped like a giant fucking rock.
“Get out,” she said, voice sharp. “Now.”
The brunette studied her, head tilted. “You wished for something.”
Carol laughed ironically. “I absolutely did not.”
“Sure you did,” the woman said lightly. “Right before I arrived. You were very upset. Threw a remote at the TV. Very dramatic, by the way.”
Carol’s mouth opened, then closed. She remembered yelling at the TV, then remembered she did make a wish, half… sort-of, to not be alone. But this was crazy, batshit crazy. She started to laugh. Normally at first, then hysterically. Carol laughed until the sound cracked into something very ugly.
“Okay,” she said, shaking her head. “Okay. That’s it. I’ve finally done it. Drank myself into a full psychotic break.”
The woman watched her with an expression that was far too patient for a hallucination. She leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, like she had all the time in the world. Carol stared at the woman for another second, chest still heaving, before something clicked.
“No,” she said.
She turned on her heel and bolted. Carol moved faster than she had in years, she sprinted into the living room. She grabbed the nearest book she laid her eyes on; a copy of Stormshadow of Wycaro lying on the coffee table, then sprinted back down the hall.
The woman hadn’t moved. She came to a stop in front of the brunett, holding the book up between them like a shield. Her eyes flicked from the illustration to the woman standing in front of her. The resemblance was even more of a mindfuck than before.
“Okay,” Carol said, breathless. “Okay. If I’m not hallucinating, then what the hell is this?”
The woman blinked, then leaned forward to look at the cover.
“Are you supposed to be my character Raban? Why?” Carol asked in full-on distress. “Why Raban as a woman? My original version of him was a her, but I talked myself out of it. We never told anyone…” she trailed off “… Helen and I were the only ones who knew.”
The woman’s amused expression faltered just slightly.
“Oh,” she said. “That.”
“That’s all you have to say?” Carol stood perplexed. “That?”
The brunette straightened, hands lifting in an innocent gesture. “I did not choose it.”
Carol stared at her. “You didn’t... what?”
“You invited me,” the woman said calmly. “This is on you.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you are getting right now,” she replied. “You wished for someone. I showed up.”
Carol shook her head, dizzy. “That doesn’t explain why you look like Raban.”
The woman glanced at the book again, something unreadable flickering across her face. “That is just unfortunate coincidence.”
“Unfortunate for who?” Carol snapped.
“For both of us, probably.”
Carol lowered the book slowly, her grip loosening.
“You’re telling me,” Carol said carefully, “that you didn’t model yourself after a character from my series.”
“I am telling you,” the woman said, voice softer now, “that this is what I looked like as a human.”
Carol stared at her. The words as a human echoed in her head, unable to comprehend what the hell that meant. She tightened her grip on the book cover again, then looked from the woman’s face to the illustration and back.
“No,” Carol said. “No, that’s… that’s not possible.”
The taller woman watched her with an unsettling amount of interest, like she enjoyed watching her struggle.
“Okay,” she said, forcing herself to breathe. “Okay. Hypothetically.”
The woman’s lips twitched. “I love hypotheticals.”
“Don’t,” Carol snapped, then sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Just… listen. Hypothetically, if I accept that you’re not a scam, not a prank, and not a hallucination brought on by my truly impressive drinking habits…”
“Impressive is one word,” the brunette said.
Carol shot her a glare. “If I accept all that,” she continued, “and you’re also telling me you’re not human...”
“I am not.”
“... then what,” Carol said, voice dropping, “are you?”
For the first time since she’d arrived, female Raban hesitated. Then she straightened, hands folding behind her back. “I am Zosia. I grant wishes.”
Carol frowned deeply. “You’re a… genie?”
Zosia grimaced. “No.”
“Oh, thank God,” Carol muttered. Then she paused. “Wait. Why was that a relief?”
“I don't live in lamps,” Zosia said. “I don’t do three-wish limits. And I don't disappear in a puff of smoke when I am done.”
Carol rubbed her temples. There was a pressure building behind her eyes, the familiar warning sign of a headache, or perhaps a hangover catching up to her. Possibly both. “So you grant wishes, but you’re not a genie.”
“Correct.”
“And you look like my character.”
“Unfortunately.”
“And you broke into my house.”
“I was invited.”
Carol let out a long, shaky breath. “I did not invite a supernatural entity into my home.”
“You wished not to be alone,” Zosia said gently.
The words landed harder than Carol expected. Her throat tightened. She looked away, down at the book still clutched in her hands.
