Demon Sacrifice

by Jessica Lake

Imagine a maniacal laugh—one revealing an unfounded madness, so bereft of humanity as to be truly abhorrent. I would have written the laugh out, but the orthography of such a sound eludes me.

Regardless.

The erstwhile human who spoke—had once been a lover of Dr. Ravencroft. They had parted ways long ago, and since then, a demon had taken up residence within the spurned lover’s corpus mundi.

"Darling Ravencroft, I see you brought me a sacrifice!"

Dr. Ravencroft was at a loss. Of course he had brought a sacrifice; why else would a twit of a young girl be among his company? But demons tended toward the expository; with patience, all would be revealed.

"Surely, you’re mad," Ravencroft replied.

He observed that the demon's attention seemed fixed not on the buxom girl—who, I might add, attended the expedition of her own free will—but elsewhere. The Hell-spawn stared through the lass, toward the trembling shadow of Dr. Femoral.

With great emphasis, the demon pointed and demanded, "That Temptress!"

Beyond belief, he was pointing at Dr. Femoral.

An associate professor who specialized in demonology.

—a man who lived as Judy to Punch-and—Judy world.

Ravencroft had swindled the midge at the last minute. In a word a sad sack. A body who seemed overjoyed at being ill used, as if Abuse himself were an old friend he fondly recognized.

Who could possibly be interested in such a sexless soul?

"I’m sorry, Prince Asmodeus..." Ravencroft hesitated. "Forgive me but… Who? Him?"

"For God’s sake, not again," Dr. Femoral mouthed.

The fear of Fear had been frightened out of the man, leaving only threadbare resignation. It was the recognition of someone who had been handed from monster to monster since the nursery.

"Why am I always the one? Why not the her? The pretty girl? Why is it always the boy who never grew up?"

Finally, the girl spoke. Her voice shrill against the cavern’s stalactites and stalagmites.

“Lunch? You said there’d be lunch. When’s lunch?"

“Shhh,” Dr. Ravencroft said. “The adults are talking.”

He was at sea.

How was it that this "grand nothing" understood the demon? Ravencroft expected a minion to know his station. Femoral’s role was to stay out of the way, and to die if that was the need; that was his part in the drama.

Who was Femoral? The kind of man who would apologize to his executioner for the mess his blood might make on the axe.

"And what might you grant if we were to fulfill your request?" Ravencroft queried.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but Dr. Ravencroft was a bad guy; he wrongly valued his ambitions over any moral qualms.

The demon began to think. This was a clever distraction, as he had already shown his hand.

Who would’ve contemplated that this boy—something more filly than coltish—was the secret to Ravencroft’s ambition?

"Please, Dr. Ravencroft," the sacrifice bleated.

But he wasn't bleating for his life. He was pleading for direction. He looked at Ravencroft with the wide, terrified eyes Of the Boy who Stood on the Burning Ship. Suddenly, the good doctor saw what the demon saw. There was a quality of boyhood in the nature of the man—a bottomless, aching need to be of use. To earn his claim to existence.

To Ravencroft, this seemed an effrontery. Him? A choirboy performing as if this were his story!

"You don’t know?" the demon said with astonishment. The tone suggested a struggling Ravencroft; a dilettante who could not pair a fine wine with the entrée. A dabbler lacking the refined taste for the vintage of a broken soul.

"And if I give you the pretty boy," Ravencroft countered, "will you let me have what I seek?"

"You know I’m right here," Dr. Femoral interjected. "I can hear everything said. I’m not a boy... but I am a sacrifice. If you want me to go, Doctor, I’ll go. But just know this was my turn to shine."

He said it with a sickening sweetness. He was promoting Ravencroft’s desires because he had no desires of his own. He hoped only to eke out an existence in the corner of someone else's shadow.

The demon laughed (the spelling of which still eludes me. Too many vowels).

"You may have him," Ravencroft declared expansively.

This was beyond wonderful; it afforded him the girl. No need to surrender the refused sacrifice. Instead, the girly professor who “lived to serve” would be the sacrifice. All rather Harry Potter. It was a win-win situation.

"He’s yours."

"You mortals know not what is precious," the demon sighed. "This boy is bliss. He will serve me—he will love me. He knows nothing else. A soul taught to love its own tormentor."

"I beg you, sir," Femoral whispered, one final, half-hearted attempt at personhood. "Do not abandon me. If you do, I will refuse him nothing. I will never stray. Anything he wants, I will become. This vile betrothal is on your soul!"

"Sold!" said Dr. Ravencroft. He would have pounded a gavel had he had one.

Ravencroft took the rest of his company and departed. The poor, trusting Dr. Femoral disturbed him briefly; in hindsight, he might have seen that he had sold a soul for a trinket.

Only kidding.

He’d already forgotten the whole affair.