THE DEMON'S BARGAIN

CHAPTER 4: SATAN WORSHIPPERS

DARLA’S POV

Divorce.

Juniper used to spit that word in my face often, but the worst was when I had my tubes tied. She stormed into Carmichael & Co., outrunning security until she barged into Charles’ office and slapped him hard across the face.

She begged me to leave him then—swore on our mother’s grave that he’d be the death of me.

But Juniper never understood.

She and I are different.

Mother always said Juniper was born angry, and that rage followed her wherever she went.

She walked away from Mother and me when Mother relapsed again. She walked away from medical school without a word. Juniper could leave anyone, anything, without batting an eye.

I wish I were more like her—brave, angrier—but that ship sailed the day I married Charles, the moment I signed those damned papers. It had all seemed innocent back then, and I was hopelessly in love. Pathetically so.

The lawyer called it The Carmichael Wedding Vows, but it was really just a contract—one designed to ensure that no woman who married into the family could ever leave.

No one divorces a Carmichael man—and if I ever tried, they’d bury me. Or worse, Juniper. The threat was clear, despite their best attempts at subtlety.

They’d ruin her life—her job, her reputation. I might not care what happens to me, but Juniper is the only family I have left.

And protecting her means staying.

This single truth breaks me, and I sob until my chest aches, my body curling in on itself, each breath more labored than the last. I scream until my throat is raw, until every breath is agony.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, but by 11 p.m., I’m slumped on the final step of our million-dollar staircase, draining the last of my wine.

Eight glasses in, and I’m still painfully sober.

I wanted to drink myself into oblivion—to be a mess, to feel numb, uncaring. Maybe even happy. But even in his absence, Charles still finds a way to ruin it.

He keeps the stronger stuff locked away, like it’s his f*****g holy grail. I scoff, bitter. Everything else in his life is precious—except me.

I can’t help but wonder if he lasts longer than ten minutes with her. His best with me has always been quick, dry, just enough to get himself off. And then it’s over. Just like that.

God, I need something stronger.

I’ll lose whatever is left of my sanity if I stay this sober all night. At least the house is empty. I sent the staff home after Charles left.

I stand up, unsteady, and make my way to the basement. It’s where Charles keeps his most expensive, aged alcohol stored in old family barrels—and tonight, I’m going to drink every last drop.

The high-security system beeps green as I stumble into the pitch-black basement, tipsy as hell. Cold bites at my bare feet, and I wince, regretting coming down here in nothing but a sheer nightgown.

Rubbing my arms does little against the cold from the room’s cooling system. I flip the light switch, and an ominous unease slithers up my spine—the same unsettling feeling this room always brings. The oppressive silence, the flickering lights.

I truly hate coming down here.

I just need to grab a bottle and get out.

Rows of aged barrels line the corner of the room, stacked between family heirlooms and forgotten junk.

I rush to the nearest barrel, snatch a bottle from the rack, and turn to leave—only to freeze as a low, drawn-out creeeeeak cuts through the silence.

I freeze, whipping my head in the direction of the sound, straining to listen. Painful seconds crawl by, but all that follows is the same suffocating silence that always seems to linger in this room.

When there’s nothing but the rapid beat of my heart, letting out a wry laugh.

God, Darla—get a grip.

This isn’t a horror movie.

I resume my steps, but I barely make it to the door before I hear it again—unmistakable this time, sharper, like the creak of wood shifting under weight.

A footstep.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

My head snaps back to the barrels, fast. A terrible chill, worse than the initial cold, grips my spine, and my heart sinks into my stomach.

No one is supposed to be home—much less in the basement.

I hold my breath, fixating on the darker corner where the barrels are, counting the seconds until the next breath brings something worse.

But just like before, nothing happens.

No sound. No movement.

Just the shifting shadows that claw and morph under the flickering lights.

This place is just f*****g with me.

I don’t wait around to find out what’s going on. Even if it’s Charles messing with me, I’m not in the right state of mind to be this rattled and anxious over nothing.

So I sprint to the door, but the dizzying effect of the wine throws off my balance, and I nearly fall. I catch myself—but not the bottle.

It slips from my grip, and my reflexes are too slow to catch it. I groan as I watch it roll—slowly, of course—toward the dark corner near the barrels.

You've got to be kidding me.

For a moment, I just stand there, frustrated, staring at that creepy turn with a knot of dread tightening in my stomach.

With a deep breath—ignoring the instincts that urge me to run—I step forward, edging closer, my heart pounding as I round the corner.

Don’t scream.

Don’t scream.

