Page 101 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

His gaze hardens as defeat fills Luke’s. “I’m not fixing the veil, Luke. And neither are you.”

The last rope falls from my ankle and I leap to my feet, shoving the dagger on the table so it spins across the surface to fall into Luke’s lap. The element of surprise has my back as I fist my fingers in Dante’s admittedly gorgeous head of hair and shove his face into the table, right where my glob of bloody spit landed.

I bring my dagger to his throat so the tip rests against his Adam’s apple as I deliver the most baller line of my existence: “And what about me?”

Thirty-three

“What about you?” Dante echoes, seeming to really contemplate my question. “The overworlder road-tripping across the underworld. How has hell been? Hospitable, I would hope?”

I know he’s mocking me, but Shonda’s words from the Night Market ring in my ear. You have a sly tongue. The devil will appreciate your mouth.

I don’t have much; my mouth is all I’ve got.

“A bit of a letdown, actually. Not nearly enough fire and brimstone. Also, the potholes along Route 666 are killer. Ever heard of road maintenance?” I say conversationally, as if I’m not holding a sharp object to his throat. It takes every ounce of my focus to will the room not to spin, to ignore the pulsing in my head and the ache in my side. My hand shakes, bringing the tip of the dagger close enough to graze Dante’s skin.

Despite it, he grins. “Sorry to disappoint. I’ll pass your complaints along.”

“To who? I thought you’re the boss?”

His grin grows, revealing he shares a dimple with Luke. “I am, aren’t I?”

My quivering body, held together by spite and my ripped dress, is no match for the maneuver Dante pulls. He swipes a leg back, taking mine right out from under me, and pushes himself off the table and away from my blade. My skirt twists around my ankles as he shoulder-checks me hard enough to throw me off him. I fall backward and hit the tiled ground. He rises to his full height, staring me down in all his hellish glory.

When I slammed him against the table, it knocked his crown off, but he doesn’t need it. He looks every bit the formidable ruler he is.

“What to do with you,” he muses, eyes cast entirely in shadows, thanks to the windows at his back. The tip of his shoe presses on the unraveling hem of my dress, thwarting movement on my end. “Your execution is warranted on several offenses, starting with the assault of my hound.”

“So you saw what I did to Badulf’s nose? He should be thanking me for that. Major upgrade and a free nose job.”

Dante continues like I haven’t spoken. “You’ve resisted arrest. Several times.”

“Maybe your mutts are just exceptionally bad at arresting people.”

“You used a near-permanent poison on one of my upper-management leaders.”

I finally rip my dress free and scoot back a handful of inches. “Beliar? You said you wanted him gone. You’re welcome.”

He advances, closing the gap between us so I have no choice but to keep dragging myself backward like the wounded prey I am. The glint in his eyes betrays how much he’s enjoying this. “And you freed his souls. Several hundred, might I add, which will no doubt impact the economy and cause shipping delays. Let me put it in terms you’ll understand: Burning money is illegal.”

My back hits a wall. I have nowhere else to go.

I use it to haul myself to my feet so I can look Dante defiantly in the eye. “No one deserves to be reduced to a currency.”

“Everything’s a currency, darling. Even you.”

My dagger materializes in his hand—I must have dropped it when he outmaneuvered me—and he brings it up to trace my cheek. He sighs, close enough for his exhale to blow my frazzled strands out of my eyes. His breath is as sharp as the rest of him—spearmint.

“What to do with you,” he murmurs, using the dagger to tuck a stubborn curl behind my ear like Luke did not too long ago on the dance floor. I shiver as the cool edge touches my curved shell. It’s nothing compared to the way my whole body quakes when he brings the tip to rest right above my heart. “What. To. Do.” He taps it against my bare skin with each syllable.

“You’re not doing anything to her,” Luke snarls from behind him.

My mouthing off distracted Dante long enough for Luke to escape the confines of the chair. His arms wrap around Dante in a bear hug and he picks his brother up, twisting to throw Dante into the windows.

I wish they’d break and send Dante barreling into the clouds, but they don’t even crack. Dante rebounds quickly as Luke wedges himself between us. Fury crackles across Dante’s face, perfectly timed with the rumble of thunder and corresponding shot of lightning that illuminates the sky.

Dante launches himself at Luke and the two go to town. They fight like mirrors, clearly having spent their entire lives practicing on each other. Every punch Luke throws, Dante anticipates. Every kick Dante attempts, Luke blocks. They circle the perimeter of the long conference table in a blur of jabs and glints of their sparring twin blades, though neither lands a fateful strike.

It’s fascinating watching them brawl. Partly because they are clearly a perfect match, but partly due to something else that takes me a few disoriented moments of ogling to pin: neither is going in for the kill.