The Devil’s Canvas (The Devil’s Bargain #1)

Prologue

Julian

T here is no word for what I do. No simple pleasure, no fleeting satisfaction. It is a craft. Every deal, every signature, every carefully placed word is a deliberate act, a test of control, a game where I have already won before the other side realizes they have begun to play. It’s an art—one most will never understand.

A simple exchange. A promise sealed. And when the time comes… I collect.

Not just souls. That would be too easy.

They always fixate on what they are gaining, desperate and blind, never stopping to consider what they are losing. They believe they are making a choice. That is the greatest illusion of all.

The price must be paid. And I ensure they feel every moment of it.

Pain is part of the process, the suffering is inevitable. Some shatter the moment they realize what they have done, while others hold on, convinced they can fight fate itself. Those are the ones that amuse me the most.

Everyone breaks eventually. The trick is knowing when to push… and when to wait.

Control is everything. And I have never lost it.

I decide the terms, the timing, the moment of collapse. I decide when the scales tip, when the realization dawns in their eyes.

After all, why should I take what is owed quietly… when I can make them beg for it first?

It’s not just the moment of the deal. That’s the easy part. The signatures, the final words, the inevitable realization that they’ve made a mistake. No, the real work comes after—the documentation, the records, the endless paperwork that no one warned me about.

It could be worse, I suppose.

I lean back, setting aside the final contract of the day. The library is quiet, just as it should be. The scent of aged parchment and enchanted ink lingers in the air, woven into the very foundation of this place.

My library. My space.

Endless bookshelves stretch along the walls, towering and full. Some volumes are harmless—fairy tales, old myths, records of human foolishness. Others are sealed, bound with protection wards so intricate that no one but me can touch them without consequence. They are private. Personal. Mine.

And the last thing I want is one of my brothers or cousins anywhere near them.

My desk sits at the heart of the room, massive and unmoving. Obsidian-black wood, older than most life on Earth, its surface worn only by time and my own hands. A relic, an anchor, a thing of permanence in a world that constantly shifts.

The library belongs to me. And in it, I am in control.

Or at least… I should be.

I hear it. A voice, distant at first, slipping through the cracks of my focus.

I put my pen down and lean back, closing my eyes. I need to concentrate. The voice is too soft, too weak.

It sharpens—a thread of power curling through the silence, laced with something fragile, desperate. Someone is calling.

I call to the ones who walk between shadow and flame. Let one who would bargain step forth.

It hits, clear and undeniable.

I’m being summoned.

No wonder I didn’t hear it at first. The blood used to summon me must be weak. Too diluted, too fragile, barely enough to get my attention.

I exhale, already irritated. Why am I the one getting this call?

I don’t want it.

So, I reach out—casting my mind through the tether that binds me to my brothers and cousins, testing if any of them will take it. One of them should. Anyone but me.

Julian: Guys. Anyone hear that call?

Silence.

I sigh, rubbing my temple. Of course. They all hear it. And instead of responding, they’re pinging it back to me.

Julian: I can’t believe none of you assholes are answering me.

Owen: What do you expect?

Julian: Oh, so you can respond to this, but not when I actually call?

Seth: Kinda busy. Is this important?

Caleb: Seth, put the mortal down and tell Julian why you’re not answering.

Adrian: We all know why Seth isn’t answering.

Julian: Shut the fuck up. Did anyone hear the call?

Lucas: No.

Damian: No. Could have. Didn’t feel like it.

Caleb: No. Had better things to do.

Adrian: No. And if I had, I would’ve ignored it just to watch you react like this.

Owen: No. Would’ve let it ring just to piss you off.

Julian: Are you all fucking kidding me?

Owen: Seems unanimous.

Seth: Wait, we were supposed to answer that?

Julian: I fucking hate all of you.

I force out a slow breath, reigning in my irritation. Fine.

Julian: Just—stop what you’re doing and focus. Listen.

Thirty seconds of absolute silence.

The summoning won’t leave my mind. It’s relentless, coiling around me, persistent despite its fragility.

Lucas: Yeah… still nothing.

Damian: Same.

Caleb: Nothing.

Adrian: Absolutely nothing.