“That wasn’t a real wish,” Carol said. “That was just...” She waved a hand. “A moment. A thought. People do that”
Zosia tilted her head. “People do. Wishes are usually like that. Messy, unplanned... honest.”
Carol snorted. “You’re telling me the universe listens in on my worst moments and sends you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Rude.”
Zosia smiled faintly.
Carol moved past her toward the kitchen, because standing still felt dangerous. She needed water. Or alcohol. Water was probably the better option. She filled a glass at the sink, hands trembling only a little, and drank it in long gulps. When she turned back, Zosia was still there, leaning against the wall, watching her like she was the most interesting thing in the room. Carol didn’t like that, or maybe she did, just a little bit.
“This is not real.” Carol laughed ironically, then pointed a finger at her. “You are not real.”
“Technically,” Zosia said, “you are right.”
Carol’s laugh died. “I—what?”
“This is not real,” Zosia went on, gesturing vaguely at the house, the hallway, the sad quiet of it all. “Not in the way you are thinking. The outside world is paused. We are… between things. Space, time. Very flexible concepts, honestly.”
Carol stared at her, heart beating like a madman. “That’s not comforting,” she said. “At all.”
Zosia smiled. “It is not meant to be.”
“So then tell me what the fuck you are,” Carol spoke with an overflowing irritation.
The brunette's expression shifted into something serious, something sharp.
“I am a demon,” she said.
Carol snorted. “Of course you are.”
Zosia rolled her eyes. “You don't believe me.”
“No,” Carol said flatly. “I really, really don’t.”
Zosia studied her for a moment, then sighed. “You humans always say that. It is getting boring.”
Carol looked up at her, irritated. “Prove it then,” she said. “I bet you can’t.”
Zosia hesitated, just for a beat. “You are not going to like it.”
“I don’t like this,” Carol snapped. “So we’re already there.”
Zosia nodded once. “Alright.”
The air changed. Everything suddenly felt gloomy, like Carol had been dropped into some fucked-up horror movie. A shadow fell over the woman in front of her, like a literal smokescreen had replaced her. When it dissolved, Carol’s instant reaction was a gasp, scurrying back as she took in what was in front of her. And it was not human. Its skin was the color of freshly spilled blood, the color so unnatural, so wrong, it sent a shiver down her spine. Too afraid to look at its face, she let her gaze travel down the length of its lithe body. To call what it wore clothing would be generous. A length of ragged, soot-covered bandage covered its breasts, a scrap of the same fabric acting as a skirt wrapped around its hips. Its arms hung loosely at its sides, relaxed, skin a gradient of darkening shades of red bleeding into sooty-black fingers tipped with lethal-looking claws. And then, her eyes found it; long, sleek, and the same color red as the rest of her, growing darker at the spade-shaped end, a tail twitched idly behind her.
Left with little choice but to bite the bullet, Carol dragged her eyes from those sharp claws and pressed her fingertips against her lips in horror. “Jesus Christ.”
It—she smiled. Teeth razor-sharp and stark white against the deep crimson of her mouth. “No, silly. It is Zosia.”
She was breathtakingly horrible. The brown of her eyes was gone, the white, too, replaced with two inky-black voids, her stare sucking Carol in. The only thing unchanged was her hair, still very much dark and falling over her shoulders, two curved crimson horns jutting out from her.
“I am guessing this is closer to what you had in mind?”
The book dropped from Carol’s hand. She was overcome with shock, disbelief and fright. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up. Her heart was still racing, her pulse loud in her ears. She pressed a hand to her chest like that might keep it from bursting straight out.
“Okay,” she whispered. “So demons are real. That’s… great. Fantastic. Love that for me.”
Those black eyes lingered on her for a second longer, searching her face. Then the shadows dissolced like a cloud. The air lightened and the pressure lifted. The demon rolled her shoulders, as if settling back into a familiar shape. The brown returned to her eyes. The horns vanished. No claws. No tail. She looked… normal. Annoyingly so.
Zosia watched her for a moment, expression unreadable. Then she clapped her hands together once.
“Well,” she said, as if this was a normal conversation. “Now that we have got that out of the way.”
Carol let out a weak, cynical laugh. “You can’t just...” She gestured vaguely at Zosia. “You can’t just say that after turning into… that.”
“I can,” Zosia replied simply. “And I did.”
She pushed off the wall and paced a few steps, then turned to fully face Carol. “Let’s get to business, shall we?”
Carol stayed on the floor for another second longer than necessary, because standing felt like admitting this was happening. When she eventually pushed herself up, Zosia watched her rise with interest.
