"Oh," said Philip. He looked about him, as though he would find the contract they had signed; find the speck among the fine print. But it was away in his safe with their signatures on it, and from this moment it did not give surcease.
"Yes," Alex said. "I could have killed you at any point."
"Then why wait?" Philip said.
"I think," said Alex, gently, "that there is at least one thing that you know. And that thing is me—"
In the office, Philip stood beyond the upturned desk, which dented on its side let its cracked guts spill forth innards of metal and paper and rancid ink.
And on the other side, in the locked door's emptiness, the demon stood. Tall and fair, it had hair that shone like pyrite, and coal's eyes.
"Hmph," Philip admitted, at last. "You were using me. Hell if I know for what. It's not my soul."
"Oh," Alex said, with a serrated grin. "It is your soul. Don't doubt that."
Philip shook his head. "I'm no fool," he said. "Probably think I am. Damn fool thing I did, letting my guard down around you."
"Yes."
"I suppose there wasn't any other way it could have gone," Philip said. "Having a thing that looks like everything you desire. That's always the way, isn't it. They get fooled. They tell you they won't, and then they get fooled."
"Yes," Alex said.
Philip grunted. "Well then. I suppose it's time."
"You aren't going to scream?" Alex said. It paced towards him, and the shadows around it paced too, their own grasping hands with their stinger points. "You aren't going to beg?"
"You never did," Philip said. His voice was almost steady, though the sweat stood out on his brow and the pulse of his heart raced, raced but went nowhere. "Figure it's… only fair."
"Not going to run?" Alex said. "The door's open. You could." And its voice was persuasive: for the door did appear to be open; and beyond it was the comforting lights of the hall, man-made and defiant, and Philip's eyes reached out for it.
"I wouldn't…" Philip said, and stopped, and his voice cracked. "I wouldn't get out."
"No," Alex agreed. "You wouldn't."
He rested one hand on Philip's throat.
One hand was at his chin. And one hand at his legs and feet. One hand at his ears, one hand at his eyes, and all made of the nothing that, like ink, went crawling: that, like rats, went crawling: that, like water, went crawling: and Philip screamed.
The paper in the safe, in the house away from here, turned to ashes.
And when the claws were done, nothing was left but bones.
.
.
.