Owen: Total silence. Peaceful, actually.

Seth: Thought I heard something—never mind, just the mortal screaming.

Julian: I am going to kill all of you.

Caleb: It sounds like they’re calling you specifically.

Julian: No.

Adrian: You’re the only one hearing it.

Julian: I hear: "I call to the ones who walk between shadow and flame. Let one who would bargain step forth." That’s not my name.

Owen: Sounds like it belongs to you.

Julian: I am not answering that.

Seth: But you kinda already did.

Julian: I am—

Owen: —Going to kill all of us. We know. Go see what they want first.

I grit my teeth, fingers flexing at my side. I could ignore it. Let the call fade into nothing, let the summoner grow desperate. But I don’t.

Instead, I stand, grab my black wool coat, and follow the pull.

Closing my eyes, I focus. The voice is weak, flickering like a dying flame, barely enough to get my attention. Blood must have been used sparingly. Amateur work.

When I open my eyes, I’m standing in the middle of a room. An office, it seems.

Candlelight flickers against the walls, casting shadows that stretch unnaturally. A man stands near the center, tense but composed, his eyes sharp with something that amuses me. Desperation. It’s always desperation.

I glance at the table in front of him, lined with the expected ingredients—salt, sigils, melted wax, and the faint scent of iron. And surrounding me, carefully drawn on the floor, is the thing that makes me want to laugh.

A demon trap.

Really?

I exhale slowly, shaking my head. Humans and their ridiculous ideas. They watch a few television shows by people who claim to know us, and suddenly they think magic is as simple as drawing a few symbols on the floor.

Just to show him that I am the one in power here, I step forward.

The man flinches, his confidence slipping as I move freely.

"You are?" I ask, though I already know.

"Cassius Arden," he says.

I lean back, studying him, unimpressed. "Cassius." I let his name settle between us like an afterthought. "What a surprise. And what, exactly, do I owe the pleasure of this intrusion?"

"I want to make a bargain."

"Do you?" My amusement is effortless, bordering on boredom. "And what makes you think I would make a deal with you?"

He doesn’t hesitate. "I have something to offer."

I exhale slowly, watching him. Humans love to think they hold power when they call to us, but Cassius Arden doesn’t understand the first rule of negotiation.

"You seem mistaken, Cassius." My voice is measured, even. "I make the rules. Not you." I pause, letting that settle before I continue. "You came to me. That means I decide the terms. I decide the price. And you, well—" I tilt my head slightly. "You decide whether or not you're willing to pay it."

Cassius adjusts his cuffs, exuding the confidence of a man who believes himself to be in control. "Tell me the price."

I almost laugh. Humans always assume they can buy what they want, that power is nothing more than a transaction waiting to be completed. I tilt my head, watching him carefully. "Let’s start with the basics, shall we? Power is not created. It is transferred. Stolen, taken, bartered away. You don’t simply wish for something and have it appear—you take it from another. And the greater the gift, the greater the loss."

Cassius doesn’t flinch. "I understand," he says smoothly. "I know where the gift should come from."

"Do you?"

"My daughter," he says without hesitation. "Ophelia."

The name lingers in the air, and though I don’t react, something inside me sharpens.

"She was born with something she never should have had," he continues, voice measured. "A gift wasted on someone who refuses to use it. She isolates herself, locks herself away from the world, creating nothing of value. And worse—she's spiteful. Vindictive. Her entire existence is designed to bring others down."

Ah. So this is his angle.

"And you believe Melanie is the one who deserves it," I say, though it isn’t a question.

Cassius stiffens, his polished exterior cracking for just a second. It’s quick—just a flicker of tension in his jaw, the briefest hesitation—but I see it.

He knows. He knows that I didn’t need him to tell me who she is.

And I watch as the realization settles in, as his carefully crafted confidence wavers.

I smirk, slow and deliberate, letting the silence stretch between us.

Cassius doesn’t speak.

I don’t rush him.

I like watching people squirm.

"She was meant for greatness," Cassius insists. "She commands attention, captivates with her presence. She was always the one meant to shine, yet Ophelia—" His lips press together as if the very thought of her disgusts him. "She stands in the way. She manipulates, she poisons, she drags everything down with her. She is selfish, cruel. The world would be better if she were nothing at all."

