Chapter 5: The Devil's Due

Chapter 5: The Devil's Due

The shriek that tore from Congo-Savanne’s spectral maw was no longer one of simple hunger. It was a cry of pure, instinctual betrayal. The pact was broken. The promised feast had proven inedible, a stone offered to a starving jaw. Its burning yellow eyes, filled with a rage that was ancient and absolute, turned from the unwavering light of David’s faith and fixed upon the source of its failed bargain.

At the edge of the dissipating dust cloud, Savannah stood frozen, her cunning facade finally shattered. The youthful, predatory light in her eyes had been extinguished, replaced by the raw, animal panic of a creature whose time had finally, irrevocably run out. She was no longer a powerful witch, a manipulator of spirits. She was just a frail old woman, her unnaturally prolonged life measured in heartbeats.

She raised her intricately carved staff, her lips moving in a desperate, silent chant. The words that had once summoned and commanded her monstrous patron now fell on deaf ears. The spirit’s hunger had completely eclipsed their agreement. She had promised it a meal, and it would not be denied.

With a guttural roar, Congo-Savanne surged through the last wisps of the soul-dust toward her.

Savannah turned and fled. The sinister grace that had defined her movements was gone, replaced by the hobbling, stumbling gait of her true age. She scrambled over the uneven ground, her traditional robes catching on thorns and tombstones, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.

It was no use. The invisible, crushing force that had seized the ghost and failed against David now shot out and enveloped her. She was lifted from her feet, her frail body held suspended in the air like a broken doll. Her staff clattered to the ground. A thin, reedy scream escaped her lips as she was dragged backward, toward the still-floating, still-grinding cast-iron machine.

The corn grinder, the very instrument that had sustained her unnatural life for so long, now loomed before her, its maw open and waiting. It had been her altar, her fountain of youth, powered by the stolen essence of others. Now, it was her tomb.

Congo-Savanne did not hesitate. It shoved its master headfirst into the hopper.

The grinding sound, which had been the horrifying soundtrack to their ordeal, changed. The dry creak-screech of metal was joined by the wet, sickening crunch of bone and sinew. Savannah’s scream was cut short, replaced by a single, final, metallic shriek as the grinder’s handle cranked down with brutal, inexorable force.

A last, thick plume of yellowish dust, richer and darker than all the others, erupted from the spout. It was the final payment, the last ounce of spiritual energy she possessed, rendered down into the same profane currency she had trafficked in for decades.

As her essence was consumed, the power holding the monster together finally broke. The spectral head of Congo-Savanne flickered, its yellow eyes dimming like dying coals. With a final, fading sigh of sated hunger, it dissolved into nothingness. The sinister black runes on the corn grinder went dark. Deprived of its animating spirit, the heavy iron machine fell from the air, crashing to the ground with a deep, resonant thud that echoed through the sudden, profound silence.

The soul-dust storm, its source extinguished, began to settle. The thick, yellow haze thinned, revealing the stark, silvered landscape of the moonlit cemetery. The oppressive, claustrophobic nightmare was over, leaving behind an eerie, charged stillness.

The light emanating from David’s cross faded, the shield of his faith receding as the immediate threat vanished. A wave of bone-deep exhaustion washed over him, so profound that his knees buckled. He would have collapsed if not for Cassara, who scrambled from the grave and caught his arm, her own body trembling with adrenaline and shock.

“It’s over,” she breathed, her eyes wide as she stared at the rusted machine lying in the grass. It was just a piece of old metal now, a grim monument to the night’s horrors.

“Not quite,” a smooth, amused voice purred from the shadows.

They turned. Leaning against a tall, stone angel as if he had been there all along, was Baron Samedi. He took a slow pull from his cigar, the cherry glowing a hellish red in the dark. The great python shifted on his shoulders, its scales glinting in the moonlight.

“A fine show,” the Baron declared, sauntering toward them. “Crude, messy, but effective. Justice, like rum, is sometimes best served raw.”

He stopped beside the fallen corn grinder. A faint, translucent shimmer, shaped vaguely like a terrified old woman, flickered over the machine’s hopper. It was the last echo of Savannah’s soul, tethered to the instrument of her demise.

The Baron’s skull-painted grin was triumphant. He raised his cane and tapped it smartly on the iron casing. “Savannah, my dear,” he crooned, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You have been a very naughty girl. Running from your responsibilities. Cheating the house. The bill is now paid.”

With a flourish, he opened a small, ornate silver flask at his hip. A wisp of purple smoke drifted out and coiled around the shimmering spirit. Savannah’s echo convulsed silently before being drawn into the flask. The Baron sealed it with a satisfied click.

“The devil always gets his due,” he said, tucking the flask back into his tuxedo. His glowing green eyes, full of ancient knowledge and dark mirth, settled on David.

“You have done me a service, missionary,” he said, his rhyming cadence gone, replaced by a tone of chilling sincerity. “But you must understand what you have done tonight. When you forged your faith into a shield, you didn't just shine a light in the dark.”

He took a step closer, the air growing cold around him.

“You lit a beacon. A bonfire. And on an island this dark, a light that bright does not go unnoticed. There are other things here. Things older and hungrier than that simple rock-chewer. Things that sleep. You have woken them up. And now… they know your name.”

David stared at him, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by a new, creeping dread. He had come here seeking a sign from his God. He had found one, but in doing so, he had seemingly put himself on the radar of countless other, darker deities.

“What does that mean?” David asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The Baron’s grin returned, wide and sharp. “It means your crisis of faith is over, little priest. Your education, however, has just begun.”

He tipped his top hat to them, a gesture of final, mocking respect. “The way out of the cemetery is clear. I have kept my end of the bargain.”

He turned, and with a swirl of his coattails and a final puff of peppery cigar smoke, he simply… wasn't there anymore. He had melted back into the shadows from which he came, leaving David and Cassara alone in the silent, moonlit graveyard, the grim iron grinder sitting between them, and a prophecy hanging in the still air, more terrifying than any monster.