“So,” Carol said, once she was upright. “Let me guess. This is the part where you pitch me a deal.”
Zosia smiled. “You catch on quickly.”
Carol crossed her arms, then shrugged. “Let’s hear it.”
“You can say no,” she said simply. “If you do, I leave. Time resumes. You continue exactly as you were before I rang your doorbell.”
“Tempting,” Carol instantly responded. “And if I say yes?”
Zosia’s smile widened, just a touch. “Then you get six wishes.”
Carol snorted, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Of course I do.”
“Six chances,” Zosia went on, unbothered, “to change your life. To fix things. Or break them. Your choice, really.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Your soul.”
Carol stared at her for a long moment, then let out a laugh. “That’s hilarious.”
Zosia blinked. “It is?”
“I don’t have a soul,” Carol said. “Pretty sure it died somewhere between book three and my wife dropping dead outside a bar.”
Something flickered across the taller woman's face, something soft, some sort of recognition, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared.
“You would be surprised what still counts,” Zosia said. “Souls are… resilient.”
Six wishes,” Carol repeated. “And you just hang around for that?”
Zosia lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Until the last wish is fulfilled. After that, our business concludes.”
Carol’s laugh this time was faint. “Great. So I get demonic emotional support while I ruin my life in new and exciting ways.”
“Yes,” Zosia said. “More or less.”
Carol paced a few steps, running a hand through her hair. “And you don’t care how I phrase them? What I ask for?”
“Oh, I care very much,” Zosia said brightly. “Words are everything.”
She lifted a finger. “Fun fact,” she added. “So far, every human I have made a deal with has used all six wishes.”
Carol stopped pacing. “Every single one?”
Zosia nodded. “Some took longer than others. Some swore they’d stop after one.” A pause. “They did not.”
“Shocking,” she said, looking at Zosia again. “How do I know this wish thing is legit?”
“Try me.”
Carol eyed Zosia warily. “This feels like a trick.”
“Think of it as a gift,” Zosia said. “It will not count as one of the six.”
Carol huffed. “How generous of you.”
She paused, then lifted her chin, stubborn. “Fine. I want—”
Zosia held up a finger. “I wish.”
Carol rolled her eyes. “Of course.” She took a breath. “I wish for a Gatorade. The red one. Fruit punch, I think it’s called. Real sugar, not fake, and I want it ice-cold. On my doorstep.”
Zosia’s lips curved, slow and knowing. “Wish granted.”
Nothing happened. Carol waited... and waited.
She glanced at the demon. “That’s it? No smoke? No dramatic thunder?”
“Patience,” Zosia said lightly.
A few minutes passed. Just as Carol opened her mouth to say something, the doorbell rang. Her eyes shot toward the front door.
“No way,” she muttered, already moving.
Carol opened the door. There it was. A single red Gatorade bottle, beads of condensation clinging to the plastic, sitting neatly on her doorstep. She stared at it for a long second before crouching down and picking it up. It was cold. Very cold. She walked back to the kitchen, past Zosia, hands shaking as she twisted the cap off and took a sip. She swallowed, then frowned, before taking another sip, slower this time. Then she looked back at the brunette.
“I didn’t say tepid,” she said. “I didn’t say lukewarm. I didn’t even just say cold.” She held the bottle up like evidence. “I said ice-cold.”
Zosia didn’t look the least bit concerned. In fact, she looked delighted. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking from the bottle to Carol’s face. “And?”
“Okay, you know what?" Carol spoke in defeat. “You win.” She let out a short, breathless laugh. “I believe you.”
Zosia’s smile widened, looking way too pleased. “That was fast.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Carol muttered, opening the refrigerator to leave the bottle inside. She then shrugged. “I just… there’s no reasonable explanation for this. And I’ve built a career on making shit up. I know the difference.”
“High praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
The smile on Zosia's face turned into a smirk.
“Before we start,” she said, “there is a contract.”
Carol threw her hands in the air, not even surprised anymore. “Sure! A contract!”
Zosia snapped her fingers, and within seconds, a pile of stacked papers appeared out of thin air. Carol swore the stack was even thicker than any of her Wycaro books, watching as Zosia grabbed the pile out of the air.
“There it is.” Zosia nodded contentedly, starting to rummage through the pages. “Tell me, do you ever read terms and conditions?”
Carol frowned at the stack of papers. “Terms and conditions?” she said. “I never read those. Helen always read those. She was… I don’t know… good at that stuff.”
Zosia tilted her head, amused. “That is interesting,” she said. “For someone who writes books.”
