A Deal With the Devil

I felt it the moment I stepped into the gallery, a tingle sliding like an ice cube down my spine. Nothing seemed amiss as I scanned the room, a large, high-ceilinged space with the sort of aloof industrial design that likes to pretend it isn't luxury. The sky was already dark outside of the high windows. I had hurried inside with raindrops on my heels and the windows were already streaked with light rain. Pendant lights hanging from the shadowy ceiling cast warm circles on the concrete floor and the gathered attendees. One large group was clustered tightly near the center of the room, undoubtedly rubbing elbows with the photographer. Artists who rose suddenly in the New York art scene were generally accompanied by a bevy of social climbers who wanted credit for discovering them.

I shrugged off the feeling that there was anything more to the scene than met my eyes: guests spread thickly along the edge of the room, inspecting the artwork. Photographs in simple frames hung at eye level, running in an uninspired, dotted line across each wall. I had seen several of the pieces featured in a magazine article introducing the exhibit and found them unremarkable. Most of the photos were black and white portraits. The compositions were predictable, the lighting and focus amateurish. I saw nothing in them to explain why this particular gallery opening was packed with guests, sold out, in fact, months in advance. Yet I too had felt undeniably compelled to come, and now, sidling between enthralled visitors to get a closer look, I could barely tear my eyes from each photo to look to the next.

I was staring into the eyes of a young man, captured on a cloudy day, slumped on his bike next to a nondescript building. Under any other circumstance I would have described his expression as bored, but his eyes locked with mine- dark, desperate, and unexpectedly alive.

“Do you like it?” A wan voice asked next to me.

I tore my eyes from the framed photograph and turned to see another young man, nearly the same age as the subject.

“There’s something about it, isn’t there…” I said slowly, fighting an urge to turn back towards the photo. The man next to me huffed a short, humorless laugh.

“I’ll say… I was practicing with my new camera. It came out better than I expected.”

“You’re the photographer!” I exclaimed, more interested now.

“I am,” he replied, his eyebrows lowering, feet shuffling.

“Congratulations,” I said, extending my hand, “and nice to meet you. You came out of nowhere, if you don’t mind me saying. I've never heard of someone so new to the scene securing top billing in a major New York gallery.”

“I don’t mind,” he replied blandly, wiping his hand on his pants before shaking mine. “The attention is… something I’m still getting used to,” he muttered, finally meeting my eyes.

I flinched, immediately reminded of the young man in the photograph whose gaze was haunting me.

"A new camera, you said? Which model?" I asked, wanting to change the subject. "I'm no professional, but I dabble, you know."

He stared at me wordlessly, a dark look in his eyes. I babbled nervously to fill the silence.

"I always wondered about taking it farther, but it's hard to find the time. Or the right opportunity, I guess. Sometimes it's all down to who you know."

He raised his eyebrows at that.

"Not that you're here because of who you know, I mean. It's- uhhhh, your work is very good," I finished lamely.

"Thanks," he said with a half smile, "You aren't wrong, though. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for-"

A hubbub of laughter from the center of the room caught my attention and we looked toward the man who I would have guessed was the artist. He was tall and graceful, commanding the attention of everyone near him with arrogant, magnetic confidence.

As I turned, his dark eyes locked onto mine like I had called his name. Another cold tingle trickled down my back. I could not have told you whether it was fear or desire, in that moment I could not have told you my own name. The man strode toward me without breaking our stare until he stood inches away, his breath hitting my face like heavy incense.

“The work of a true artist, aren’t they?” he smirked, turning his burning eyes to the photographer next to me. I found myself nodding in agreement, though his tone was amused and the photographer was visibly trembling.

“Yes, indeed,” he continued, clapping a hand to the flinching photographer’s shoulder. “Our friend here is doing the lord’s work.”

At this private joke, he broke into a deep laugh and leaned forward between the photographer and I, gazing intently at the photo on the wall. He ran the tips of his long fingers possessively down the face of the listless young man on his bike.

“There’s a lot of soul in your work,” he said with a slow, knowing smile to the photographer, then murmuring more quietly to himself, “very nice souls.”

His eyes flicked back to mine for a searing moment before he turned abruptly and strode away. I felt a flash of need- I wanted to follow, I wanted to flee. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until the photographer gasped raggedly, surfacing from underwater.

“Who is he?” I panted, trying to catch my breath. The photographer’s face was bland again, pale and slack but shiny with sweat.

“He’s… I need to keep… he gave me my camera,” he finished with a small shrug. I frowned, curious about his reply, but my attention was already drawn back to the photo. I stared again at the listless man on his bike, searching his face for an explanation of my fascination. His eyes remained as they had been before- dull and restless- but now a new word flitted through my mind- trapped.