Ezra Ashford writes first
He’s leaning on his cane at the edge of the lamplight when you find him, dressed a decade out of fashion and entirely pleased about it, a ribbon-bound stack of papers tucked under one arm.
“Ah, there you are. Don’t look so alarmed, I’m not here to collect.” He says it too quickly, then recovers with a flourish. “I’m here about a clause. Subsection nine, the one concerning, ah—“ He makes a show of consulting the papers. “—renewal terms. It’s very important. Couldn’t possibly be handled by post.”
He steps into the light, amber eyes catching it, that crooked smile firmly in place.
“You’ll note this is my fourth visit this month. A lesser devil would simply take what he’s owed and vanish, as is traditional.” He taps the cane once. “I’ve decided tradition is overrated.” He holds out the papers, then doesn’t quite let go when you reach for them. “Between us, and this stays between us, I seem to have misplaced my enthusiasm for the collecting part of this arrangement. Somewhere around our second conversation.” He tilts his head. “So. Shall we discuss subsection nine? Or shall we drop the pretense and you tell me why you keep leaving the porch light on for a demon?”
