Ace Van Zandt
Urban fantasy Author
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Art by Ellie Burns@orkiathan
How I Met Samael: The Confession of a Demon's Hostwriter
The evening a demon visited me, everyone in my house was long asleep. Like most summer evenings, I sat outside writing to the sounds of the deep woods surrounding my property.
A sudden woosh of wind blew my cigarette from my mouth. I bent as if to recover it, but instead jumped to my feet and grabbed the rake my wife had leaned against the house earlier that day. Turning with a jump, I pointed the tonged end at the intruder who stood before me. Though he was in shadow, I saw a strangely dressed silhouette.
Never had I been snuck upon so skillfully. I felt the figure’s tainted magic, a great weight upon my limbs. I had overcome paralyzing fear many times. This was different. He had yet to move, which worried me deeply.
“You need not do yard chores at such a late hour on my account.”
The velvety voice chilled me despite the clinging humidity. At the same time, I felt an unmenacing intent.
A strong desire welled up inside to lower the rake against my will, but instead, I said, “You have three seconds to get off my property before I jam this handle into all your face holes until I tire, or nothing will be left.” I was well out of practice with my uncouth threats, which I acquired a lifetime ago as an army grunt.
“You have an strong will,” the voice said. “The others lacked that.”
I had heard enough. “Open wide,” I yelled as I maneuvered around the rocking chair and table.
He stepped into the moonlight. The sight of him halted me in my tracks. His solid black eyes were beclouded with a swirling orange mist, which, for a moment, made me lose my place in time. Staring into those infernal eyes unveiled all the darkness of my soul. The features on his moon-gray face appeared to sway back and forth. The skin on his long nose was tight, making the cartilage show through at the tip. Above a pointed chin, his thin mouth curved upward at the ends, giving him a smirking appearance.
He removed his top hat in a wide arc and flattened it, freeing me from his enchantment. He tucked the hat under his other arm, which leaned onto a gentlemanly cane. His high-collared black velvet frock coat had flared lapels with crimson accents that matched the vest beneath and the top hat ribbon. The buttons were color opposites of the silky fabric to which they were attached. I later discovered that the discolorations on the velvet were intricate, demonic designs I had never seen before.
Speaking in a calm voice but feeling the claws of fear upon my chest, I asked, “What do you want, demon? If it is to take me to Hell, get on with it.” I looked beyond him to find a line of crows perched on a leaning farm fence.
With their heads cocked this way and that, they watched in silence. The demon bellowed into the night, and the entire murder scattered in a cacophony of cawing. I was sure the affair had woken the house, but no lights came on. I asked him why he laughed.
“Collecting souls is not the business I am in.”
I returned the rake to its leaning position. “Explain the business you are in and what it has to do with me.”
He glided to the rocking chair usually occupied by my wife. Sitting, he leaned his cane against the column. I paused before sitting, noting the orb-like handle of his cane, which was not quite opaque. I saw or imagined a dark mass moving within, behaving as if it wanted to be free. The striking edge of the cane was black and unadorned. The demon looked around for a suitable place to put his hat, but instead placed it in his lap.
“My name is Samael,” he said, rocking lightly. His eyes locked on my diverted ones; I could not stand to look at them for more than a glance. “I am in need of a writer with your talents.”
I did not offer my name, for I imagined he knew it. “I would think you could find more suitable candidates,” I said.
His grin widened far enough that I thought the ends might protrude from his face. He began to flatter me, speaking not of my writing accomplishments, for I had none, but of a unique combination of suffering and love, and the great extremes of both that I had endured. It was my experiences of war, my tragedies in life, and my imagination, most specifically, that he claimed to desire from me. He had seen these things in others, but had felt their minds had not been damaged enough to temper as mine had. I did not know if he was insulting me at first, and did not interrupt.
An hour passed, and Samael’s words began to make sense as he presented me with a sales pitch for the borrowing of my soul. I understood his motivations. I was an unknown but vivacious writer seeking all the accolades and wealth that accompany success. Samael’s motivations were far different. He needed to tell a story that he was ill-equipped to tell himself. I assumed as much since, otherwise, why was he sitting on my porch?
With the witching hour approaching, I listened to his fascinating stories about other mortal realms, though he spoke not of Hell. He said that it would be a surprise when we began our work. I believed nothing he said and kept my face passive. Who would trust a demon's word? When he had finished speaking, I saw why Samael needed a hostwriter. He couldn’t tell a story for shit.
