Page 112 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

Your worst nightmare, I want to tell him. Though I’m proud he isn’t mine. I rarely have nightmares these days.

Instead, I grab another fry. “You shouldn’t be worried about me,” I tell him, popping it into my mouth. “You should be worried about him.”

Right on cue, all hell breaks loose.

Luke barrels through the kitchen door, swiping his dagger in a vicious arc. Curling dark smoke follows him, a sure sign he took care of the line cook while I was testing everyone in the bar. It was exactly what we suspected—taken over by demons.

Except, not demons like Debra’s, who possess their victims. These are stronger, smarter, shapeshifting to blend in, like Beliar did in my apartment when he mirrored Luke. They discovered working in groups, like motorcycle clubs, gives them a built-in element of protection. Even demons can appreciate the power of friendship, apparently.

“Behind you!” Luke warns me, slapping my bow onto the bar. The bartender dodges his next swing, slamming into the liquor wall. Bottles rain down, smashing as they hit the ground.

I snatch my bow and spin as the woman in the white shirt tears her sunglasses off. Her eyes are as fathomless as the bartender’s.

“Want to see my art project?” I ask her, popping off the cap of the poster carrier.

She seethes. “No, I don’t want to see your stupid—”

“Too bad,” I tell her, whipping an arrow out of the makeshift quiver. I let it loose and it plunges into her chest. She explodes into smoke with a furious screech.

Handlebar watches me warily as I notch another arrow. “What is that?” he asks.

“Obsidian arrowheads,” I tell him honestly. “You can get them on Etsy.”

I let the arrow fly. He dodges it with inhuman speed and it thuds into the dartboard behind him.

The three remaining motorcycle-club demons cage me in. I climb onto the bar top, behind which Luke still battles the bartender for dominance.

It’s a bit of an unfair split, but I can hold my own. My next arrow hits the demon wearing Ray-Bans. While his cronies are distracted by his demise, I punt the saltshaker off the bar. It smacks the bleached blond in the face. My fourth arrow sails into her eye as she’s spitting out salt crystals.

My aim is getting good.

“Did you see that?” I ask Luke, maybe a bit too giddy for the occasion.

“I’m kind of busy,” he grunts, pointing the soda gun at the bartender and dousing him in Pepsi.

A fist circles my foot, tugging hard enough to send me slamming into the bar as my bow clatters to the ground. Handlebar is on me in an instant, pinning me to the wood.

“You’re the hunters,” he snarls.

“Sure as shit are,” I tell him, always filled with weird pride when our targets know about us. “Your time in the overworld is up.”

“You’ve been sending us back,” he spits, wrapping his hands around my throat. “We don’t want to go back.”

“Of course you don’t,” I wheeze. “The overworld is like an all-you-can-eat-buffet for you.”

He licks his lips. “And you’re the main—”

His meaty fingers leave my throat as Luke hauls the bartender into him, sending them both crashing into a table. I roll off the bar, grabbing an arrow as Handlebar rebounds. He lunges for me and I drive it into his jugular.

“Nice work,” Luke commends me, hopping over the bar so we’re side by side facing the bartender, who’s still wiping Pepsi from his eyes.

“Are there more of you in Miami?” I ask the demon, picking up my bow from where it fell.

“Lots more,” he hisses. “The bars are full of spring breakers. Lots of young, fresh meat.”

He’s practically drooling at the thought. Gross.

Thunder rumbles outside as he raises his hands. “But if you let me go, I swear I won’t resist. Put your weapons down, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”