“Demons don’t have hearts.”

The nurse would be back any second now. The window of opportunity would be closed.

The patient should have been unconscious. She opened one eye and regarded the surgeon.

“Untrue. Demons generally don’t have souls. But we do have hearts. And brains. We were a template, you see. A practice round.”

“I see.” The doctor thought she did. She also saw that the body in front of her was failing. One slip and she would have a corpse on her table -


-not the first, although the first in a long time. A corpse, and noone to owe her soul to.

Her hands were good. Her hands were famously good, sold-her-soul good, amazingly good, miraculously good. They could kill without anyone ever knowing what she’d done. And the demon on the table knew it.
“You have a heart.” The surgeon began prepping. “And it is failing.”

“It’s the problem. When we spend too long here, in your world, our bodies - they forget to be immortal.”


The demon’s voice was a rough croak. “What will you do?”
The surgeon turned back, one eyebrow raised. “What I do. I’ll heal you.”

The demon closed her eyes, disbelief on her tired face, so the surgeon explained.

“I, too, have a heart.”


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