I gave him my final answer: no. He looked at me for a moment and stood without attempting to overcome my objection. Thanking me, he left. I sat until I was weary, thinking how fortunate I was to have him depart without confrontation or without receiving a horrible curse.
Samael returned the next night and the one after. We spoke for long hours. At my request, he used an illusion of mortal eyes, and he shared only the secrets he swore would not drive me insane. In exchange, I found myself giving in to his requests that I speak vividly of the horrors I had seen and the passions I had felt. He seemed most fascinated by the way I presented them.
The fifth day was much the same, and little had changed in my life. I was, for the most part, a happy man. We spoke, and he had worn me down on a mutually beneficial arrangement. Samael emphasized that his deals were considered broken if certain details were divulged to another mortal. These details were highlighted in bold on each page of the contract. He continually emphasized this rule. I agreed because who would I tell? Certainly, not those I loved. In keeping with our arrangement, I could disclose little. And though I was treading the line with what I had already written, I would speak on one more item. A ring.
With the deal nearly concluded, minus the object that was meant to bind us, Samael and I sat side by side at my computer desk, scrolling through internet auctions. I searched for rings according to his strict specifications, the most important of which was that the previous wearer must have been recently deceased, and the ring worn at the time of death and removed postmortem. I did not ask how he could tell this from my computer screen. I grew tired, and we switched places. I was not sure how long I slept. It was ruined by an “ah-ha!”
Startled out of my chair, I looked at the screen to find a showy gold ring. “Could you not find one less…” I searched for the word. “Bulky. Flamboyant. That thing looks like it would have fit on the fat finger of a pinstriped wise guy.”
He looked at me as if I had insulted him.
Unable to stand anymore, nor with his saddened look, I gave in and said, “The ace of spades is a nice touch. Probably owned by a gambler who paid their debts with a horrible death.”
His chin was in his hand, ogling the ring. “Lucky guess.” He sat up and looked at me. His eyes shifted to match the color of the gem. “Buy it,” he said.
While silently reproaching his ignorance of digital mortal currencies and having to use my own money, I went to retrieve my wallet. When I returned, he pulled three hand-stamped gold coins from his coat pocket and let them fall high enough above the desk to clink dramatically. I said nothing more about it.
Once I had purchased the ring, Samael looked at the seller's address and said he would return momentarily. The door closed behind him, and ten minutes later, he returned, placing the ring on the desk. He claimed to have conjured a duplicate and left it in its place. When the false ring arrived, I was to keep it and use it as a decoy if needed.
I picked up the lifeless chunk of gold. Turning it over in my hands, I found the band was simply shaped and tapered. Two rows of tiny diamonds ran along either side of an ocean-blue opal, shaped into a rounded rectangle with the gold ace set flush within and smooth to the touch. Samael held out an open hand, and I dropped the ring into it.
He squeezed it tight, his fist pressed against where his heart would be if one existed. His hand turned as black as his hat. As though his fist was inhaling, the fabric of his jacket, the chain at his vest, and other objects around my desk were pulled toward him. The spell was so silent that I could hear the friction of the dragging pack of cigarettes. The smell of sulfur filled the air, and I wondered why this ritual was not conducted outside. I kept that to myself. Samael sighed in relief and relaxed his body.
“What did you do to it?” I asked, wishing he would open his hand and let me see. I felt an urge to pry his fingers open and strangle him until he began to speak.
“I absorbed the remnants of the residual soul into myself, the dark and nasty parts of its previous wielder, and I filled the space with a portion of my power. When you place it on, we will be bound for the duration of the contract.” He opened his hand and held out the ring, now polished to a gleam.
As I took it, the sapphire behind the ace glowed.
“What shall we call ourselves?” he asked, grinning deviously.
I had no idea that a new name was in order. Samael urged that my mortal identity remain secret, as he foresaw himself being stalked by a pack of demonic groupies seeking forbidden knowledge and wanted no interruptions to our work.
As I looked over the ring, still too nervous to place it on, he touched my shoulder. I knew he was looking deep inside my soul.
“I see a calm bay busy with ships,” he said softly. “And a wooden dock where mortals jump into the chilly water. This place centers around much of your happiness. What is its name?”
“The Van Zandt Pier,” I said.
He looked from me to the ring. “Ace Van Zandt.”
I nodded my approval.
Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Excellent. Put on the ring, sign the contract, and let us begin.”
Art by Djimdave A @djimdaveart