"Crush away, dillweed. Doesn't matter. I've been working on a cloud server." I looked at my watch. "Still business hours back East. Fatima's downloading it for Sam right now. That book will be published, whether I'm alive to see it or not." A new thought occurred to me. "Imagine how much more popular it will be if it's published posthumously!"
He gave me the courtesy of not accusing me of bluffing. We both knew I wasn't.
A deep breath. For both of us.
"Look," he said, relaxing into the easy, chill hipster once more, "you're already more popular than you were before. You've got a good life. You're rich. You've got Kiki. Tell you what -- I'll tear up the contract and give back your soul. Done deal. No questions asked. In return, you don't turn that book in to your publisher."
"No dice."
"Are you shitting me?" His eyes bugged out. "I'm am offering you quite literally, no shit, the deal of the fucking millennium. And you're saying no?"
"I'm saying no."
Pacing back and forth, he muttered to himself, then froze in an excited pose. "Kiki! I'll give Kiki's soul back!"
"No."
"Fine, fine -- you both get your souls back. Two for one. You can't turn that down."
"No sale."
The devil stroked his chin. "You really think you can out-bargain me? I invented bargaining."
"Actually, no -- I don't think I can out-bargain you. I'm positive I can't. But you're assuming we're bargaining. We're not. I don't want my soul back."
"You don't--"
Smiling, I said, "Funny thing about losing your soul: Once it's all gone, you just don't care about it any more. It's the one thing you have of mine and it's the only thing I don't want back." I stroked the edge of the laptop. "But I do care about this book being published. Mostly because I'm 'solipsistic and narcissistic and just plain bad.'"
I'm a good writer. Maybe better than good. The world -- rightly or wrongly -- thinks I'm a genius.
But I lack sufficient literary talent to describe the expression on the face of Satan when he realizes he's been beaten.
"Remember," I said quietly, "back at the beginning of all this? When you said this wasn't one of those stories where someone outsmarts the devil?"
"I remember." Through clenched teeth.
"I guess maybe you were reading the wrong story."
"Fuck you, Randall!" he screamed. "Fuck you! You've heard the phrase 'living hell,' right? Well, fucktard, that's what your life is from now on! I'm going to destroy you! I'm going to set the world against you!"
"Well, the world loves me, so good luck with that. And like you said -- the world's going to be a very different place once this book comes out."
"I'll find a way!" he bellowed. "I will spend the rest of fucking eternity finding ways to ream your asshole with a fucking burning cactus!"
"I worry about your creativity," I said. "You really need to move on from the sodomy stuff. Or are you hiding something?"
The devil screamed. Not with his human voice, but with the other one. It was the first time I heard it, and I do not believe it was a coincidence that soon after, I began losing my hair and developed a stoop to my walk.
I saw things, in that moment, in that moment of the scream. I saw my father at his wife's grave, stoop-shouldered and mournful. And alone.
I saw Lacey's tormentor on his knees, weeping, begging for forgiveness, a smear of blood along one cheek, like rouge.
I saw Kiki -- a younger Kiki -- on a film set, dropping a towel from her body as a cameraman checked light levels.
I believe I saw the moment of Tayvon's death, though it spun by so fast that I could not be sure.
A column of flame burst forth where the devil stood. I stepped back and held up my arms in defense; heat blew at me, singeing my flesh into a fast-flash sunburn no California sun could ever deliver. From that column, a howl exploded, and ash rose to the sky. With a sound like an engine oversaturated with gas, the column folded in on itself.
Where the devil had stood, there was a black scorchmark on Kiki's perfect marble balcony.
I dropped to my knees, trembling. My body no longer worked. I knelt there I know not how long, until Kiki found me there, staring at the scorchmark.
She knelt and took me in her arms. She did not love me. And I did not love her.
It didn't matter.
Wherein I Make the Call
Later, I called Lacey. She was back East by then, having sold her life, but not her soul.
"There's something I need to know," I told her. "I'm sorry if it bothers you, but I have to ask."
"Go ahead."
"Why did you have my book with you that day? Why did you have a copy of Flash/Back?"
"I just did. I saw it at a bookstore and I liked the cover, so I bought it."
"No one gave it to you? No one recommended it?"
"No. I told you -- I saw it there and I liked the cover--"
"And you bought it. Right. So, totally random. Total coincidence."
"Totally random," she agreed.
She sounded depressed.
"You know the problem with your books, Randall?" she asked.
"Tell me." My hand shook, and I couldn't hold the phone steady, so I used my headset and leaned back in the bath Kiki had drawn for me.
"They're too right. Life really is a downer, you know?"
"What happened?"
"I just feel stupid. Do I really think I can make this work? Can I make crazy people get help? No one else ever has."
"One thing I know for sure... Actually, the only thing I know for sure, Lacey, is this: Anything can happen. Anything."
"I guess. What have you been up to?"
I laughed. "I think I saved the world."
I didn't know what response to expect, but it certainly wasn't what she said: "No one saves the world."
"Like I said: Anything can happen."
A moment passed. And then she asked, "How long do you think it'll last?"
Wherein I Win
After the bath, I was still shaky. I would be shaky for most of my life, I somehow understood. But I dressed and I found my way back to the balcony, where Kiki stood, staring at the scorchmark.
"Was it worth it?" she asked quietly.
There was no way to know.
My laptop still sat -- open -- on the table. I hobbled over to it and did something I had never done with any of my other books.
I typed "THE END."
After a moment, I opened a new, blank document and called it Untitled Manuscript.
Acknowledgements
I want to take just a moment to thank some folks for their help...
Sarah Maclean and Paul Griffin, who read an early draft and loved it. Man, did I need that early encouragement! Thanks, guys!
Lisa Amowitz, who took my rough mock-up of a cover and turned it into something magnificent.
Carolyn MacCullough, who found typos and a niggling logical flaw.
Chuck Wendig and Bella Andre, who answered questions about ebooks.
And last but never, ever least: Morgan Baden, who read that first draft and didn't blame me for all of the horrible things Randall does and says...even though every last one of them is my fault.
Copyright
Copyright © 2013 Barry Lyga LLC
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead or infernal, is entirely coincidental. (The devil made me put that part in.)
Cover design copyright © Lisa Amowitz (http://lisa-amowitzya.blogspot.com)
Cover art from www.shutterstock.com | Flames: Remy Musser/Shutterstock.com | Coffee ring: pashabo/Shutterstock.com | Paper: happykanppy/Shutterstock.com
About the Author
Barry Lyga is the New York Times bestselling author of I Hunt Killers, as well as ten other novels for teens and kids. Funny thing, though -- mo
st of his books end up with lots of adult readers. So, it was long past time for something aimed at them, right?
Ta-da!
You can find Barry online at http://www.barrylyga.com and on way too many social networks.
Barry Lyga, Unsoul'd
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