I tap my fingers against the desk.

Humans love to rewrite their own narratives. Villains must be villains. Heroes must be heroes. There is no room for nuance in their minds.

I exhale slowly, considering his conviction."Fair," I say, weighing the word. It never means what they think it does.

Cassius waits, still convinced this is a clean exchange—a gift taken, a gift given, a transaction that benefits him and his favored daughter. He expects power without consequence.

Humans always make that mistake.

I don’t answer immediately. I watch him instead, letting the silence stretch, letting it press down on him. It unsettles the humans, makes them question things they were once so sure of.

Not Cassius.

He stands tall, his expression unreadable, his confidence unwavering. But confidence means nothing here. Not in my domain.

"You want her gift transferred," I say finally. "A simple request on the surface. But again, power is not created, Cassius. It is taken, bound, and reshaped. And you—" my gaze sharpens slightly, "must carry the weight of that exchange."

He squares his shoulders, unwavering. "Explain the terms."

"From the moment this bargain is sealed, Melanie’s rise or fall will be tied to you. Her victories will be yours. Her failures, yours as well. If she succeeds, you succeed. If she falters—" I tilt my head slightly, "so do you."

A flicker of calculation flashes in his eyes. He expected a price, but he did not expect it to be this personal.

"And Ophelia?" he asks, his tone void of hesitation.

"She will still feel," I say, smooth and deliberate. "But she will never be able to express it. Not in words, not in action, not in art. Every emotion she experiences will be locked inside of her, unheard and unseen. She will carry joy, sorrow, rage, and love—" I pause, letting it settle, "but she will never be able to release them."

Cassius doesn’t react.

"And more than that," I continue, "she will lose the ability to feel the emotions of others. No connection, no understanding of what lies beneath the surface. She will be an island, alone in a world of people she can no longer reach."

Still, nothing.

"And in exchange," Cassius says, "Melanie will have what she deserves."

"Melanie will have what was not meant for her," I correct. "And it will change her."

"She was meant for this," he says, with the certainty of a man who has already convinced himself of his own righteousness.

I nod, letting a flicker of something—amusement, curiosity, calculation—pass through me. "We have an agreement."

But before I seal it, I add one final thought.

"One last thing, Cassius."

He straightens, waiting.

"Melanie’s success—" I pause, "it will not come easily. You will push her, shape her, mold her into something greater. And she will resent you for it. She may never know why, but she will feel it. The pressure. The unseen hand guiding her every move."

"She will understand in time," Cassius says dismissively.

I smile slightly. "Perhaps."

He doesn’t ask what happens if she fails.

Because he doesn’t believe she will.

And that is his first mistake.

Cassius believes he understands the terms. He thinks he has outmaneuvered fate, that he is correcting an error rather than condemning a daughter. He does not hesitate. He does not question.

He should.

Because there is one last price—the part he has not considered, the part he will not realize until it is far too late.

His bond to Melanie is not just one of success and failure.

It is one of soul and consequence.

Because the brightest star before the trade—the one who carried the gifts, the one who was meant to succeed—is always the cost.

The parchment appears the moment I will it into existence, the paper thick and edged in black ink that does not bleed, does not fade, does not forgive. Cassius doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for the quill—one crafted from a feather long since turned to shadow, its tip razor-sharp.

I do not offer ink. Deals like these are sealed in something far more permanent.

He presses the tip to his finger, just enough to break the skin. A bead of crimson wells before he signs—smooth, practiced strokes, like it’s nothing more than another business contract.

The moment his name settles onto the parchment, the ink shifts, darkens, burns. The letters twist into something older, something binding and final. The air tightens around us, the room pressing in as the bargain takes hold.

I lift the parchment, inspecting it. The seal has formed. The terms are set. The contract is complete.

At the height of Melanie’s success, when her gift has flourished, when the exchange is absolute, the price will come due. And the soul that must be collected—the daughter with the most success—will be Ophelia Arden.

I look at Cassius, and he looks at me, and in this moment—he does not know what he has truly done.

But he will.

Soon.