Much to my surprise, there’s no lurking horror. No ghastly figure, no one-eyed monster. Just a small rat, scratching at a box in the corner—the source of the unsettling creak from earlier.

What? A rat?

I let out a dry laugh—equal parts relief and annoyance. Really? I nearly peed myself over a rat? I facepalm.

Still amused by my own ridiculousness, I take a step closer, chuckling under my breath. The rat scurries off into the darkness, leaving me alone with the bottle… and the dusty old box it had been scratching at.

The box sits there, isolated, as if forgotten for decades.

It’s unrecognizable at first, but as I draw closer, crouching to inspect it better, a soft gasp escapes my lips. I’d tucked it away with the rest of the junk when I moved into the Carmichael house, never giving it much thought.

But even beneath layers of dust, the once-vibrant red paint on the vintage chest is unmistakable—faded by the years, perhaps, but too intertwined with my family history, too deeply rooted in what it means to be a Montclair woman, to ever truly be forgotten.

This was Grandma’s most treasured possession—passed down to her from her own mother, and then to mine. Of course, my mother did anything but treasure it.

If anything, she hated this box—called it demonic, evil, cursed. Yet, despite all her promises to throw it out and how often she swore she hated Grandma, she never actually did.

There were many things wrong with my mother, but the only time I saw a glimpse of a heart in her was the day she handed over this box—just as tradition demanded.

Well, her exact words were, “Trash it.” Cold and unemotional, just as I’d expect from Sloane Montclair. But I knew the only reason she told me to do it was because she couldn’t bring herself to.

I guess I couldn’t either.

Not once have I opened it, though, but Mother had already told me what’s inside: witchcraft. Occult candles. Blood vials. Crushed bones. And poverty.

She made me swear to never dabble in Grandma’s dark practices, to never let superstition and foolishness cloud my judgment the way it had tainted our family for generations. She said my story needed to be different.

But as I pick up my bottle of alcohol, I can’t help it. I can’t resist the strange pull—something deeper than curiosity, something darker—urging me to open the box tonight.

It’s either wallowing for the rest of today or entertaining myself with whatever the hell made my mother hate my grandmother so much.

I choose the latter.

* * *

A few minutes later, I’m back in our bedroom, and the first thing I do after dropping the box is take three long swigs of alcohol—straight from the bottle. Unladylike? Maybe. But who cares? It’s been a long night.

I stagger over to the record player, placing a vinyl on the turntable. The needle drops with a soft crackle, and the haunting strains of my favorite orchestral piece fill the room.

I sway mindlessly to the music, gulping more alcohol, letting the numbness drown out every thought of Charles.

I'm barely coherent now, barely able to stand without swaying, and I start laughing—at nothing but the sheer absurdity of it all.

I drag myself over to the chest, pulling it into a corner before sinking to the cold marble floor. My hands hover for a moment, then I pry it open.

The faint whiff of dried herbs and old leather hits my nose, mingling unpleasantly with the alcohol, and I nearly gag. But inside, it’s nothing like Mother had exaggerated.

For one thing, there are no crushed bones or blood vials—only small jars filled with sealed flowers, herbs, and various plants, each neatly labeled.

I pull out the contents of the box—black candles, red candles, and even purple ones? It’s a lot of candles. Alongside them are bundles of chalk, precious gems, strange feathers, and a small voodoo doll pierced with several pins.

A sudden chill pricks my skin, raising goosebumps despite the closed windows.

At the bottom of the box lies a weathered, brown leather-bound book, filled with letters and pages of cryptic writings, symbols, and dark arts—pentagrams, skull sketches, and animalistic horns.

My breath catches at the vivid pages detailing human sacrifice, astral travel, and even instructions on how to raise the dead. What the hell?

Did my family lineage really believe in all this stuff? These are very... questionable.

My mother’s choice word was delusional, but seeing this—reading this—makes me wonder.

Could it have been so delusional if these women spent their whole lives believing, writing it all down like they had watched it happen? Like they had actually crossed lines beyond the natural?

No—that’s silly. It has to be the alcohol making me take any of this seriously.

Mother said it herself: if any of this were real, we wouldn’t have been so poor. Grandma would’ve just ‘voodooed’ us into being filthy rich or something.

Still, I don’t stop reading, no matter how ridiculous it all seems. The deeper I dig, the more I find myself considering it—an afterthought that gains momentum with every spell I come across.

What if Mother was wrong?

It wouldn’t be the first time—she was wrong about Charles.

What if the Montclair women were more than just a bunch of crazy satan-worshippers?

What if I put it all to the test?

What if…I tried to hex Charles?