Carol shrugged. “Yeah, well, that’s mostly fiction.”
The woman hummed, eyes scanning the words on the pages. Carol was pretty sure the font was Helvetica, because of course it was.
“Relax,” Zosia said at last, waving a hand. “Most of this is ceremonial nonsense. Ancient language. A bunch of nothing from Hell’s legal department. Very dramatic, very useless.”
Carol squinted at her. “You’re telling me demons have lawyers.”
“Unfortunately,” Zosia said. “Anyway, no need to read all that. I will give you the important parts.”
Zosia finally pulled one page free from the stack and held it up between them, eyes flicking over the text before she cleared her throat.
“Alright,” she said. “Limitations.”
Carol closed her eyes, bracing for impact.
“You can’t wish for more wishes,” Zosia read. “You can’t wish anyone back from the dead. And you can’t wish yourself free from this contract, directly or indirectly.” She glanced up. “People try to get creative. It never works.”
Carol opened one eye at that. “So no loopholes,” she muttered.
“Not successful ones,” Zosia agreed. She tapped the page once, then slid it aside and flipped to another. This one she didn’t bother reading aloud right away. Her tone shifted when she did, less playful, more precise.
“Upon fulfillment of the sixth and final wish,” Zosia said, “the soul of the damned will be collected immediately, and the contract delivered to Lucifer. No delays, no appeals.”
Carol lifted her eyes to meet Zosia’s brown ones staring back at her as if to say, you might want to give this some thought. But Carol didn’t want to. The legal department of Hell was right, she was the damned. Getting to experience some joy or whatever, through six wishes, sounded like a welcome escape from her pathetic life. And after that, well, maybe she could just join Helen, six feet under.
Still, she was curious about one thing. “So, why do you want my soul so badly?”
“I was waiting for that one.” Zosia had her answer prepared, “Long story short, I really could not care less about your soul. It is not me who wants it. Not really. I am just… an agent of evil.”
Carol snorted, folding her arms tighter across her chest. “So what, you work for Lucifer?”
Zosia’s smile vanished. The air thickened again. For half a second, Carol swore she saw it; the faint outline of horns pressing against Zosia’s hair, her fingertips darkening. The brown of her eyes threatening to bleed back into black.
“Do not say that name,” Zosia said, voice low and tight.
Carol took an immediate step back. “Okay. Nope. Sorry. Noted. Won’t say it again. Ever.” She lifted her hands in surrender. “Promise.”
Zosia closed her eyes, drawing in a slow breath. When she opened them again, everything was back to normal.
“Good,” Zosia stated. “Let’s keep it that way.”
She flipped a few pages of the contract with unnecessary force, then cleared her throat and visibly shifted back into business mode. “The rest is mostly legalese,” she continued. “You’re acknowledging that you are an adult, of sound mind—” she paused, eyes finding Carol’s, “and not currently under the influence of drugs or… alcohol.”
Carol shook her head and snorted. “Well, that’s a lie.”
The brunette barely reacted. She glanced at the page, then waved a hand dismissively. “We can let that slide.”
Carol blinked. “That easy?”
“You would be amazed how many contracts would fall apart if Hell cared about sobriety,” Zosia said dryly. She flipped to the bottom of the page, smoothing the paper. “Last line: You're not entering into this deal as a result of threats, coercion, or improper persuasion.”
“Yeah, sure,” she spoke sarcastically. “I’m definitely not being persuaded by the fact that you look like the female version of a character I created.”
She received a light chuckle in response.
Carol lifted her chin. “So,” she said, tapping the paper. “Where do I sign?”
Zosia blinked. “Sign?”
“Yes,” Carol said, already looking around the kitchen like she might find a pen hiding somewhere. “You know... ink. A pen. Do you want my signature in blood? Or whatever fucked-up way you demons use.”
“Oh, no Carol,” Zosia spoke with a low voice. “I seal my deals a little differently than other demons.”
Carol swallowed. “How?”
Zosia didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped closer, close enough that Carol’s back brushed the counter. One hand came down beside Carol, palm flat against the material, boxing her in without quite touching. The other lifted, thumb brushing her jaw delicately. For a moment, Carol thought of pushing Zosia away and telling her to fuck off. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath and let it happen. Before she could even comprehend it, the tall brunette had leaned in, crashing her lips against Carol’s with a force that felt fiery, yet soft, causing a low whimper to leave Carol’s mouth as she melted into the kiss.
Zosia pulled back quickly, looking at Carol with a devilish smile on her face. “It is going to be a pleasure doing business with you, Carol Sturka.”