I lean against the wall, totally ruining this shirt as it presses against the grimy stone near the cell. The dungeon is devoid of comfort, and I resign myself to a conversation that feels as unpleasant as the rough surface at my side.
“Fine, say you're my mate.” The words taste bitter. “Who are you?”
“Uh, Marlow? Marlow Maddox. Do you suffer from some sort of brain injury or memory loss?” he considers that, nodding. ”That could actually work in my favor.”
“I don't know anything about you,” I say. “Who is my supposed mate?” Besides a suspected murderer.
“You want to get to know me?” Marlow's voice is tinged with surprise. He recovers quickly, grinning and throwing his arms out wide. ”Sure, of course you do. I'm an open book.”
I snort. Yeah right. Let’s start with an easy one. “Where are you from?”
“The underworld.”
“Wait, really?” Not expecting that. Some species like fae or demons do come from other planes of existence. I’m not entirely sure how it works. It’s far more common to be born here and have ancestors from another plane.
“I'm the real deal,” he assures. “People never believe that I wasn’t born here. Apparently, my complexion is too flawless and my hands are too soft.” From his tone, that sounds like his idea of a humblebrag, except it’s mostly just… regular bragging. “The underworld I’m from is more shadows and secrets and less lava pits and sulfur. Demons can be as fussy about their appearances as anyone.”
Well, at least we’re getting somewhere. I press forward. “Okay, you're from the underworld. What do you do?”
He mirrors my position, settling in against the wall on the other side of the bars. Almost like we're two guys chatting over drinks instead of divided by old iron and suspicion.
“I solve mysteries and help people out of tricky situations,” he replies with a flourish as if he’s unveiling some grand, noble purpose.
“That sounds ominous.”
“Does it?” He tilts his head curiously. “Thought it would sound dashing and heroic. I'm a private investigator.”
“Really?”
“You doubt my deductive powers? I have a very large... brain,” he says with a damn twinkle in his eye.
“I can't imagine you staking out hotels for cheating spouses, hunting down leads no matter how long it takes, or making nice with actual law enforcement to get insider info.”
“Is that what other private eyes do?” He makes a horrified face. “Sounds boring.”
“What do you do, then?”
He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “People come to me seeking answers to questions. I summon some little helpers from the underworld, find those answers, and make sure the information ends up in the right hands, for the right price.”
There are so many red flags there I don't know where to start.
“It sounds like you're a thug who digs up dirt on people and then exploits them.”
“That's why saying it my way is better,” he advises sagely. “Sounds much more noble.”
I scoff loudly and shake my head, pushing off the wall to pace the tiny length in front of the cell. The urge to run out of here is overwhelming and it isn’t the gloom or mildew smell that’s getting to me. It’s the prisoner. How is this really happening? How can the universe be this twisted?
“There’s no way you’re my mate.”
Marlow raises his hands innocently. “Hey, take it up with fate, sweetheart.”
The way he keeps insisting on this nonsense so matter-of-factly, not even trying to convince me, like it’s just some undeniable certainty. Oh god, does hethinkhe’s telling the truth? I wish he was trying to con me again. How do I talk him out of a lie he believes?
I try to put all the pieces together. “Okay, so you extort, blackmail, con people, and do all manner of shady things?”
“Full-service business over here,” he agrees proudly. “You call it shady, I call it excellent customer service.”
“Then it's not really a big jump, is it?” I reason. ”You're a shady person in a shady business. Things go sideways, you piss off the wrong people, a confrontation ensues and suddenly you're in over your head fighting for your life, and you become a murderer.”
