“It’s an interesting scheme, I’ll say that much. Drive up the cost of doing business for the locals until they’re forced to abandon ship. Then your man Nathan swoops in, convincing the leaseholders to sell the storefronts at a loss—on paper, anyway, since the buyers are none other than the rest of your college pals, who are more than happy to offer up a payoff on the back end. Works out wonderfully for all involved, doesn’t it? They get prime real estate for a song. You and Nathan get kickbacks. Everyone wins! Except, of course, your friends and neighbors, but hey, what’s a few lost livelihoods and broken dreams in the grand scheme, right?”
Brandt mutters something unintelligible.
“Didn’t quite catch that, Brandt. Care to give it another go?”
“Who… who are you?” He blinks rapidly, licks his meaty lips. “Wh-why? Why are you doing this?”
“I think you know who I am. As to the why… Well, I’m nothing if not fair and balanced, despite the rumors, and I appreciate when justice is served. I also believe in the people of this town and their right to make a living doing what they love. Finally, because you’re a flaming cunt, and it’s fun to watch you cower. By the by, did you know Violet calls you the mollusk?”
“I… I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.” Finally finding what he believes to be his backbone, Brandt stands up and tries to grab the dossier, as if I haven’t made multiple copies and digital backups.
I lift a hand and hit him with a blast of Hell magic, knocking his arse right back onto the chair.
“Oh, I beg to differ, Mr. Remington, third of your name. Youdohave to sit here and listen. And watch, too. I’m more of a visual learner myself, so I get it.” I press a fingertip to his forehead, unleashing a vision of his near-term future in Hell. A future he cemented long before I came into the picture—long before he even met Violet.
But for what he did to her, I’m adding a few bonus items not on the regular menu. Somespecialtortures crafted just for him. I’m no empathic tea witch, mind you, but I do what I can to ensure my clients receiveexactlywhat they most deserve.
“You’ve lied, cheated, and conned your way through your entire life.” I hit him with a mind-movie of unimaginable terrors even the most gruesome horror flicks can’t top. “You’ve used and discarded people. Hurt those who’ve helped you. Carved up this town like a slice of cherry pie and redistributed it to your grubby-fingered cronies, collecting hefty kickbacks along the way.”
“I… I only did the same as anyone would!” he cries. “Took advantage of the opportunities that came my way. It’s just… just good business!”
I remove my finger. Let him come back to the moment. “Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night? That hurting people is good business?”
“I’ll… I’ll pay you. Please. Name the amount and it’s yours!”
“You’ll pay me with the money you’ve bilked from your so-called friends and neighbors?” I laugh. “Hard pass.”
“What can I do to change it, then? I’ll do anything… anything! Name your price!”
This is, admittedly, my favorite part. The useless groveling. The whimpering. The bargaining, ah, such sweet music.
Poor, deluded Brandt Remington, third of his name, last in line the day they handed out the brains. He doesn’t realize there’s no changing the destiny of a man whose deeds have marked him for Hell.
That doesn’t stop me from naming my price anyway.
“Your blood and signature on the dotted line, if you please.” I grab his hand, make a quick slice across his finger with a knife, then produce the contract—same as the one my guests sign in L.A., only this twat doesn’t get the luxury of ignoring the fine print. I don’t evenshowhim the fine print.
The blubbering mollusk does as I ask.
Signed, sealed, delivered.
He would’ve ended up in Hell anyway. But he signed the contract, so as far as my father’s accounting goes, this one counts as mine.
My one millionth soul. A monumental achievement in its own right, cue the applause, cue the confetti.
“Excellent doing business with you, Mr. Remington.” I tuck the contract into the dossier and escort him out the door. “Now go ahead and slither on back to your office. I believe there are a few clerical errors you need to correct on those grant letters—starting with Violet Pepperdine’s.”
Chapter Thirty-One
VIOLET
My bed is an icy wasteland in Devlin’s absence, and my heart isn’t fairing much better, the special combo-pack of anxiety, loneliness, fear, and confusion keeping me tossing and turning until the wee hours.
Eventually, after two nights of barely snatching any sleep, I give up and head downstairs in search of the only thing that can soothe me now. The one thing I still have, despite the fact that I’m about to lose it all.
Tea.
It’s still dark outside when I don my favorite mushroom shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans and creep down to the café, the chilly air a reminder of autumn’s last hoorah, the fire nothing but ash.
