'The Deluge' by Lucienne Cummings

Pike rows until his boat becomes tangled. Heaving an oar in, he recognises the sodden obstacle as the remains of a tapestry. Moving again, he passes cushions, hats, paintings. The river is still rising, the rain pelting. The roof of Eldon Hall barely pokes above the water’s surface, and upon it he recognises a lonely silhouette.

‘Come aboard My Lord,’ shouts Pike rowing alongside.

‘No!’ says Lord Hawthorne. ‘I have nothing to fear.’

***

‘Your soul for a charmed life.’ Twenty years ago, sunlight had sparkled off Lucifer’s martini glass as it clunked against Edward Hawthorne’s tankard.

Hawthorne, an eighteen-year-old grocer’s apprentice, had signed the parchment on the pub table readily. ‘Deal,’ he’d smiled, gulping his watered-down ale. In a year he’d gathered enough money to buy the Hall, and a peerage. He’d used the wrong cutlery, fluffed the wine pronunciation, and worn a morning suit in the evening, but it’d all worked out eventually.

***

‘Please My Lord,’ says Pike.

Hawthorne backs away from his grounds-keeper, trips and falls. As he drowns, years of parties, jewels, silk pyjamas, and smooth-limbed mistresses explode in his head.

‘You promised!’ he gurgles, fighting back up to the surface. A hand grabs at his satin smoking jacket, but it’s too slippery, and he sinks again.

‘A charmed, but short life,’ is the last thing he thinks.

***

Pike examines his traitorous hand in horror. He cannot swim either.

‘Help!’ says another voice.

Pike looks up into the deep, dark eyes of Maggie, Hawthorne’s latest mistress. He helps her into the boat.

‘He used to call me his rock,’ says Pike, dazed. Maggie strokes his hair. Even in shock, he feels shabby and awkward next to Maggie’s finery.

Far below, in Hell, Lucifer draws up a contract with Pike’s name on it, and grins.